Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Nothing Gold Can Stay	By : TAFKAB Category: +Third Age > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 5309 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings, The Hobbit, The Silmarillion, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, reclined in his chair, as confident as if it were his throne. Only those who knew him well would have perceived a slight stiffness in his bearing, a relic of his battle with Azog. Those few present who did know Thorin were far more worried about something else: the dragon sickness, which raged in him unabated and could not be overcome.

None could reach or sway Thorin, not even Gandalf, who had departed in disgust with Bilbo Baggins some days before to safeguard his return to the Shire.

Around and around the talks circled, always returning to a single point. They might be standing around a rough-hewn table near Dale rather than separated by the battlement of the front gate and its guarding lake, but Thorin’s resolve had not changed. He held his spine ramrod straight and stared daggers at the elvenking, Thranduil of Mirkwood.

“We will not surrender what is ours.” Thorin’s hand lay upon the Arkenstone, and his eyes glinted with its cold fire. “Neither will I deliver to you the jewels you demand. I have said before: there is still an army before my gate, and I will barter nothing under threat of force.”

“Then starve, and your kin with you.” Thranduil tilted his head, his narrow eyes calculating. “Dain has not brought enough to keep you through the winter. The mountain will be at the mercy of any who wander past.” He drew himself to his full height. “Or perhaps you may be persuaded to part with something far less dear to dwarves than jewels or gold.”

A stir rose among the assembled company, but Thorin ignored the alarm of his counselors, silencing them with a sharp flick of his outstretched hand.

“Name your price….” His pause emphasized the contempt in his tones. “...Elf.”

I will accept a young son of the line of Durin to serve me as chattel for seventy years and seven. In exchange, I will provide a single year of food and medicine to your people.” Thranduil sat back, a faint smile playing upon his lips.

“Will you make war on Erebor if I refuse?” Thorin had to shout to be heard over the babble of raised voices-- dwarves and men yammering in dismay.

“I will not need to. In a year this mountain will lie empty of the living, and any who wish it will walk in and take as much as they can carry.” Thranduil rose. “I have no more use for talk. Choose. I return to the wood before nightfall.”

Thorin hesitated, his eyes ranging across his companions, hazed with the lust the hoard fed inside him. “We will starve then, and you--”

“No.” A voice rang out, and a young dwarf stepped forward. He wore an axe and armor, but his beard barely reached his collarbone, and his clubbed braid was short, poking stiffly out from under his iron helm.

“I am Gimli, son of Glóin. I am of Durin's line. To save my people, I will give myself in fulfillment of this bargain.”

“Gimli!” His father yelped, and would have thrust him back, but the damage was done. Thranduil inclined his head, staring disdain at Gimli. He did not seem at all pleased to hear his bargain fulfilled.

“Agreed.” He smiled faintly and turned his gaze to Thorin. "Once again, payment of your debt has been offered and accepted." His lip curled with displeasure as he gestured to his attendants. “Have our people gather wine, water, flour, and such meat as we can spare. Prepare it for shipment here. We will collect your pledge five days hence at the edge of the wood by the east road, dwarf. When you are in my keeping, the wagons will roll.”

His face twisting with rage, Thorin turned wrathful eyes on Gimli. “I would have expected better from one of my own kin than from a stunted and honorless rat of the Shire." He paused, struggling to control himself, his mouth working in silence for a long moment before he calmed again, his face hardening and his voice turning icy cold. "We will be better off without your sort in Erebor. Do not ever show your face here again.”

“But Thorin. My only son!” Glóin begged, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

“Peace!” Thorin roared. “Lest I send you with him into exile.” He stalked out in a swirl of fur and a whisper of jointed metal plates, leaving Glóin to stare at Gimli in horror.

“Let him go,” Gimli spoke quietly. “It is a small price to pay for what we must have.” He laid his hand on his father’s shoulder. “I am of age. It was my choice to make.”

“What have you done?” Glóin moaned, and tore his beard. “If only Gandalf were here. Thranduil did not mean his words. He meant to shame our king! You have brought that shame down on Thorin’s shoulders in full measure by accepting the elf’s bargain without his leave. He will never forgive your act, even if it saves us all.”

“I have done what I judge is right,” Gimli said, curt. “Now we can rebuild our kingdom, and we will not have to beg and steal to live, if we can find no work among the coal.” Pride and sorrow gleamed in his dark eyes. “Do not try to argue with him, my father. He will hear no reason.”

“I regret the day I ever answered his call to Erebor,” Glóin whispered.

“Say not so,” Gimli urged. “For it is not a lifetime in slavery, and one day I will walk free and hold my head high, knowing I saved Erebor and all my kin, regardless how the king would have it.”

His father clasped him close and wept as the assembled men and elves left the tent in the wake of their leaders, departing for Dale and parts beyond.

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Nothing Gold Can Stay