#and how dare you diminish the suffering of the Exodus | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

loekas · 6 years

Text

I present, shameless headcanon of what Gandalf was up to during the exodus of the Dwarves of Erebor to the Blue Mountains. As told from Thorin’s pov. Well, it’s more of a retelling by Thorin, because chronologically speaking, this scene takes place between the end of the first movie and the start of the second.

@bagginshieldtrash @acornsandoakenshields @thilbob @feynites Thought you might like this.

Thorin has almost drawn Orcrist before he realizes where he is.

His sister-sons and the others are asleep. The Wizard is keeping watch. Azog is not here.

Thorin lets out a harsh breath and accounts for his entire Company again as he attempts to erase the horrors still clouding his mind. Azog is not here.

Yet.

Failing to erase the images haunting him, Thorin gets to his feet. He grimaces as his ribs protest against the movement, but otherwise ignores the pain. After verifying that the fire is still going strong, he makes his way to where the Wizard is keeping watch and takes a seat next to him. The wisest course of action would be to resume resting instead, but Thorin knows he’ll not be able to sleep again this eve.

Not after that night terror.

Tharkûn does not react to his presence beyond giving him a compassionate glance. Thorin is grateful for that.

He looks at his Company. Listens to them breathe and watches the rise and fall of their chests. Takes solace in the fact that all of them are still alive.

For now.

Thorin allows himself a tired sigh. The night terror had not been as bad as some, but it left him shaken and unsettled still. Even so, he supposes he should be grateful. Given they are being hunted by Azog the Defiler, it is impossible to avoid the night terrors. But he is having far less than expected. Perhaps this is because of the Wizard’s Magic.

Perhaps it is because part of him still doesn’t truly believe that Azog yet lives. Doesn’t want to believe. No matter how childish that sentiment is.

When he shifts to a better position to keep watch, the dull throbbing of his ribs grows worse. Thorin does not react to the minor increase in pain, but Tharkûn lifts a hand with clear intention nonetheless. Thorin inclines his head, accepting the offer. Given that he’ll have no further rest this eve, every bit of compensation for the lack of sleep is welcome.

Tharkûn lays his hand on his shoulder and breathes out a familiar spell, the words soft yet resonant with the touch of Magic. Thorin feels some of his tension fade away as soothing warmth infuses his body, his various aches fading to near nonexistence.

“My thanks,” he murmurs, taking care not to wake the others. Tharkûn accepts his gratitude with a faint smile and lets go of his shoulder. There is a sense of tiredness to the Wizard, the aura of Power less noticeable than usual. But it is not so diminished as to cause true concern. That would require a far greater amount of Magic than healing a mere fourteen takes.

After they began the long journey to the Blue Mountains, after they had been on the road long enough for their medicine to run out and for starvation to have sunk its claws deep into them all, the Wizard had appeared. He gave no warning, simply showed up in the middle of camp as though he had always been there.

And he healed them. The youngest first, the few children not left behind at the Iron Hills and the babes they could not prevent from being born on the road. He soothed their illness and encouraged their health as much as he could. Then he healed those on the verge of succumbing to sickness and infection, the ones they had already given up on as lost. He offered relief from the pain, gave them a fighting chance none had dared to hope was still possible.

He healed them all, from youngest to oldest, from those on the brink of death to those suffering the barest of coughs. He healed without rest, without food, without stop, healed until all color had been leached from him, until the aura of Power had been all but gone. He healed until every single one of them had been given aid.

Then he collapsed and did not wake for thirty days. When he regained consciousness, Tharkûn resumed healing them as though he had not just spend an entire month sleeping like the dead. He did not exert himself to the point of collapse once more, but he still aided all who needed it. All who would not survive without him.

Tharkûn did not manage to save all. Some still succumbed to illness or injury, despite his best efforts. But so many pulled through instead. So many lived when they would not have otherwise.

Tharkûn had not stayed. He could not, his very nature prevented it. But he returned six times before they reached the Blue Mountains. Each time he did, he healed them all.

It is a debt they can never repay. Of the few that offered aid when they needed it the most, Tharkûn’s gift outweighed all. He saved more of his people than all others combined.

He did not aid them during the Battle of Azanulbizar.

“Why were you not present at the Battle?” The question slips out without his consent. Thorin only realizes how out of context the words must seem after he has already spoken them.

Except Tharkûn closes his eyes and lets out a sigh, soft yet filled with overwhelming regret. Tired in a way that has nothing to do with his physical state.

The Wizard knows what Battle he is referring to.

“Because I am a Wizard,” he answers, body bowed down under the weight of Ages in a way Tharkûn so rarely allows himself to show. “I am always exactly where I need to be.”

And he did not need to be with them during the Battle of Azanulbizar. Did not need to offer aid. Would not have been able to change the outcome even if he had stayed.

No matter how much Tharkûn wishes he could have.

Part of Thorin resents the Wizard for leaving them to their fate. For failing to go against his nature. Most of him doesn’t.

Not when it was their own nature that led to their doom.

After they arrived at the Blue Mountains and they finally managed to gather enough of the barest essentials for all, Tharkûn ceased his visitations. In the decades that followed, he returned but three more times.

One of those times was when his grandfather made the decision to try to reclaim Moira.

Tharkûn had shown up without warning as always, and he argued against his grandfather’s plan. Politely at first, followed with increasing fierceness and desperation. He had argued, pleaded and begged. He even called upon the debt they owe him, the only time the Wizard has ever acknowledged it even exists.

