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I own none of the characters. It's all Tolkien's.
The Spoils of the Dwagon
Chapter 1 of 1

Rating: PG for violence done to honey oat cakes by toddlers.


A Blue Mountain/Uncle Thorin series ficlet

Thorin stood in front of the entrance of his home, deep in Tumunzahar, wiping the sweat from his brow. It wasn't the sweat that bothered him, no. He was a dwarf and a dwarf was built, engineered for the smithy. It wasn't the exhaustion in his muscles. Again, he was a dwarf and a dwarf was built for this sort of hard, laboring work.

But he was exhausted and deep inside, he knew why he was exhausted. There was no one on the other side of the entrance to welcome him, to hug him, to love him.

Not even to cook for him. That was self-centered, yes. But there was no one there on the other side to make these chambers a home. He could care less about the rooms, the abundance within them, there was simply no one there, but himself.

At least there was a tub and a bed. That's all that mattered now.

The first thing he noticed when he entered the entry way, was there was light. Not just there in the entrance, but back through the chambers. Light in the kitchen, light in the hall, light in the bathing chamber.

The second thing he noticed was the smell of cooking. Ham, unless he was mistaken, and the smell of green beans. Green beans like his mother used to make.

And honey oat cakes.

And singing. A dwarrow with a sweet voice was singing.

In his kitchen.



Thorin turned left, bypassing the closet and made his way into the spacious cooking area. His sister had taken over the room, much like his grandmother had her kitchen, despite her title. Pointing to the chair at the table, his sister set a plate down, piled high with ham and other vegetables – including the green beans. “Eat.”

Thorin did just that, settling heavily into the seat. Two slabs of ham were gone before he opened his mouth to speak. “What are you doing here?” A mug of cold ale was set next to his plate.

“Feeding you, for one thing.” She bent over the oven, pulling out a sheet of honey oat cakes. “You're not eating. Balin is worried. Dwalin is worried. He came to me to tell me you were not eating.”

“Dwalin is sweet on you, lass; has been for years.” Thorin mumbled between forkfuls of green beans. “You should let him court you.”

“He's a good friend to you.” She ignored the suggestion. Dwalin was sweet on her; she knew it and often wondered had she known before she met her granite carver, would it have changed her mind? No bother now. With her husband deceased only two years, she herself was still too deep in her grief to even think of another husband, much less a lover.

As was her brother.

It was quiet, while Thorin shoveled food in his mouth. In the months Gin had been dead, he had lost weight, often going days, weeks between showers. Dwarves didn't mind sweat and hard work, but they were meticulously neat and proud of their beards and braids and hair, much like their females were.

Thorin, on the other hand, it seemed, could care less. His hair, most times, was straggly, unkempt. Cords of iron now ran through the dark locks, much like the veins of the metal the dwarves had found upon their return to Erid Luin. Rather than take the reins of ruling as he needed to, he spent time down in the mines or more often, in the smiths, forging the iron. In recent months, he had hammered out sword after sword, helmets, chain mail, armor. He was outfitting for a war. She didn't know what war, or whose war, but Thorin was in the beginning stages of preparing for one.

And he was trimming his beard. In a sense, it was similar to what he had as a young dwarf, newly bearded.

“You are here for another reason.” It was a statement and Dís looked up to see her brother staring at her. He was leaning back, his elbow behind him, propped on the back of the chair, the empty mug dangling from thick fingers.

She looked him in the eye, steeling herself for what would mostly be an argument of Durin-sized proportions, but she was determined to win this. Not for herself, but for her brother's sake. “I have decided to move in with you; me and the boys.” She hurried on, not allowing him to speak. “You need someone to cook and clean for you. You're not eating and your laundry is a mess. There are clothes everywhere-”

“You have been through my personal items?”

“-slung haphazardly. Mahal only knows what is clean and what is dirty! I don't think you've changed your bed linens since Gin passed-”

“You have been through my personal items?”

“-and I imagine you've been wearing the same smallclothes for weeks! I swear, Thorin, I went into your room and whistled and by my beard, at least fifteen socks stood up and saluted!”

Thorin's look was of feigned, uncaring mockery. She recognized the faces he was making at her from his young, young dwarf years.

Usually when their mother was disgusted with him.

“The boys need a father figure. I'm being selfish, I know I'm being selfish, but Fili worships the ground you walk on and Kili doesn't remember Hǫggva!” She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Fili doesn't even ask about him anymore.”

Thorin stood up, was lifting out a second helping. “If your boys need a father, then marry. Dwalin-”

“I'm not ready to remarry, just like you're not!” The things on the table bounced as Thorin sat down and angrily banged his plate on the place in front of him. Again, he began to shovel food in his mouth. “You need a reason to get up in the morning! Your table manners are disgusting and you've completely reverted into some sort of cave beast!”

