Title: Of Song and Silence

Author: foreverdistracted / 4everdistracted

Fandom: The Hobbit

Characters: Thranduil, Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins, Erebor

Summary: Erebor is regained, at the cost of the line of Durin. Days pass, and life moves on, as it always has.

But deep within the rock, the true King Under the Mountain lingers, anchored only by an Elven King and the Lonely Mountain itself.

Notes: This is a response to the following Hobbit Meme Prompt: "Some strange plot in the mountain's pov, how it slowly fell in love with the young Thorin Oakenshield. Maybe it was angry because the dwarves hurt it so much by digging deeper and deeper into it's flesh. But the feelings for Thorin made it all forgotten and the arkenstone contains all those feelings.

Then the dragon came and the mountain cried and cried until Thorin came back and fought to get his home back. a few reactios to Thorin's death? Maybe the other dwarves feel the mountain's grief? If Thorin realises it and tries to return the feelings is up to you. I'm not even sure how this could work xD I hope you do."

Thanks to my amazing proofreader.

"There is something," Bilbo said weakly, hesitantly, as the ship sailed and the harbor fell away from sight, "that I am forgetting. Something important."

Frodo smiled indulgently. "It's time to rest now. You'll remember later."

"No, no, he said...he promised." Bilbo lifted his head. Frodo frowned at the intent look on his beloved uncle's face. He tucked the blanket that slipped from Bilbo's shoulder back into place. "He promised, but he wasn't there...was he? At the harbor?"

"Who, Bilbo?"

Bilbo opened his mouth urgently, a word, or perhaps a name, hovering over his tongue. But his expression fell just as quickly, and he was once again the tired old man - silly, odd old Bilbo - curling up against his nephew and in dire need of rest. "I suppose it doesn't matter now."

It was in the midst of battle that Thranduil felt it - a fluttering, guttering thing, like a forgotten wound in his chest that suddenly sprang to life and settled in the span of seconds. He tried to focus on what it was, this urgent feeling that grew with every moment that he spent trying to fend off orcish blades and deadly blows.

When at last he was free, he followed the sensation to a large tent, within which Thorin Oakenshield lay dying.

He had not expected to feel such a blow, to feel such anguish, as he did at that time. What had Thorin ever been to him and his people, but an unpleasant, stubborn dwarf too proud to see reason, too arrogant to compromise? It was both fierce and puzzling, the sudden feeling of loss, and he grasped to analyze it even as Thorin whispered his last words to his frantic halfling. His voice sounded harsh, wet with blood, but heard far too briefly before it stopped and he closed his eyes.

But there was something in the way of his wounds that piqued Thranduil's curiosity. Burnt, purpled, and bleeding far too slowly. That odd, urgent sensation from within him refused to wane or vanish. He saw Thorin's breathing stutter, slow, and then stop.

The men and dwarves lingered far too long. There must be no suspicion, he repeated to himself, as finally the last dwarven soldier left the tent. There can be no mistake.

He set to work immediately, calling over one of his own soldiers to make sure no one disturbed him as he feigned paying his respects to the dead. On the table, still littered with maps and documents, Thorin lay deathly still. Thranduil's heart hammered in his chest as it had not done during the battle earlier. He ignored his own voice within him insisting that it was too late. There was nothing to be done.

His hands peeled off layers upon layers of cloth and armor, rich remnants picked up from Erebor's long-forgotten halls, from the looks of them. He laid his hand upon the scarred chest, ignoring the caved-in flesh from a wound just missing the stomach, and called upon powers he'd only seen conjured once by his father, several thousand years ago.

A moment later, he opened his eyes, withdrew his hand, and waited.

You were born in the wrong age, and your fire burnt too brightly, heir of Durin. There was a lock of hair, stiff with dried blood, that was stuck to Thorin's cheek. He smoothed it out and away from his face, even as he watched for that brief, telling sign of life to appear. Blink, and he might miss it. Would that I could have seen you as you were meant to be.

He heard the stuttered inhalation, too faint perhaps for any other ear but his. And...there, a wisp of black smoke, joining Thorin's breath on the exhale.

Poison, then. One that had not been used since the old world and times gone by.

"He's alive..."

Thranduil turned, alarmed, for he had heard and sensed nothing of anyone's approach. At the door was a frozen figure, one that he recognized and that brought some measure of relief. It was the Elf-friend. Thorin's halfling, now his keeper of secrets. He laid a finger upon his lips. "You must tell no one."

