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"Thrall Wars" part two - in which the King of the Forest misjudges Thorinitis


Jun 27 2014, 1:28am

Post #1 of 8 (3161 views)
"Thrall Wars" part two - in which the King of the Forest misjudges Thorinitis Can't Post

The wisdom of the elegant Woodland King was vast, and spanned many ages of men and elves both. Rightly hath this unfathomable (yet beautiful beyond the dreams of stars) ruler of the forest lands been greatly feared, for few had ever looked upon him and not lost a part of themselves – for the race of men, especially, longing to merely be gifted with one last precious glimpse would curse many of those who had beheld Thranduil for the rest of their days.

Yet even the most finely wrought of mithril blades may twist in the hand and wound the overly-confident, when a sure strike is needed the most. Long had Thranduil stayed within the borders he had set, and as the creeping darkness crept across the forest, the King must needs ever spin more elven magic from his palace, spending his mysterious powers in shoring his defenses. Thus, the companions of Thranduil had long been only those of the elven race, and so he found those of his own kind to be most pleasing to his eyes. It was beyond even the ken of the great Elven King to think, nay, even consider, that in Thorin Oakenshield by some chance, the blood of Durin ran true.

The Dwarven Thralls that had littered the lands of Erebor might have told him, had Thranduil deigned to ask. But as tattered-winged butterflies blown in front of the stormwind gusts did this great king view the hollow-eyed, slack-jawed Dwarven Thralls. For this highest of Elf Lords, they were only worthy of some small kindness, if that; no more than the flicker of a firefly on a summer night – possibly useful, but only very briefly. Above all, from the perspective of Thranduil, all were guilty of pathetically bad taste.

So in his isolation, in the greater world, Thranduil could not know of the endless songs, art, and poetry that celebrated the visage of the Mountain King through all of the lands, yeah verily, to the very shores of the Seas. Lúthien Tinúviel in ages gone has been considered the fairest that ever walked Middle Earth, yet no legendary elven beauty nor ancient warrior hero, nor ruler of men or dwarves had been graced as is this Son of Durin.

Rippling star-streaked nightshadow hair curtained like roiling dark northern waters about a fine-skinned, strong-boned noble visage, a face so oft stained with the high fiery color of fierce battle. The voice of the Lord of Silver Fountains was as that of a god of sea and stone, with the beauty and power of the howl of the wolf ‘gainst a frozen and indifferent winter sky, and yet his very breathing was as the music of the gentlest caress of a summer breeze. Strength, intelligence, matchless courage, and passion blazed from dark-lashed eyes as deep and magnificent as the finest backlit topaz, or sunlight sparkling off gently lapping island shore waves. The legendary Silmarilli themselves were as tawdry glass trinkets compared to the beauty and depth of the eyes of Thorin Oakenshield.

And so the Dwarven Thralls could have told the Woodland King, it mattered not, for whether swept by the damp icy cold winds of the storm, shadowed by the grayness and filth of the poisoned Mirkwood, gilded with the warmth of the hearth fire, slimed by the scaly riverine fish, or even, even, tainted with wonderfully intriguing madness (perfectly understandable as his Hobbit was getting on his nerves at the time), the beauty, absurd masculinity, and majesty of the King Under the Mountain is ever inviolate. The very way the Lord of Silver Fountains moved and turned evoked the grace of the black leopards of the farthest jungles of…

“Alright already, can we just get on!” muttered an irritated Thrall. “Can we all just agree that Thorin’s smokin’ hot, geez, EVERYONE’S known that since North and South!”

"SOME people have no appreciation for POETIC LISENCE – sigh. Ahem. Well then…"

The young captain of the guard, might have told Thranduil as well, had she not been currently lost to the torment of her own fear and dreams for the laughing dark eyes and merry smile of the forbidden dwarven prince. Tauriel dared not be near her own king, for fear of the chance remark that might burst from her. But she could have told Thranduil, that moribund these Dwarven Thralls might have been, but as water trapped within rocks may crack the hardest stone when heated, these Thralls were now a force unbridled. Inflamed beyond any reason they were, by the sight of luminous skin, gloriously fierce dwarven eyes, and a shimmering mane of unbound espresso locks that echoed the softness of evening clouds, and cloak’d the Mountain King like the living wings of oncoming night.

