Chapter Text
It was not that there were no warnings – but for a long time, no one listened.
These were the glory days of Erebor. A mere 180 years before, King Thror had brought his people back to the mountain and now it was the mightiest kingdom in Middle-earth. Thror ruled with utter surety, his line secure in his son, Crown Prince Thrain, and grandson Prince Thorin.
Dwalin Fundinul, noble son of the House of Durin, breathed deep as he walked through the Lower Marketplace, his sharp eyes scanning the shabby crowd for trouble. So different from the elegant, lofty halls of the Royal Household, where he'd been raised and where he had worked until so recently.
Just a few months ago, his life had been very different. Dwalin remembered the day it all changed.
Young Prince Thorin had been grumbling and pacing back and forth in his private chambers. There had been some sort of argument with Thranduil of Mirkwood in the Throne Room. Dwalin didn't know what the problem had been – probably one of those complicated strategic maneuvers that Kings got involved in. Statecraft was a complete mystery to Dwalin. He was just glad that Balin was the smart one in the family. Being Thorin's bodyguard was not very exciting, but at least it didn't make his head hurt.
Passing the table in the center of the room, the Prince plucked a fresh grape from a silver platter and tossed it high in the air. With a quick movement he caught it in his mouth and chewed with delight. Grapes were out of season, but Thorin liked them so there were always plenty.
The Prince glanced over at his best friend and Royal Bodyguard, standing at parade attention beside the massive door, and said, “You're bored. Admit it, you hate being a Royal Guard.”
Dwalin shook his head and looked down, idly kicking his heel backwards into the stone wall. “No! Of course I want to be your guard. It's just...”
Thorin interrupted. “There's nothing to guard me from, Dwalin.”
Dwalin grinned. “Lady Julis.” He lifted up his hand and ticked the names off on his fingers. “Lady Charis. Lady Anais. Lady...”
Thorin lifted a hand to stop him. “All right, all right. But what I'm saying is, if you want to do a stint on the Peacekeeper's Patrol, you should do it.” He paced over to stand in front of Dwalin. “I'll talk to the Captain of the Guard and Keeper of the Peace for you. It will help you get practical experience.”
Dwalin nodded, his heart too full of gratitude to speak. His friend and cousin knew him so well, and was always willing to use his influence to help others around him realize their dreams. Thorin was the best – observant, caring and generous. One day, he would make an excellent King.
Thorin gripped his shoulder and smiled. “You'll be great.” Then his smile faded. “Someone ought to be doing something practical around here.”
And now, thanks to Thorin, Dwalin was where he belonged, patrolling the streets among the common folk of Erebor. In a way, it was relaxing. These were simple dwarves with simple needs and straightforward ways of satisfying them. They were direct, raw, uncomplicated – much more like Dwalin himself than the clever, calculating nobles he was related to by birth.
Dwalin had just sent a death-glare at a tousled street urchin getting ready to pick a pocket when a dwarrow with a jewelry-booth yelled, “Thief! Stop that thief! He stole from me!”
Heads lifted and turned. The jewelry-merchant pointed. Dwalin saw a flash of red hair as the thief rounded a corner, plunging down an alley way into darkness. Happy to be in his element, he gave chase.
Dwalin pounded down the alley. In front of him, the red-haired thief halted for just a moment too long before darting down a passageway between two tumbledown houses. Slow. Ha! Dwalin knew the Poor Quarter like the back of his hand now – he was going to collar this shameless thief —
He rounded the corner at a run and found himself in a small dead-end courtyard. Dwalin stopped, puzzled. This passage led through to one of the main thoroughfares! He'd walked this way just a week ago. The dry-laid wall in front of him was very new.
But the wall didn't matter, because the red haired thief was standing right in front of him. Waiting for him. Lounging against the unmortared stones of the hastily built wall, and bouncing a small leather pouch in one hand.
“You're under arrest,” Dwalin growled, advancing upon the thief.
“Took you long enough.” The thief grinned and tossed the leather pouch to Dwalin, who caught it instinctively. “If I'd really wanted to run, I'd have lost you back at the first turning.”
Dwalin shook his head. “Giving it back won't get you off the hook. Merchants don't like thieves. I don't like thieves.”
“Don't worry about the merchant.” The thief casually flicked back their long thick braid of red hair. “I wanted to talk to you in private, and this was the easiest way to work it.”
“We have nothing to talk about, thief.”
The other dwarf sighed. “That 'thief' business is already getting on my nerves. Call me Nori.”
“You're under arrest, Nori,” Dwalin said.
The thief put one hand on a slender hip and gave Dwalin a knowing smile. “Come on, Peacekeeper, drop the act. I've been watching you. You're the kind who catches thieves because you're too stiff-necked to steal in the first place. You live for a good dust-up. Fisticuffs in the street, a tavern-brawl, or even knives in a dark alley, that's what gets your blood heated up. I know it and you know it.”