The halfling looked both betrayed and rebellious. This one had travelled far too long with the dwarves, Thranduil thought, with emotions worn too close to the skin. There were tracks of tears from his eyes, carving a path through the grime and dirt on his face. He shook his head. "But-"

Thranduil held up his hand. "I will explain. But first, you must help me."

Convincing the halfling was no small feat, and it was with great reluctance that Bilbo finally agreed to Thranduil's terms for Thorin's healing. He had run Thranduil's errands, told his lies, and was present as Thorin was given a remote burial chamber deep inside the Lonely Mountain.

And life moved on without Thorin Oakenshield, as it had before.

Chance played no part in Thranduil finding an ally within the mountain itself.

The glory that was Erebor was slowly being restored, but those who wished to visit the infamous burial chamber found themselves distracted with thoughts of doing something else, or taking their leave quickly after entering. Tall tales and rumors began to spread, of ghosts, grief, and how Thorin still sought his nephews, or how the dragon sickness prevented him from finding eternal rest.

Let the dwarves think what they will, Thranduil thought, and he could feel some of his sentiment echoed from the rock wall beneath his hand. Apathy settled in his bones whenever his mind drifted to the lit halls above him, now teeming with life. Erebor had only ever sparked his interest several decades ago, when a young prince had come of age, and a precious jewel had been found deep within the mountain.

The Arkenstone had been a gift, and how mistaken the dwarves were as to its meaning (though whether they sought any at all upon its discovery was doubtful). For that precious stone to be fully formed as it was, perfectly shaped and large and bright, its creation would have begun decades before it had been found. Thranduil knew of the formation of such stones. He had journeyed to Erebor as soon as he'd heard of its discovery, carrying with him lavish gifts and wearing his suspicions close to his heart.

Thror all but preened beneath that gem. Thranduil inclined his head indulgently, the act made easier with the knowledge that the gem shone not for the King. His gaze drifted to the King's right, where a young dwarf stood, his stance as proud as his father's, though his eyes perhaps a bit kinder. Gentler. Thranduil felt himself smiling, and his heart warmed when the smile was curiously returned.

But the heirs of Durin were content in their ignorance, the grandson notwithstanding, and Thranduil let the matter be. Perhaps he was too young to feel the call of the gem. The ways of dwarves were never something he sought to familiarize himself with.

Thranduil prolonged his stay, curious about the mountain's choice. Within Thorin's presence, he felt a certain addiction. He found himself seeking a smile, or a laugh, and by the end of a week, he had no doubt of the young man's resolve and potential. He had not felt such regard in years, and yet there it was, for a young prince that had barely come of age.

It was with a pang that Thranduil remembered the hardness that had settled in Thorin's eyes when he bid his army retreat from the terror of the dragon. It had been the start of many betrayals that eventually shaped the heart of the young prince. Thranduil believed, perhaps rather frivolously, that Thorin Oakenshield had been meant for great things if the flow of the world had not conspired against him. Where he would have shone had he an army to lead, he'd been given civilians to protect. Where he would have built a glorious empire with all the gold from Erebor, he had been stripped of any significant wealth and left to fend for an entire people. Swordmastery and diplomacy were abandoned for the rough trade of hammer and anvil, for fieldwork and hard labor. There was such farce in how his life had played out, that Thranduil wondered if the Valar had been at odds over the creation and course of his life.

He tried to force such thoughts from his head. He had lingered long enough. The mountain bade him do his work, and he did so by rote. Stone yielded easily under his touch, and beneath, Thorin lay as if asleep. The wounds he had sustained from the Battle of the Five Armies remained bright red and angry.

The same, every year. It was a painstaking process of cleansing, and one that took much energy from Thranduil every time. It would still be several decades before he could be certain if this was achieving any significant result at all.

He closed his eyes and set to work.

"Father," he heard his youngest's tentative voice from behind. He did not turn, finishing instead with the laces of his travelling glove. "There is a shift-"

"I feel it," he interrupted calmly. "It is of no concern."

Legolas was silent. He turned and looked curiously at his son, at the frown on his face. "Must you go again to Erebor?"

"I will not be long."

The frown deepened. Thranduil felt himself growing cold. "The mountain is always restless this time of year." And before he could admonish him, Legolas continued, more swiftly, "The Lady of Lorien is here to see you. She has been seen to and waits in the antechamber."

The pleasantries were quickly done with. The mountain did, indeed, feel restless. Thranduil held no doubt that Lady Galadriel could feel it just as keenly as he did, relatively close as they were to Erebor's borders.

They did this dance at the Lady's whimsy, every hundred years or so, with her curiously prodding into his affairs, laying open matters which he wished nothing more than to keep to himself.

