Comes Around Again (Gigolas & Bagginshield)

Five Armies

"Watch them!" Fíli cried to Balin, and charged off after Thorin, following him down into the depths of Erebor. He went to turn right, towards the treasure rooms, but a single, sparkling shine to the left caught his attention, and he paused.

The Raven Crown, tossed aside like a child's two-penny trinket, sat where it had fallen in a dusty corner. Fíli walked over slowly and bent to pick up the crown. It had rolled through some unswept cobwebs, picking up strands of spidersilk like a fleecer's comb, and he brushed them away with absent fingers, shaking the strands off afterwards with perhaps too much force. Fíli wondered if he'd ever be able to stand the feeling of webs on his skin again.

He peered down the hall, his feet taking him forward. There, a glittering golden ring. There, a heavy chain. Piece by piece, Fíli followed the trappings of the king until he came across a heap of fur— more obviously moth-eaten now that it was on the floor and not his uncle.

There was no sign of Thorin.

Fíli looked around. He was far, now, from the treasure hoard, in a part of Erebor he had never been. The royal apartments, he knew, were on the West side of the mountain and they had traveled further East. If they were in Ered Luin, they would be in the Guild Halls, but that didn't feel quite right to him.

A sound--a scuff of a boot and a bitten-off cry--echoed towards him, and he turned. There! The door was open a crack.

Slowly, as quietly as he could, Fíli stepped forward and pushed at the door. It opened silently, well oiled still after all these years, and stepped inside where he could barely muffle his gasp.

It was a concert hall; he could tell at a glance that the room was as perfectly balanced as any sword, that any sound made would be heard with crystal clarity anywhere in the room. It made for a difficult evening for the audience, but what it did for the musician--

Rows of seats were clustered around a circular stage and plenty of room had been left for the performers to move about. Fíli could see clearly with his mind's eyes: the stage musician, dressed in sparkling finery, eyes closed in concentration as a trio of dancers--a traditional quartet arrangement--moved about the room in geometric circles, the torchlight playing with their shadows and making them dance. Lost to his vision, he stepped further into the hall.

A harsh breath, perfectly carried, and Fíli turned. There, in a darkened corner, huddled Thorin. His face was hidden in his hands, his hair a wild nest that matched the ratty furs outside.

"Uncle?" Fíli asked softly; this was not the Thorin he had expected to find, and his anger fled in the face of it. Thorin made a broken sound and tried to pull into himself more tightly.

"Go away," Thorin rasped. "I do not deserve to be called your Uncle."

So here it is at last, Fíli thought. The parting of the clouds. Remorse filled every line of Thorin's frame, and self-loathing oozed from him like river-sludge--but there, in the center of it all, was purely Thorin. "Probably not," Fíli agreed, voice mild, and he wanted to feel relief. It was painful to watch Thorin fall further into himself, but this needed to be said. "But that is not your decision to make. I choose to call you Uncle, still."

Thorin rocked back and forth, as if his motion could block out Fíli's voice, his offered forgiveness.

"You shouldn't," Thorin snapped, at last looking up at Fíli. "Not now--it was me! All me, do you understand! I said-- I did-- I nearly--" Thorin broke off, gasping, and he dropped his hands to his lap. They landed palm up, offering all of Thorin's wretchedness to Fíli for him to take.

"I nearly killed Bilbo," Thorin said, softer now. "I loosed the arrow that nearly killed my heart's One. It would have been my fault--he deserves better, one as nimble as he, with a mind not enslaved to cursed gold." He closed his eyes. "He'd be better off to forget about me."