The redhead was good looking in an unconventional way, small and lean instead of full-bodied and strong, but that abundant hair was beautiful, foxy-red and elaborately styled into three peaks. The russet beard was luxuriant, too, braided up into multiple braids and gathered into three big clasps. If all those braids were undone, a dwarf's hands would sink into that grippable softness... No. Not the time or place for that. He didn't even know this dwarf well enough to ask their gender and preference. Dwalin cursed himself, his hands bunching into fists.
“Shut up.”
Unfazed, the thief looked him up and down, that quick hazel gaze stripping off Dwalin's olive-drab Peacekeeper's uniform. “Nice big muscles, too. I bet you'd look a treat, sweaty and shirtless and ready to knock down anyone who crossed you.”
Dwalin's face and ears burned. “Too bad I'm not interested in fighting any underage thieves,” he sneered.
The small redhead looked outraged. “I've been of legal age for five years.”
Curse it, Dwalin refused to be attracted to a dwarf he didn't even know, just because he had a thing about beautiful hair. There were rules. In Dwalin's personal code, a good dwarf didn't just take one look at a cocky, disreputable thief and want him. Her? Them? Some dwarves expressed their gender and some did not, and often there was no way to tell a dwarf's gender when it didn't matter for the business at hand.
And it didn't matter.
This was ridiculous. Dwalin shook his head. He never... Growling, he took a threatening step toward the thief.
“Don't get hasty,” Nori said, leaping nimbly out of reach. “You need me. You don't know it yet, but you do. There's something big brewing, something nasty, and you need me to help you find it and get rid of it before it explodes. You think you're tough but wouldn't last a day in the Seven Hells, not a righteous dwarf like you. Not alone.”
Dwalin blinked, his fury vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. He almost laughed. He'd heard some pretty choice nonsense in his day, but this beat all of it. What had this thief been smoking, elf-weed?
He shook his head and pulled the handcuffs out of his belt. “That's it. I've listened long enough.”
The thief raised one hand, palm outward, stopping him. “No. The elves in the Seven Hells are worried. They're whispering about evil within the mountain. I bear a message to you from the Taran – he says there is someone who wants to speak with you at his court. In secret.”
The Taran? This thief carried messages for the leader of the elven enclave? Right. And he probably had a mithril mine he wanted to sell, too.
“You have been smoking elf-weed,” Dwalin snorted. “Come along quietly, and I won't have to break anything.”
He reached out to take the thief by the arm. The redhead dodged away. “I'm serious!”
A new voice, soft and languid and laden with the accent of elvish speech, broke in. “Is this the one you were sent to find, Nori?”
Dwalin looked up to see an emaciated elf draped bonelessly over the topmost blocks of the barrier that spanned the street. The creature wore the clothes typical of the of the elves that haunted the Seven Hells – loose smoke-gray tunic fastened in front with loops of braided cord, over matching gray trousers and flat black slippers. The elven face was pinched and sharp, the skin drawn over prominent cheekbones, the large eyes set in deep shadowed hollows.
The elves of the Seven Hells had come to Erebor as traders. They were the Mountain's primary source of medicinal herbs, but they lived together in their own private enclave and rarely mixed with the dwarves. Originally, the area they inhabited had been called the Seven Hills, since it was under the foothills of the mountain proper, but over time it had become known by another, less attractive name, mostly because of the stories that had grown up around the place. Some dwarves said the elves were healers with knowledge that was hidden from dwarves. Others said their motives were more sinister. The problem was, nobody knew for sure.
Dwalin looked back at the thief. “You are actually working for elves?”
Nori raised those red eyebrows. “I've got my reasons.”
Dwalin glanced up at the elf. “What's going on?”
“My master, the Taran, has a distinguished guest who wishes to speak with you.” The elf floated down from the wall. “We will go now. You will be in no danger while in my company.”
Dwalin glared at Nori, who shrugged. The elf glided away, heading in the direction of the Seven Hells district. Sighing, Dwalin stomped along behind the elf, leaving Nori to follow in their wake.
Despite the gaunt, pale elf's assurance of protection, Dwalin had his doubts. The elf looked like a strong wind might have toppled them. What good would such a frail-looking creature be in a fight?
The elves of the Seven Hells were just as distant and arrogant as the courtly elves that had accompanied Thranduil on his latest visit to see Thror. They also seemed to regard the dwarves who came to them as some sort of lesser breed. However, they were more interested in plants than in beautiful gems. Their favorite plant was elf-weed, also known as kingsfoil, which when dried and smoked drew its users into a dreamy, trance-like state. He'd also heard that they were seekers after mystic knowledge. There were lots of rumors about the elves.
They approached the oddly curvy gates that marked the entrance to the Seven Hells. At some point, Nori had caught up to them and now stood quietly by Dwalin's side.
The skinny, stick-like elf gave a password in the liquid elvish tongue, and then turned to address Dwalin. “My master will see you now, Dwalin son of Fundin, of the House of Durin.”
So the elves of Erebor knew exactly who he was. That wasn't good news.
Dwalin bowed carefully, never taking his eyes off the elves he could see. “Lead on.”