It had all been in vain. Thror refused to listen, would not be swayed from his decision no matter what.

It was then Thorin could no longer deny that his grandfather was lost to madness once more. Not when Thror refused to even attempt to repay the debt they owe Tharkûn.

The Wizard has not merely attempted to sway his grandfather. He had argued with his father, with Thorin himself and both his siblings. He had begged them to go against Thror’s decision.

Except they could not. They could argue with him, and they had done so, Dis most and fiercest of all. But they could not abandon him. Perhaps they could have had this been about nothing but love and blood. But it wasn’t.

Thror was their King. Mad with lust for gold, but still their King. They could sooner cut off their hands than abandon him. As Tharkûn discovered when he attempted to sway their people as well. When he tried to make them refuse their King’s command.

He failed. They followed their King to battle. Followed him to slaughter.

Part of Thorin hates himself for that. Hates even more that, if given the choice, he would make the same decision all over again. He would always follow his King no matter what.

They all would.

Another part of him, one he ignores as best he can at all times, hates his grandfather. Hates him for his weakness, for succumbing to madness again after they had dared to hope he was free of it for good.

“I am sorry, Thorin.” Tharkûn’s apology, barely audible yet heartfelt, makes him close his eyes, just for a moment.

“So am I.” Sorry that his grandfather wasn’t strong enough, sorry for the senseless slaughter of their people it led to. Sorry that his grandfather failed their people so badly. That their King forced them to meet their death.

Sorry they weren’t strong enough to go against their nature, either.

It is why Thorin did not order his people to follow him on this quest. He asked, but he did not command. He holds no authority over the other Families without the Arkenstone, but he does over his own people. Despite failing them time and time again, despite having no Kingdom to call their own, he is still their King. Had he called upon them, they would have come. As they came when his grandfather called upon them.

He is not his grandfather.

“Do you truly believe we stand a chance of reclaiming the Arkenstone?” It is another question escaping him without his consent. A question that reveals just how impossible he believes this quest to be.

It is a weakness he could never reveal to the others. But he can to Tharkûn.

The Wizard does not rely on him as the others do. He does not need him to lead. Does not need him to be strong.

Not in this.

“I do.” Tharkûn’s expression is as certain as his answer, neither holding even a single trace of doubt. Thorin wishes he could feel the same confidence.

“How can you be so certain?” he returns, the words coming out more wistful than intended.

Tharkûn smiles, faint but true. “I have a good feeling about this quest,” the Wizard replies unhelpfully. Thorin feels wry exasperation grow. The worst part is that he knows Tharkûn is being truthful. Having “a good feeling” is all the reason he needs to believe they will succeed.

Wizards.

“You should rest, Gandalf. I will keep watch.” Given he’ll not be able to sleep again, it is pointless for the Wizard to remain awake as well. Not to mention that Tharkûn deserves the additional rest. The Wizard has been taking second watch ever since he saved them, to allow the rest of them as much interrupted sleep as is possible.

“Thorin, I assure you, I am resting more than enough to compensate for the amount of energy I am expanding,” Tharkûn refuses the offer. Thorin does not insult him by repeating it. If the Wizard claims he is getting enough rest, Thorin will take him at his word.

Companionable silence falls. While Thorin’s mind still tries to wander to the past, he is able to prevent himself from drowning in regret by dividing his attention between keeping watch and thinking over the route they are taking.

The Eagles had left them in a position far more to the North than Thorin had been planning on going. Even ignoring the time constraint they are under, they cannot afford to return South to take the Old Forest Route. Not with Azog hunting them. Instead, they are moving further North, to take the Elven Path through the Mirkwood instead.

Thorin cannot describe how much he loathes the need to take that path, how he despises the need to cross into Thranduil’s lands with an all consuming vengeance. But they have no choice. Not if they are to reach Erebor in time.

Not if they are to stand even the slightest chance of outrunning Azog.

As though in response to his thoughts, Warg howls pierce the air.

“Wake up,” he commands loud enough to be heard by all but not so loud as to reveal their location, lunging to his feet and racing towards Bilbo, the nearest of those who’d yet to wake. The howls had woken Dwalin, Balin and Bifur, and Fili, Kili and Nori have snapped awake at his raised voice but the others are still sleeping, so Thorin repeats his order for them to “Wake up.”

“Wha–” Bilbo’s confused question ends in a startled yelp as Thorin yanks him to his feet, taking care not to strain either of their injuries. Dwalin, Kili and Nori are waking the others, while Balin, Fili, Bifur and Tharkûn are breaking up camp and gathering their supplies with quick efficiency. The howls had been faint, distant and far off, but the very fact they carried far enough to be heard by them means they have a day at worst, two at best, before Azog catches up to them.

Thorin supposes it no longer matters that they are heading towards Thranduil’s lands. They’ll not manage to reach the borders anyway.

Not when they are being hunted by Azog the Defiler.

#the hobbit #fanfic #ficlet #my writing #thorin's pov #shameless headcanon #focusing on the relationship between Gandalf and Thorin #and on Thorin's complex relationship with his grandfather #who I headcanon snapped out of his goldsickness after Erebor fell #and returned to being a good king #like he was to his people so long ago #he was sane #for a while at least #because you know #Thorin's life wasn't tragic enough already #also don't think that the Dwarves of Erebor could've survived as a culture #if they didn't have strong leadership

22 notes · View notes