And on the Godless Earth We Bleed

Chapter One

(A brief Author's Note: Thorin is set to be about 10-11 in humans years, which I have interpreted to be about 18 years old as a dwarf)

There comes a time to all youth during which they begin to question everything so long held as irrevocable, unshakable truth. They challenge the old order, its firm-rooted prejudices and opinions forced upon the young mind from birth. It is an inescapable element of life, deeply entwined in the very fabric of one's being. At first it may not be understood—nay!—fear it they may, but in time it becomes a weapon, a pleasure. Rebellion. Be they mortal or eternal, a child will always, at some point, defy and denounce what surrounding elders had so long been trying to instill.

For Thorin, the first tendrils of insubordination crept upon him at an early age. He had not a whisker on his chin to call his own, worth still untried in battle. These things did nothing to deter the terrible fascination he felt upon first glimpsing the small party of newcomers from his secret look-out spot near the ramparts.

There were seven in all, urging their mounts forward in such a way that surely, surely they were airborne, gliding effortlessly just above the rocky earth. Each wore rather ordinary green or brown cloaks, though the way they fluttered behind the speeding bodies made the trailing shadows dance like butterflies. Low-drawn cowls concealed their faces however, making mystery of new-comers’ identities.

As the young dwarf gazed upon the company, his interest in the enigmatic beings escalated ever higher. He had to know more about the creatures on the flying horses. Thorin leant back upon the stone face of the mountain he called home and drew a knee to his chest, allowing the other to dangle out freely into nothingness, as he continued to watch the group approach.

He was puzzled. The riders certainly were not dwarves. Their steeds were much too large, the clothes not of dwarvish fashion. Nor could they be men of the neighboring cities of Dale or Lake Town. The youth had seen and interacted with them enough to know they were nearly as hardy as his own kind, lacking the grace of these before him. Possibly, they were humans from the south, travelers from Gondor seeking council or commission for another golden statue or set of silver-and-sapphire goblets. It was well known, after all, men from the White City enjoyed an unhealthy love of pomp and want for the “finer” things life had to offer. Yes, that must be. These were men from the Dunédain capitol.

This ruling diminished his excitement immensely; men, regardless of the lands to which they swore allegiance, were all incredibly dull and contemptuous of Durin's Folk, seeking riches and better trade relations in order to gain said bounty, and concerned with hardly anything else. Nonetheless, despite the distain he felt for them, the young dwarf would be present when the men of Gondor arrived to pay tribute to his grandfather. Much to his antipathy, it was his duty as a prince, and an heir to the throne, to learn how to properly interact in all societies. Including that of drunk lords smelling as if they had never had intimate relations with a bath.

A clattering of hooves stirred Thorin from his thoughts as the band galloped across the cobblestone bridge leading towards the main gate. The youth started from his well-concealed location and expertly descended from the near-parallel rock face to the parapet, where several surprised guards blinked at his unexpected appearance. Thorin paid them no heed—no doubt they would again alert his father or grandfather of his forbidden activities of climbing and spying (at a time when lessons of sums and swordplay should have occupied his attentions), and he would be punished. Hoping to avoid even more disciplining, he had to arrive in the throne room before the men.    

Never in his life had he ran so fast.

***

Thorin had been sorely mistaken with his earlier conclusion of the riders being from Gondor. His grandfather would at least feign civility and interest in the pompous southern folk, if only because of their willingness to pay. No, these beings sent him on a rampage with much more passion than Thorin thought possible. From the moment he scampered through the side-door, the echoing halls made his head hurt with the incessant barrage of angry Khuzdul streaming from the fur-clad figure seated on the dais.