Dáin's Saga by bunn  

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Of Thráin and Thorin and the King of Erebor

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Thrór had been avenged by the late-comer of his own house.

The looming defeat had become a narrow, uncelebrated victory.

For six days, they wept, felled trees, stripped the dead and burned them. But Azog’s head they took, and they set it upon a spike where it could look out and behold the ruin of Azog’s plans.

When Dáin’s host was ready to march for the north, every one of them was bent and laden with armour and weapons.

Dáin said to Thráin: “You are the Father of our folk, and this war was wrought at your command. Will you come with me to the Iron Hills, where my grandfather sits and waits for tidings of his son?”

“Nay,” Thráin said proudly, though his leg wound was troubling him, for the work had been long and hard, and he had worked as hard as any. “I owe you thanks for your aid in war, and for your care of my daughter. But I will not trespass on your grandfather’s hospitality. I will return to my lodgings in Dunland.”

“Dunland lies beyond the Misty Mountains. It’s mid-winter,” Dáin said in surprise. “The mountain-passes are closed. Surely you will not linger here beside the gate of Moria, knowing what waits within it?”

“I will linger where I please,” Thráin said peevishly. “But not here: I have heard your warning, Dáin.”

Dáin turned to his cousins, Dis and Thorin. “Will you come with me to the Iron Hills? You would both be made most welcome.”

But Thráin said to Thorin, “Will you beg for your bread at proud doors, or come back with me to the anvil?” For in Dunland, Thráin and Thorin had worked as smiths for Men.

“To the anvil,” Thorin said, for he was ever loyal to his father. “The hammer will at least keep arms strong, until they can wield sharper tools again.”

Dis looked from Dáin to her father and back again, without answering.

“You should go with Dáin,” her father said. “I would know my daughter is safe in the Iron Hills.”

“I’m sure that would be reassuring for you,” Dis said, “ But not for me, Father! You’d have me leave you here before the gate of Khazad-dûm and go to the Iron Hills, not knowing if you or Thorin still live, or if you have marched into the mouth of Durin’s Bane, or died together in the snow? I will do no such thing!”

Now, Dis was a woman of stern will, and so it was agreed that Thráin would travel with Dáin as far as the Great River.

There Dáin left them, heading north.   Thráin and Thorin and the remnant of their people set up camp by Anduin, in the shelter of the River-vale, to winter there. In spring they would take boats and travel south at ease by river, then in time, cross the mountains at the Gap of Rohan, which was then at peace, to Dunland.

With them stayed Vili, who had been Dáin’s old friend from the Iron Hills, for he had gained a great liking for Dis. He went with her to Dunland, and on to the Blue Mountains afterwards. 

This was little to the liking of Thráin, for he would have rather Dis wed some prince of the Eastern Houses. But Dis knew her own mind.

Now, it was told in later days that it was while Thráin was encamped on the banks of Anduin, near to the Gladden Fields, that Sauron learned that the Ring of Durin had not been lost with Moria.

For Sauron had disguised himself in the form of a Necromancer, and made his home in Dol Guldur.

The account of this matter came from Tharkûn, to Gimli, son of Glóin.

Tharkûn believes that Sauron the Deceiver came to Dol Guldur to search for a certain Ring of his own, that long ago had been taken from him by Isildur of Arnor, and lost in the Great River.

It may be, Tharkûn guesses, that while Sauron’s agents were searching the Gladden Fields,  they became aware of the Ring of Thráin, that later was taken from Thráin with torment in Dol Guldur.

We cannot know the truth with certainty. It is true that Thráin was cursed with ill-luck from that time forward. Wolves pursued him, and dark wings shadowed his path.

******

Great was the grief in the Iron Hills when Dáin returned from Azanulbizar. Great was the mourning for Náin son of Grór, for Tóki the beloved and his five brothers, and for many another, dead and burned under mountain-shadow.

They said, in the Iron Hills, that Dáin seemed older than his years when he returned.

Dain, alone of the House of Durin, had looked into the face of Durin’s Bane, and lived.

Dáin had seen his father fall, and avenged him.

There was a distance around Dáin, in the years after the great battle.

Dain was still well thought of, still admired by all. But he was set apart, as one fated.

Vili, the companion of Dáin’s youth, was gone away, and many of his greatest friends were burned.