Nor, she could have warned Thranduil, were these Dwarven Thralls like any females (mostly) he had known, in all his many years. For these were no wafting elves of Lothlorien or Rivendell, content to eat an occasional leaf and enrobe themselves in silky clothing unsuitable for anything save short bouts of flute-playing. They were not even akin to secretive, richly dressed, Dwarf women, who were seldom seen since the fall of Dale. If anything, the Dwarven Thralls were more akin to the elves of Mirkwood, or to the skinchangers of Beorn’s race – from many lands they had traveled far, undaunted by the vast distance to the lands of the Mountain.

Women they may be (mostly) but fiercely, fiercely, strong they were (many trained with lifetime health club memberships and kickboxing workshops), and many clever skills and cunning talents of all kinds they possessed, comfortably wielding tools as easily as their wide array of weaponry and cooking implements. Whatever weariness and fear that had crept into their tired bodies had been cast aside as easily as out-of-date sale coupons at the halo’d appearance of the Heirs of Durin on Erebor’s shattered walls.

As the darkening night began to wing its descent, playfully scattering icy pellets of sleet against the crack’d walls of Erebor, from within Balin glared at the growing circle of Dwarven Thralls around him - but could find no succor. For so great was the respect accorded to him by the Thralls, that all Thralls within a ten-foot radius immediately fell silent and bowed to the floor, so that the noble Balin appeared to be encircl’d within a deep pool of dripping, dirty footrests. (The tableau was reminiscent of some strange modern art of other worlds, perhaps a statement of the nihilism of greatness *cough*).

“Thorin!” cried Balin. “Well may it be that our Thralls have been reclaimed from the strange magics of the Woodland Realm, but Thranduil is no callow youth of men, tripping over his own arrows. See how he indifferently laughed as these Thralls broke their nails as they vaulted the broken walls. No army, no matter how great, can be sustained without fodder, and Erebor is ring’d round with these gimlet eye’d elven archers!”

“The wealth of the ages litters the halls of Erebor, but the Thralls cannot be fed with gold!”

At the utterance of the word “gold”, the ever-glorious King Under the Mountain slowly (and epically) turned his head towards Balin, Arctic sea-blue eyes afire. The emass’d trembling Thralls around him left off combing the fur of his boots and crawled backwards. All fell silent in anticipation of the syllables that should grace them, even ‘twere Thorin only asking for a glass of water.

“&^%$##@!” snarled Thorin has his luminous eyes narrowed slightly. He paused to let the roar of applause die down. “What’s mine is mine, and stays mine, including mine Thralls. Besides, now there are plenty of willing hands to help counteth my gold, seeketh the Arkenstone, and redecorate. T’would seem there is PLENTY of MEAT, prancing about right outside my front door!”

Long-legged for a dwarf, and so with his usual leonine grace, the King Under the Mountain snatched up bow and arrows from Fili Kili, and stalked powerfully toward the shattered outer walls of Erebor. So overcome by the sight of the swirling beauty of Thorin’s inky mane as it was caught and toy’d with by the coming gale winds, and the intensity of his eyes, that the already glaze-eye’d Thralls fell prostrate and had to recover to scramble after their Beloved King. (Many were too overcome and were unfortunately heavily trod upon by their more practically-minded sisters.)

No beloved hero, or war leader, or great ruler, in all Middle Earth has been greeted with as much fierce unholy joy as the appearance of Thorin Oakenshield on the outer walls of Erebor. Even the coming storm itself seemed to conspire to frame him in the epicness of timeless legend, with the hands of the wind fluffing the beauteous ebony of his hair most becomingly, and the intense fire-bright blue eyes were lit by the flashes of a thousand smart phones held high.