Thorin chewed his mouthful and swallowed. “Caves are good places.” He began to spear green beans, his fork pinging tink tink tink tink tink. He lifted and stared at the utensil in his hand as if it were pure mithril. “How long do you expect to be here?”

Her shoulders dropped. The battle was over before it began. Truly, she anticipated that he would argue with her, refuse. She expected a long, drawn-out screaming match that would take place for hours. “I don't know. A few months. A couple of years. You need takien care of and they need a male role model. An authority figure.”

“Kili is getting into things.”

“Kili is treading on my last nerve,” Dís admitted with a nervous laugh. “You should hear him try to say 'Baruk Khazâd!' I'd holler at him if it wasn't so funny.”

Thorin finished his plate, before leaning back and staring at her. “I will take your boys in hand and in turn, you will cook and clean and do laundry.” Dís nodded. “Fair enough. There is room here. Speaking of your little miscreants, where are they? 'Tis been amazingly quiet.”

The evil smile he remembered well when his sister was Fili's age, spread across her face. “They are laying an ambush for you. Be prepared.”

Thorin knew immediately he had been set up.


After he finished eating, Thorin gingerly stepped into the foyer, his mind thinking of every hiding place in his home between the front entrance and his bedroom. Thinking quickly, he removed his smithy belt. Normally, he kept it in his bedroom, but upon reconsideration, decided that might not be such a good idea. Fili would be cautious, but Kili habitually threw caution to the wind.

Actually, Kili didn't know what caution was. A more reckless dwarfling, Thorin had never met.

Opening the closet, he hung his tool belt and smithy apron on the hook and spying his cloak, decided it might be of use, so he slipped it on, fastening it around his throat.

He first went into the living and sitting area. Thorin normally avoided the room; it had been Gin's sanctuary, her favorite place. Her chair was still there, her knitting basket and needles still in the soft colored balls of yarn, sitting next to it. There were booties, small tunics. With each and every pregnancy, she started all over, knitting a new wardrobe, only to give it away after each miscarriage. Thorin made a mental note to ask Dís to finish what was unfinished and give the clothing to an expectant dwarrow.

He roamed the room, looking behind the chairs, seeing a blond behind his own chair in the dark. Rather than flush Fili out, he pretended not to see him and tiptoed out.

He wanted to find Kili. Kili was more dangerous in an ambush.

Next was the dining room. As he was living in the king's quarter's, the dining room was large, ready to sit a council, large groups. There was a separate state hall, with its own kitchens for more regal events, but this room was still considered quite elegant.

As a result, it was rarely used. Thorin – when Gin was alive – preferring to use the simpler and cozier table in the kitchen. Many times, long, sensual nights were begun over a shared pot of stew or sampling of sticky buns or honey oat cakes.

He made his way around the table, hearing giggling. With a shadowed smirk, he made his way to the door.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!! DWAGON!!!” Kili jumped from beneath the table, grabbing Thorin's cloak. Allowing himself to be hauled backwards, lest he be strangled, the Exiled Prince of Erebor turned, rolling his youngest nephew into his cloak. Hearing the commotion, dozens of fireflies rushed to the chamber, lighting the room up. As he turned, giggling erupted from beneath the lump in his cloak, Kili finding an opening and sticking his head out. “DWAGON!”

Thorin growled, turning into a fierce, loathsome beast, unhooking his cloak and rolling the dwarfling tighter. He then fell to his knees, finding small arms and body beneath folds and began to tickle. “GRRRRRR! WHO DARES INVADE MY CAVE???”

“Nononono Unka Torin! NO! Hehehehehehe!” The child collapsed on the floor, trying to evade his uncle's fingers. “DON' EAT ME!!! PWEASE!!!!! IZ KEEDEE IZ KEEDEE!!!”

“No, you are a thief come to steal my candlesticks and green beans!” Thorin spun the little one around on his back, tickling beginning anew.


No sooner than the plea was out of the child's mouth, a not-so-large lump of dwarfling landed on Thorin's back. There was a loud whack as something smacked Thorin in the head. Stars and fireflies whirled around his eyes, before reaching back in renewed mock fury, he grabbed the wooden sword his eldest nephew held and flung it into the hall. Kili was laughing as his uncle turned with all the dwarf fierceness he possessed to glare at Fili.

“Oh no,” was about all Fili could gasp before he joined his brother on the floor, wrapped up and tickled as well.