Grór died only four years later. Dáin became lord of the Iron Hills, and the people of the Iron Hills counted themselves fortunate, for they had a home, and a lord to envy.

But Helgisdaughter wife of Grór lived on, complaining at length about everything. Indeed, she lived long enough to hear the news that Dis had born a son.

Dis had named her new son as soon as he was born, and she had chosen a name that did not echo any great king of old. His name was Fili.

*******

It was forty-five years before Tharkûn passed through the Iron Hills once more.

When the wizard appeared at the iron gate of Hill Hall, it was in the company of several of Dáin’s kinsmen: Balin, Dwalin, Óin and Glóin.

Dáin had last seen all of them at Azanulbizar. Their beards were longer now, but tangled, and their cloaks and hoods were battered and torn. Their boots were shabby, and Dwalin’s left boot had a tear in it that showed a very old and holy sock, and a glimpse of toe. Glóin had a bandage on one leg that was stained with old blood.

Dáin happened to be going out of the main doors when they arrived. He looked at them in astonishment. “Welcome, kinsmen!” he said, “Whatever happened to you?”

“Have you seen anything of Thráin?” Tharkûn asked urgently. “I know you two don’t entirely get along, but...”

“That was my grandfather’s quarrel,” Dáin told him firmly. “My grandfather Grór and Thráin’s father were rivals in their youth, Tharkûn. Thráin didn’t want to live here, in my grandfather’s house. That’s fair enough! But Thráin is the heir of Durin. I’ve fought for him, and I would again, and what’s more, I told him so under the shadow of Moria-gate.”

“My apologies!” Tharkûn said. “It seems I was misinformed: I meant no offence, please be assured of that! But in that case, I am sure you will be just as concerned as I am myself to learn that Thráin has gone missing.”

“Missing?” Dáin ushered his kinsmen and Tharkûn together into his hall, where a bright fire was burning as usual. They set down their tattered packs, and stretched out their hands gratefully to the warmth. Dáin called for ale.

“I thought Thráin was in Dunland,” Dáin told Tharkûn. “Dis mentioned he had left the Blue Mountains in the last letter I had from her, but there’s nothing strange about that: he often travels to Dunland, as I understand it.”

“We left the Blue Mountains five years ago,” Balin said, wearily. “But not for Dunland.”

Dwalin nudged him, but Balin shrugged. “It was supposed to be a secret. But that doesn’t matter now. We were heading for Erebor. It didn’t go well.”

“Five years ago?” Dáin asked, astonished. The way from the Blue Mountains to Erebor is long, but not that long.

“There were wolves,” Balin said.

“And orcs,” Dwalin added grimly.

“And shadows in the night, and paths that led only into bogs,” Glóin said, shaking his head as he accepted a flagon.

“And rain, and fog. So much rain.” Oin added and he sat down on a bench and pulled off his boots. “My socks have rotted through!”

“In the end, we came to the edges of Mirkwood,” Balin took up the story. “It was pouring again, a black rain and a dark night. We could barely see each other, but Thráin said there was no point setting up camp. It was too wet to make a fire, and if we kept going, we’d be under the eaves of Mirkwood. Shelter from the rain and firewood... He was in front of me. Only a few steps in front, though the rain was lashing down. Then he wasn’t.”

“We got under the edge of trees, and made a fire, but he was gone,” Glóin said miserably, and sneezed. “We searched for days...”

Tharkûn took off his tall blue hat and took up the tale. “And after a while, I ran into them, or rather, they ran into me. I was on my way from visiting a kinsman of mine who lives thereabouts. His name is Radagast; you may have heard of him.  We searched together, all along the woodland verges. I see further than most, though I say it myself, but we had no luck. Not a hood nor a hair did we find. So I suggested that if anyone this side of the Misty Mountains had word of Durin’s Heir, it would probably be you, Dáin, and so we came here.”

“But,” Dáin said, “If you are here, Balin and Dwalin, Oin and Glóin... then where is Thorin? Did he not come with you?”

Balin said, slowly and reluctantly: “Thráin... he wouldn’t have it. We left in secret. He told us we mustn’t drop any hints to Thorin about Erebor. Nor Dis. He didn’t want either of them to know.”