"The sea does not yet call for me, my Lady," he said in response to her earlier question. "My heart lies in these woods, not on the shores of Mithlond."

She merely smiled. "Dear friend, you fool no one. You have no anchor in this world anymore. Not even your sons."

It was more of a question, one which he had no interest in answering. There was some truth in what she said. Some.

The mountain's call was such that even she gazed eastward for a while.

"Be that as it may, there has only ever been silence." He sighed, feeling bone-tired and eager to be on his way. "Why the visit, my Lady? Surely the forests of Lorien are doing well."

"They are. I wish to accompany you to Erebor."

He faced her once again, taken aback. "For what purpose?" he asked, striving for calm.

"Curiosity. Assurance." She searched his gaze as he searched hers. "A darkness is spreading. The White Council has concerns, grave enough that I can no longer leave you to your precious solitude. They fear that the affairs of Dol Guldur pierced your thoughts, and influence your...yearly visits to the dwarf folk."

Thranduil was unable to keep his laugh, rife with disbelief, from escaping his lips. "Does the White Council suspect me of necromancy?" When no reaction came from his guest, he shook his head. "Then follow me, fair Lady of Lorien. The clouds part - perhaps you were meant to come today."

It seemed fate, indeed, had arranged for Lady Galadriel to be present, for the poison had dug deeper when it should not have, the Spell of Keeping he had placed upon Thorin's body having faltered in some manner. Thranduil could feel exhaustion loosening his tongue and his expression. Frustration colored his voice, though he also made no effort to conceal it. "Years upon years of work, undone. How could I have been so careless?"

"If it is any comfort," Lady Galadriel said, looking no worse than she did when she first entered the tomb, "your fault lies not in your skill, but in your secrecy."

Thranduil closed his eyes and tiredly raised a hand. "Please."

Yet she continued, her tone, Thranduil thought, indecently cheerful. "Had I known sooner, I could have told you that the rigors of healing would have steadily worn down your Keeping Spell, and when you should have renewed it. "

"You have my ear now, as well as my gratitude." He opened his eyes and gestured for her to sit beside him. "I would have your advice, if you are willing."

She was only too glad to inform him of two things he had overlooked (although Thranduil thought one of them, he would have found on his own eventually), and informed him of a more efficient way to conserve his efforts between healing and preservation. The afternoon passed as they talked. He could feel nightfall settling in the way the muffled sounds of tools hitting stone slowed and muted.

"Is this wise?" Lady Galadriel said after a moment's silence, her hand on his. "There will be nothing of his old life to greet him by the time he wakes. Knowing his kind, why subject him to this grief?"

The question echoed within him. Thranduil was bereft of answers, but still he spoke. "He has his mountain. And the Grey Wizard, if Mithlond does not call him first, for however much he meant to him." He felt her palm tighten around his fingers. "If that is not enough, then I suppose there is also myself, and I shall have to suffice."

Is there truly no one? he asked himself, and, unbidden, he remembered a tear-stained face, and a promise carelessly thrown to gain a naive heart's cooperation. "The halfling," he said, aloud. He could feel Lady Galadriel's eyes on him. "He waits still."

A heavy silence fell between them. Within it lay something fragile and unspoken. "Do you wish me to send word?" Lady Galadriel offered, and he felt a rare touch of gentleness for her.

"Thank you. But I shall do it."

"I apologize for not writing sooner. Kindly accept these gifts of friendship. Clear your mind of worry, Elf-friend. He sleeps still, but heals slowly."

Thranduil carefully folded the letter and handed it to his waiting messenger.

The halfling would not live to see his King wake. He wondered at the keen sadness he felt over this - there had been greater losses, greater tragedies. And yet the halfling's voice still rang clear in his ears, just as it had so long ago, desperate, grief-stricken, and polite all at the same time: "I will get to see him again, won't I? I mean...we can't just part like this, can we?"

Several hundred years since the fall of Sauron.

And it was done.

He wondered what he should do now. There were guards he could call after two flights of stairs outside the burial chamber, but that short journey felt far too taxing at the moment. He felt transfixed with the slow and calm breathing of the dwarf lying upon the cold stone. He would wake soon, he knew, and Thranduil was perhaps not the first person he might wish to see after several centuries of peaceful slumber.

But there was no one else for either of them. The world moved on without Thorin Oakenshield, regardless of Thranduil feeling that it should not.

It was when Thorin opened his eyes (blue, beautiful, and loud as sunlight, how could he forget), that Thranduil felt the sad, enchanting call of the Grey Havens finally enter his heart.

\\\End/