Book One: Little River | Thorin Oakenshield

Chapter Nine

~ | Tales of Orcs and Wizards | ~

Narelle sat quietly, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon, but her thoughts were drawn to the story unfolding behind her. Balin's voice carried the weight of history as he recounted the infamous battle fought long ago, where Thorin, his father Thrain, and his grandfather, King Thror, had led their people in a desperate attempt to reclaim their homeland from the Orcs. She had heard it all before—Gandalf, Balin, even Thorin himself had shared the tale in different ways.

Azog the Defiler, a vicious and cruel leader, had vowed to destroy the line of Durin. He had killed King Thror and shattered the will of Thrain, who was consumed by grief and madness. Thorin had stood alone against Azog, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield, and with one fierce stroke, he had severed the Orc's arm. The Dwarves had won that day, but at great cost—few had survived to tell the tale.

As Balin's story continued, Thorin had silently moved to sit beside Narelle. His gaze followed hers, fixed on the moonlight casting a soft glow across the rolling hills before them. It was a familiar tale, one he had heard Balin tell many times, often to their kin like Kili, Fili, and the other dwarves now seated around the fire. But tonight, the mention of his grandfather, King Thror, and his father, Thrain, weighed heavily on him. 

When Balin's voice quieted at the end of his tale, Thorin bowed his head, the sorrow unmistakable in his posture. Narelle glanced at him, sensing his pain, before rising to follow as he quietly stood. They turned back toward the group just as Balin finished.

"And I thought to myself then," Balin said with reverence, "there is one who I could follow. There is one... I could call king."

Bilbo, curious and still learning the weight of these histories, looked from Balin to Thorin, then asked, "And the Pale Orc? What happened to him?"

Thorin, already heading back to the spot he'd claimed for the night, spat out his reply as he walked. "He slunk back into the hole whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago." The words carried bitterness, anger still raw after all these years.

Without another word, Thorin reached for Narelle's hand, tugging her gently but firmly, signaling for her to follow. His grip was strong, commanding, but careful not to harm or startle her. Silently, they walked away from the group. 

Narelle and Thorin walked in silence, their footsteps echoing softly against the path as they ascended further into the mountain. When the trail opened into a wide, open field, Narelle paused to take in the sight. The trees that had once lined their path were now out of view, hidden behind the curve of the mountain. She found a seat on the trunk of a fallen tree, only to realize too late that she had left her cloak and bag back at the campfire. A chill crept through her, and she shivered slightly.

Without a word, Thorin unfastened his large leather cloak and draped it over her shoulders. The weight of it was comforting, the warmth of the fur lining instantly soothing. Narelle buried her face into the soft edges, inhaling the scent of earth and leather. She looked up to see Thorin's face flush a soft pink as he awkwardly turned his gaze away, as if embarrassed by the quiet gesture.

"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely louder than the wind. She fumbled with the clasp at the top of the cloak, fastening it across her chest. The cloak was far too large for her, the button resting at her chest where, on Thorin, it would sit neatly at his neck.

Thorin sat beside Narelle, the quiet of the night settling around them. She rested her head softly against his shoulder, the warmth of his presence comforting against the chill of the mountain air. He glanced down at her, his thoughts still lingering on Balin's tale, heavy as always.