“He expected danger, then,” Dáin said. “And rightly so. Did he think he would win back Erebor from the Dragon? Just him and the four of you?”

Balin shrugged, then he held up his hands. “I have no idea, Dáin. I truly have not. He didn’t share his plans with us. But what else could we do? We couldn’t let him go alone. Thrór only took Nár. At least there were four of us.”

“He must have known that tackling Smaug would be a matter of considerable difficulty,” Tharkûn pointed out. “Surely he had made some kind of plan, even if he kept it to himself.”

“If Smaug is still there,” Glóin said quietly. “He’s not been heard of in years.”

Oin nodded. “We thought... me and Glóin, anyway... we thought perhaps he’d gone.  Or died.”

Tharkûn bristled his long eyebrows reprovingly. “He has the Mountain and all the treasure of Thrór,” he said. “It’s most unlikely that he’s upped and left. Dragons live long and wicked lives, and Smaug is not an old worm, not at all. But I’m surprised and concerned to learn that you had such troubles even before they reached Mirkwood. I travel this way now and again, across the Mountains and east as far as Rhosgobel, so I’d say I know the land as well as any.

“Most of the goblins of the North died in the retaking of Gundabad, or in the battles of the Misty Mountains, or at Azanulbizar. The roads from the Sea to the Mountain have been safer than they used to be for the last forty years or so, at least as far as Mirkwood. Or so I thought.”

“I’ll have words with the Ravens at once,” Dáin said. “We should organise search parties.”

“You don’t think...” Glóin said, almost in a whisper.

Dáin frowned at him. “ I don’t think what?”

“Durin’s Bane,” Glóin said in a quiet voice. “You said it was waiting for him. What if...”

“What if it came out?”

Dáin felt a cold finger of ice creep up his spine. He remembered the distant shadow with a heart of flame, and the chill that had run through him then. It was a memory he held with him always, though he did not like to look at it.

“It has been nearly a thousand years since the days of Durin the last,” Tharkûn said. “Drink up your ale, Glóin, and don’t go looking for doom and gloom. We’ll get that leg of yours patched up, and some new socks for Oin, and perhaps new boots all round would be in order too, don’t you think, Dáin? And then we’ll get out and find Thráin, wherever he’s got to.”

Now, at those words Dáin lifted up his heart, for although the shadow of Durin’s Bane haunted him still, he was no craven.

“We will send out search-parties,” Dáin said. “I will lead them myself. And we will ask the Ravens for help, for their eyes see what our own people miss.”

But the Ravens brought no word of Thráin, son of Thrór.

Nor did Dáin find him, nor Balin and Dwalin, nor Oin and Glóin, though they searched.

Radagast with all his wood-craft and his friendship with the creatures of the great wood could find no trace of him.

It was three years later that Tharkûn found Thráin at last, in the dungeons of the Necromancer in Dol Guldur, that later was known to be Sauron the Cruel.

By then, it was too late to save Thráin son of Thrór, son of First-Dáin, son of Náin the Careful, son of Óin the Delver, son of Glóin the Prosperous, son of Thorin the Wanderer, son of Thráin the Exile, son of Náin the Doomed, who was Durin’s son of Khazad-dûm.

For Thráin had been tormented long, and his Ring, the Ring of the Deep-elves, inheritance of Durin, had been taken from him, along with his health, and his wits.

He could not remember his own name, nor Thorin’s. But he still held the Key and the Map, and he gave them to Tharkûn before he died.

Now, it had not been the custom of Durin’s Folk to have much to do with Wizards. Tharkûn was known in the Grey Mountains, and in the Iron Hills. But when he was seen, it was often bringing news of doom and darkness. He was not entirely counted as a friend.

But this we remember: Tharkûn sought for Thráin son of Thrór, Heir of Durin. 

When Thráin died in torment, Tharkûn was beside him to ease his pain.

Tharkûn carried his last words to Thorin.

This friendship we do not forget. 

The Quest of Erebor, and the Five Armies

When Thorin Oakenshield began to think of retaking his grandfather’s throne, he sent out messengers, as his father had done years before, and he himself travelled far, seeking alliances in his desire for vengeance against the Dragon.

But this time, he had set his eyes on a foe too great.