“You no dwagon!” Kili was gasping. “You lie, Feedee! Not dwagon! Unka Torin a tickle monster!”

Thorin stopped and threw up the cloak, before ducking under, along with a few captured fireflies. “You're right, Kili! I'm just a lowly tickle monster! BUT!” He raised a finger. “There is a true dragon in the kitchen and she is hoarding honey oat cakes!”

“Oooh!” Both sets of eyes were wide. “What we do?” Fili was already in on the conspiracy and all up for planning a heist.

“I wan' caaaaaaaaaaaake!” Kili was easily distracted and redirected.

“Then listen carefully.”


Thorin whispered, ignoring the giggling of the boys, before growling sotto vocce, 'Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!'

“Baruuuu! Baruuuu!” Kili whispered.


Dís had just taken a batch of cakes out of the oven and set them on a cooling rack. She was listening to the noise, the yelling and growling taking place outside the kitchen and it made her smile and remember happier times when her husband was still alive and wrestled with Fili after coming home after work. Kili had been a wee babe, only a few months old, when Hǫggva fell from the scaffolding, taking a heavy rock with him. She shook her head, rubbing tears from her eyes. Her brother was hurting, just as she was and perhaps one helping the other would help through the grief both of them bore.

She suddenly realized it was quiet.

Deathly, disturbingly quiet.

There was a low growl behind her.

Wide-eyed, she turned, only to see Thorin, wrapped in his full cloak and towering over her, evil all over his features. As he spread his arms, her sons emerged from beneath, equally menacing and riding on their uncle's boots, raised their hands in mock claws.

All three began to growl.

“Oh, no, you don't!” Dís took a protective stance in front of the cakes she had just taken from the oven. She raised a finger to Thorin. “These are our grandmother's recipe and they are for the feast tomorrow evening! You can't – AAAAAACK!” Thorin rushed forward, her sons hanging on to his legs, and grabbing her by the waist, set her to the side.

“I have the evil Dragon! Get them all! Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!”

“Dragon?” she sputtered! “I'll dragon you, you hrodi-flic!”

“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd aimênu!” Fili and Kili hopped from his boots, both of them grabbing two of the cakes, one for each hand. Both scampered to the doorway, Thorin dropped his sister, before grabbing two for himself and dashing behind them. All three ran down the hall, yelling Dwarven oaths, usually reserved for battle. As Thorin caught up to them, he scooped up one under each arm, before tearing down the passageway, Dís in hot pursuit. Both boys were cackling loudly, waving their spoils of war. Thorin turned side-ways, stepping into his room, slamming the door with the back of his heel, and leaning on it while the boys dropped to the floor and ran to the bed.


“Baarrrrrrrruuuuu! Baaaaaarrrrruuuuuuu!” Kili yelled.

“FINE!” She crossed her arms and glared at the door. “When they're sugared up tonight and climbing the walls, YOU can deal with them!”

Her fury was completely lost on the three warriors. Thorin toed off his boots, his nephews following and the three climbed up on the huge pile of furs amidst great laughter.

His sister was right – Thorin's socks stank and he threw them into the furthest corner of the room, Fili and Kili mimicking him and tossing his cloak on a chair, the three climbed up on the bed and enjoyed their ill-gotten gains.

Furious, but secretly pleased, that her brother had turned the tables on her, Dís began to stir up batter for another round of honey oat cakes. She'd planned on giving them one each anyway, but still...

Carefully, she poured the batter into the small loaf pans, put them in the oven, keeping a careful ear on the hall. After about twenty minutes, the home turned silent. Cakes baking in the oven, she tiptoed down the hallway, and gently pushed the door open.

Thorin lay on his back in a bed of crumbs, Fili curled up under his arm, mouth agape and drooling, Kili sprawled on Thorin's chest and stomach, thumb in his mouth. Three untouched honey oat cakes were set on the night table, and the stench of unwashed woolens rose from the corner. Shaking her head, she spread the duvet over the three, before scooping up the laundry and depositing it outside in the hall, taking note of the many pairs of socks that needed mending. She then picked up the untouched pastries and shooing the fireflies out, headed towards the door.


“Yes, Thorin?”

“You and the boys may stay for however long you want to.” She turned to see him still on his back, eyes to the ceiling. “You're right. I need you. I need them.”

“We need you too, Thorin.” She started to turn, barely hearing his response.

“I love you, Daughter of Durin.”

“I love you too, Thorin.”

Kili rubbed his nose in his uncle's tunic, not really waking up. “Baaaaaarrrrrruuuu Khaaaaz'd. Dwagon.”


Began/fini 09/11/14

Hrodi-flic – Snot rag

Chapter 1 of 1
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