Chapter Text
It had been two days since the battle that had ended the line of Durin. The battle for the mountain, or the battle of the five armies, as it was coming to be known, had been won by the alliance of the dwarves, the elves and the people of Laketown. But just like the battle of Moria, the win could not possibly be deemed a victory. Not when so much blood had been spilled. The gratuitous loss of life, the bodies of dwarves, elves and men that littered the battlefield, made it impossible to truly celebrate the crushing defeat of the orc hordes. There had been significant loss for all parties in the alliance, but it was by far the dwarves who had been hit the hardest. While they have suffered massive casualties, it was not merely the amount of death, but whose death in particular.
For lying on pyres within the Lonely Mountain were the last descendants of Durin’s folk. On the left pyre lay Kíli, the youngest of the fallen. On the right pyre lay Fíli, who had been the first of the company to fall. And on the center pyre lay Thorin Oakenshield, the fallen King under the mountain, the Arkenstone placed in his hands. The three bodies all had their hands folded over their chests, hands curled around weapons. Their clothes hid the wounds that had killed them, the deep stab wounds covered by cloth.
These three dwarves had been the hope of Erebor. While there was no doubt that the ancient dwarven kingdom would one day return to its former glory, some of its splendor had unmistakably died with the line of Durin. With both the king and his nephews dead, there was no dwarf left with a bloodline claim to the throne of Erebor. Thorin’s cousin, Dain of the Iron Hills, was set to take the throne. But he was Thorin’s maternal cousin, with not a drop of Durin’s blood in his veins.
No-one liked the idea of the kingdom of Erebor under the rule of an Iron Hill dwarf, even one with a technical claim to the throne. After all, Dain was the only dwarf with even the slightest right to rule. But Dain had never been a level-headed man, and many people, dwarves and otherwise, were worried of what his rule may bring.
And perhaps that was why, two days after the battle that had so abruptly ended so many lives, a cloaked figure rode towards the lonely mountain. He intended to seek out the dwarves of Erebor, but in particular, the remaining 10 dwarves that had made up the company of Thorin Oakenshield. For a variety of reasons, he also wished to have an audience with Bilbo Baggins, the halfling who had served as Thorin’s burglar, and had played a key part in the way the recent battle had unfolded. Unfortunately for him, the figure on the horse would not get an audience with the hobbit. Bilbo had left that morning, accompanied by Gandalf the grey, and the two were heading for the shire.
The figure reached the entrance to the Lonely Mountain, which had yet to be repaired after Thorin and his company had smashed down their barricade to join the battle. There were several dwarves standing guard outside the mountain, and they gestured for the rider to dismount. The figure did so, dismounting gracefully off his horse.
“Who goes there?” Asked one of the dwarves, eyeing the figure. The figure was far too tall to pass as a dwarf, and seemed taller than a man. That left only one likely possibility; an elf.
“Legolas Greenleaf.” Said the figure, flicking back the hood of his cloak to reveal that he was indeed, the elven prince.
The dwarven guard’s eyes narrowed. The other dwarves tensed, hands moving to the hilts of their weapons. While the elves and dwarves had allied during the battle, it had only been to prevent their own extinction. It was not lost to either side that the elves had originally come to slaughter the dwarves, and that King Thranduil had intended to withdraw his troops during the worst of the battle. Elves were still very much an enemy of the dwarves of Erebor.
“I come in peace,” Legolas said calmly, “and bearing important news that will be of great interest to your leaders.”
The dwarven guards glanced at each other. This was an elf, an elven prince no less, asking to enter Erebor? The idea was preposterous. But if he was telling the truth, who were they to decide to keep their leads from potentially important information? Additionally, the dwarves’ numbers were still decimated, and they couldn’t risk aggravating any enemies. The guards moved into a huddle, quietly discussing options for what to do.
Legolas watched them deliberate their decision. He could sneak past them easily, his natural elven stealth would make the task quite easy. If he was here to spy, he would have done exactly that. But he was here on important, genuine business, and therefore it was crucial that he peacefully enter Erebor.
The dwarves re-emerged from their huddle and turned to face Legolas. They returned to their original posts, and for a moment Legolas was sure they wouldn’t let him in. But then one of the dwarves walked inside the mountain, and the other turned once more to face Legolas.
“He’s gone to inform the king.” One of the guards informed him. “He’ll decide what to do with you.”
Legolas knew as well as any dwarf that they currently had no king. It was customary not to crown the new king until the funeral of the previous king had ended. Thorin’s funeral wasn’t until tonight. He didn’t tell the dwarves this, as he wasn’t sure if the deaths of Thorin and his nephews had spread to the elves yet. Legolas knew, because he had seen Kíli die, and he had seen Tauriel crumple over his body. He had heard from her that the other two royal dwarves were also dead.
After a short time had passed, the dwarf who had disappeared inside the mountain returned, with a large group of dwarves in tow. Legolas scanned the group, recognising 10 of the 11 newcomers. The ten were the remaining company of Thorin Oakensheild, who had been held in Legolas’s father’s dungeons for multiple weeks. The dwarf that Legolas didn’t recognise wore a helmet of the Iron Hill dwarves, and judging by the way the others flanked him, could only be Dain.
Recognition washed over the faces of all the dwarves, save for Dain, and they all eyed Legolas with great suspicion, greater than the guards had shown, for theirs was a suspicion gained from experience.
“What is an elf,” Dain said the word like it was filthy, “doing at our gates?”
“I was hoping for an audience with you, and the dwarves that were part of Thorin Oakenshield’s company.” Legolas said. “I have news of great importance to you, regarding your king.”
There were murmurs among the gathered dwarves. “What news do you have of me?” Dain asked coldly, his voice brimming with hate. He had been all too eager to charge on the elves during the battle, and had the orcs not forced the alliance, Dain would have happily killed many elves.
“You misunderstand.” Legolas told him. “I have no news regarding you.” Confusion washed over the dwarves. “This is about Thorin Oakenshield, and I believe it will also concern the fate of his kinsmen.”
“My cousin is dead, as are his nephews.” Dain said darkly. “Your news does not matter to them.” He turned to leave, but Legolas shook his head.
“I do not believe that they are.” Legolas said plainly.
The dwarves stared at him, some in outrage, some in sadness, some in anger. What was common among all of them was the heaviness in their gazes, the heaviness of grief.
“We would all like to believe that, but we have seen their bodies.” Balin said sadly. He was standing right of Dain, and he had been the first dwarf to let go of his weapon.
“And I am here to tell you they may not be merely bodies.” Legolas said, which again caused a reaction amongst those gathered. “If you would allow me inside, I can explain my view.”
Dain glared at Legolas for a long while. Through gritted teeth, he eventually spoke; “you may enter, elf, if only to discourage your kind storming our gates once more.”
Legolas bowed his head in response, and followed the dwarves as they turned back into the mountain. The dwarves spread out, forcing Legolas close to the middle of the group. Many of them gripped their weapons tightly, and Legolas clearly got their message; one wrong move, and they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him. Dwarves were never ones for subtlety, he thought to himself as he was led inside the mountain.