The Stiffbeards, Ironfists, Blacklocks, and even the Stonefoots remembered Thráin’s war, when they had bled, and got little recompense.

Even Thráin’s great triumph, the re-taking of Mount Gundabad, had achieved nothing.  The small force that Thráin had left there had been called away, later, when Thráin needed every axe.  Now it was once more an orc-hold.

None of the other Houses offered Thorin help.  Even in the Blue Mountains, where Thorin lived, and led the remnants of three Houses, few were eager to march out to face Smaug.

Thorin turned to Tharkûn, asking for advice.  This he did, even though he did not know at first that Tharkûn had the Key and the Map, and had heard the last words of his father.

Tharkûn himself did not know that Thráin was the name of the dwarf he had seen in the pits of Dol Guldur, for Thráin himself had forgotten it. Yet fate drew Thorin to Tharkûn, though both were strong of will and quick-tempered, so theirs was not an easy alliance.

Thorin spoke of war and heroes and revenge, but every plan he thought to put to Tharkûn failed against the might of the Worm. Smaug in his youth had brought even Erebor to ruin, and Thorin had no strength to come near that of Thrór the King, even if he had called on Dáin and begged for his help.

Dis was very much against doing that.  For, she said, “Thorin, you cannot risk drawing down the wrath of the Dragon on the Iron Hills.  They are only a short flight on dragon wings from the Mountain.  There’s little else left. The Iron Hills is a shield to all who live nearby.”

To this much Thorin agreed, though also it suited Thorin’s pride, not to call upon his cousin Dáin except with victory in sight.

But he would not agree to stay in the Ered Luin, far from Erebor and the dragon sleeping, though Dis his sister begged him. For Dis had seen enough of war and flame. In the Blue Mountains, she said, there was peace, and they should be content.

But Thorin, like his father and his grandfather, could not be content. 

In this, Tharkûn said, much later, there was wisdom, for Smaug was a threat to all, one that Sauron the Necromancer could have used with terrible effect as he rose to power once again in Mordor.

Wizards are strange folk, and given to the taking of strange risks, and gambling all on slim chances.

But that was when the thought came to Tharkûn that the dwarf he had met, though changed by long suffering, was Thráin son of Thrór, and he took out the Key and the Map, and he counselled Thorin that stealth and cunning might find a way.

Then he introduced Thorin to the most esteemed Bilbo Baggins of Bag End: an alliance that proved, in the end, unexpectedly lucky, though at first Thorin thought little of it. 

So it was that Dáin was not called to fight, while still Smaug slept on the treasure of Erebor.

Instead, Thorin set out with the children of Dis; Fili and Kili beside him. Dis begged them to stay, but they would not.  For they were of Durin’s line. Thorin was their lord and their uncle, and his tales of the treasures of Erebor quickened the blood and sent them out singing.

With Thorin’s small company went the esteemed Bilbo Baggins, and Tharkûn the Wizard. If their journey was not entirely straightforward, it certainly went faster than Thráin’s journey to Erebor, owing to the considerable luck of the esteemed Mr Baggins, and the expertise of Tharkûn.

Indeed, Tharkûn, as it was later known, left Thorin’s Company to lead an attack against Sauron the Necromancer himself, driving him out from the pits of Dol Guldur into the East.  By such methods, did Thorin reach the Mountain, escaping his father’s fate.

*******

In the hall in the Iron Hills, Dáin, son of Náin, son of Grór, sat in his great chair. Before him, dwarves of the Iron Hills and Erebor, united by time, sat at table, eating good bread and beef with berries.

A bird slipped through the high rock-window above the table, and came circling down out of the dark into the light of lamps and the warmth of the fireplace.

The raven landed on the back of Dáin’s chair, as once a raven had come to announce that the army of Thráin was coming to Azanulbizar.

The Lord of the Iron Hills turned, frowning, to look at it.

“Your cousin Thorin sends word,” it croaked. “The Dragon is dead, and he has taken the Mountain. Will you help him defend it? Will you come?”

Dáin leaped to his feet. “Thorin has slain the Dragon?” And within him a wild hope kindled. For he had ever admired his cousin Thorin, and saw in him a hope for a brighter future, if only he could have better luck, and perhaps a little more gold to work with.

“No,” the raven croaked, “The Dragon fell to the archer of Laketown. Smaug is dead. Thorin holds the Mountain, with only twelve kinsmen beside him.”

