mithril

XXII.

— XXII —

I slide into the great Gallery mostly unnoticed. My dress might be a vibrant, pale shade of blue, but my skills haven't left me so soon. Bilbo jumps as I appear suddenly next to him. His accusing glare turns up at me. Indignant that I've managed to startle him.

"You're late," he hisses accusingly. I smile slightly and face forward.

"Never late, Master Baggins. I have arrived precisely when I intended to." The Hobbit rolls his eyes slightly at my words.

"Gracious, you sound like Gandalf," he mutters. My smile grows, warming my face.

"What a shame. Next thing you know I'll be growing a beard."

"And waving a staff. With that thing, you're already halfway there," Bilbo gestures at Angolain. The blade is strapped to my hip at the moment in a new, fancier scabbard. The revised leather casing is much more appropriate for the setting.

My eyes skate away from the Hobbit at my side, taking in the great crowd assembled in the Gallery of Kings. Most of the gathered figures are Dwarves, but I spot the two Elves I call family intermingled with the shorter race. Elladan is across the Gallery, standing next to Elrond in their regal outfits of gold and oranges. Elladan looks downright uncomfortable without his signature leaf-plated armor. The long-haired Elf glances up, summoned by my eyes. My brother gives me that special, eye-crinkle smile. I flash him my Draug Rae before a grey-clad figure crosses between us.

Gandalf walks solemnly towards the throne, his face grave. At his arrival, the crowd begins to fall silent. I study the raised platform behind him, the stone new and shining in the light of hundreds of torches and braziers. The elegant, but simple seat was installed in the Gallery of Kings as the reinvented throne room. A better place to access the worries of the people and others who would approach the king. It was far better than the overly-protective and isolated single path of the previous throne room. An isolated king was an unwise one. A king that was more intent on protecting his gold and riches than his people. This new place of position will have the opposite effect. This change was, in fact, the very first thing Thorin sought to do as King under the Mountain.

On either side of Gandalf against the platform are the ten remaining Dwarves of Thorin's company, along with Dáin Ironfoot. His eleven Dwarf Lords. The ones who were at his side and brought him aid when it mattered most. Their position will be second to no one, save the king. The most trusted of his council. The caretakers of the far reaches of his lands.

The crowd is silent. Waiting. Holding their breath. Deep within Erebor, drums start to beat. A steady thrum. Reverberating through the Dwarven kingdom. The ground shudders beneath our feet with each resounding boom. Boom. Boom. Announcing the Dwarvenking.

Thorin steps through the parted gathering. My eyes snap to him instantly, in the way they always have. The way they always will. I'm drawn to his presence, but now I'm not alone in this. The entire crowd watches him with a deep silence. Watching their king as he walks slowly through their midsts. Each row of Dwarves he passes is holding a torch aloft, the golden flicker casting across his strong features. The Gallery is dark otherwise, save for the great braziers on either side of the throne.

Each step of Thorin's heavy boots echoes to the beat of the drums. A solemn, steady anthem. The song of his own glory. The tenor and bravado of his triumph. Of his people.

The march of the King.

Thorin pauses before Gandalf. The wizard dips his head slightly. It's a welcoming and acknowledging gesture as the Dwarf arrives at the throne. I watch, my own heartbeat thundering in my ears, as Gandalf moves towards the crown waiting on a golden pedestal. The wizard selects the winged helm from the black velvet pillow and raises it into the air.