And it listed the names of all of Thorin’s company, including Fili and Kili, the children of Dís, who had long been Dáin’s friend. Balin and Dwalin, Oin and Glóin, kinsmen and friends, beside whom Dáin had sought vainly to find Thráin.

“Thorin is beset,” the Raven croaked. “He bid me tell you that the Men of Laketown and the Elvenking are advancing upon him. They would take the treasure of the Mountain for themselves.”

Dáin stood up, and he put both hands down heavily on the table, making the platters jump, so that everyone in Hill Hall turned to look at him.

“Thorin needs us,” he said, and though battle lay ahead, he smiled. For he had promised Thráin long ago under the shadow of Moria Gate that the people of the Iron Hills would bleed to aid the Heir of Durin.

Now the time had come. “Our kinsmen call us!” Dáin cried out. “Thorin Oakenshield has freed the Mountain! To arms!”

********

Now, when Dáin came to Erebor, he found the Mountain besieged by a strong force of Elves and Men. He had marched through the night, so urgently did he desire to come to Thorin’s aid, though his force was carrying supplies for a siege. .

Dáin was not seeking trouble with the Elves, for he knew of their strength, though he had never fought with them himself. But nor was he inclined to be pushed about. 

He sent out envoys, trusted people of his own house, to demand that the Elves clear the path to the Mountain, for they were encamped all around.

The Elves refused.

This put Dáin in a hard place. His force was overlooked by elven bowmen, and he had seen at Azanulbizar the risk of fighting an enemy that held the higher ground.

But he had found a tactic then that had won him the battle, and to Dáin, it seemed likely that the lightly-armoured Elves and unarmoured Men of the Lake might fall to the same strategy. For they knew nothing of the speed and weight of a strike force of the Dwarves, and relied over-much on arrows and spears, just as Azog’s orcs had done in Azanulbizar. A fast and heavy blow might end the war before it could begin, Dáin thought.

So, reluctantly, Dain prepared a sudden charge to take the leader of the enemy, relying on the unrivalled chain armour of the Iron Hills for the weight to form a spear-head that could not be turned aside.

Things might then have gone ill for the Elven-king, when all at once the skies darkened, and all at once, Tharkûn stood before them, crying a warning that Bolg son of Azog had come with his armies, and above them there were stormclouds and many bats and wolves were with them out of Gundabad and the North.

Instead of a swift thrust through the Elves to the Mountain-Gate, Dáin found himself in war council with Bard, who was later King of Dale, and the King of the Elves, and Tharkûn himself. Well it was that Tharkûn was there, for Dáin was sorely in need of a friend in that debate.

But alliance they made against the forces of Bolg.  A forced alliance, but one that held true through many long years thereafter. 

Many songs are sung of the Battle of Five Armies, where Fili and Kili, children of Dis and heirs of the House of Durin, fell defending their uncle and their lord under the shadow of eagle’s wings.

Thorin Oakenshield, escaping at last the dark doom that had stalked his father and grandfather, fell also in honorable battle. He had won back at long last the honour and the treasures of the  House of Durin, and died cleanly and at peace.

His name echoes down the years: King under the Mountain restored, if only for a brief time.

Thorin lies now in stone, as befits a king, with the heirloom of his house upon his breast.

Dáin wept for him, and for Fili, and Kili, for they were his kin, and he was sore to lose them.

Then, as all urged him to do, Dáin took up the crown, taking upon himself the duties of the Heir of Durin. Long and gloriously he reigned as King Under the Mountain.

His lands spread from Dale to the Iron Hills, and he was a friend and ally of many Houses, of Men and even of Elves, until at last he fell in the War of the Ring.

When she heard from Dáin that her brother and her sons had fallen, Dis spoke this verse:

I wish my children still alive,

Yet this was better than my fear,

They died free under open skies.

Free of chains, not doom-ensnared,

No shadowed grief, no dragon-gold,

They won renown, died honourably,

Last of the treasures of Durin’s House.

The House of Durin wanes

But we will not forget.

Dáin had these words set in stone beside the graves of Fili and Kili.

But Dis, Vili and their daughter remained in the Blue Mountains, and the windows of their high halls looked out over the Sea.