“Hey, this reminds me of that scene from the Hunger Games…” began a swaying, glassy-eyed Thrall who was attempting to cling to the slippery cold walls. “Shut up, shut up, maybe he’s going to yell something nasty at Thranduil again,” hissed the Thrall next to her “SQUEEEE!!! THAT was SO INTENSE I squeezed my boyfriend’s hand so hard in the theater it broke two fingers – he was so mad…..”

“So what happened with you two after?” asked the pallid, shaking Thrall, who was briefly distracted.

“Oh, I dumped him, one thing I learned from the dwarves, it’s how REAL MEN are supposed to behave. Would a dwarf get whiny over a few broken bones? I think not. Look at the beat down Thorin took, a mace right to the face, did he get up whimpering? NO. The first thing he thought of *sob* was his Hobbit….”

The pale-faced trembling Thrall stopped shaking long enough to consider this. “But, Thorin’s a DWARF, not a man…..” she began. “Hush!” said her companion “Let’s see what he does now – oh, gawds, he’s got a bow – look at his eyes SQUEEEEEEEE!”

Even the power of the winds gave way before the *sighs of thousands* as Thorin powerfully drew aim on the massive horn’d beast that was currently fertilizing the great lawn that surrounded Erebor. “Missed you before, but then my mind was cloud’d with the foul magics of your dishonorable owner. And there’s some good leather there for new slippers so that I may walk my gold floor and get a nice buffing effect gratis,” snarled Thorin (his hair was, as always, gently pushed from his face by the storm goddess, in the most photogenic manner).

“Thorin, STOP! Stay this madness!” cried Balin, who had finally gained the outer walls of Erebor, followed by an undulating wave of respectfully bowing Thralls (the sinuous repeated bowing caused observers’ eyes to water, as the Thralls were already pretty on edge).

“Brother, what issue hast thou?” growled Dwalin as Thorin irritably tossed his great darkling mane back (accompanied by another wave of sighs and scattered thuds as some of the Thralls gave it up and passed out, sightless eyes glazed with raindrops and beatific smiles). “Verily, moose stew is a fine thing, and yonder prances enough meat to feed Bombur for two entire days! Plus, the *&^% animal is eating all the grass and leaving clods all about…”

“Nay, for it is unbecoming for the High King of the Dwarves, so BETRAYED by the canny Elvish King, to take the life of another innocent also victimized. For Thranduil hath often put the poor beastie to evil use, through no fault of its own.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that!” said a listening Thrall sotto voce. “I’ve been at some of those parties of Thranduil’s, and they are just KILLER. The moose looked like it was having a wonderful time with everyone’s rides – and there was this big horse all the way from Rohan, I swear, you can’t tell ME animals don’t fall in love…” the Thrall fell silent as Gloin glared at her.

“Ach, the traitorous Elven King sits in his luxurious royal tent sipping fine wines, and laughs at us. An unfed, weaken’d army, no matter how large, will be no help in reclaiming the glory of Erebor!” protested Oin. "I have not enough potions to keep all on their feet!”

Gazing majestically across the storm-washed expanse of the battlefield, the crystalline blue gaze of the mighty Thorin met the liquid, velvet, dark amber eyes of the great antler crown’d beast of Thranduil. For the briefest of moments time held, the winds stilled. For the most magnificent of their species they both were, and though alien to each other, both had oft walked in battlefields drenched to the knees with the blood of the fallen. Kings both, in their own right, who had seen too much.

On the walls, Thorin took a deep breath of icy storm wind that caught up his evening hair and swirled it to a magnificent dark halo about him, and another. “Balin speaks truly, and I thank him for his deep wisdom,” he said as he unstrung the bow, watching as the great beast regally turned and faded into the gathering dark. “I will not begin reclaiming the beauty and nobility of Erebor, by slaughtering nobility and beauty.”

Then a rare smile from Thorin revealed teeth as perfect as the shimmering island pearls that graced the gowns of the fairest of the High Elves, but the smile did not reach his eyes. “And Oin, feareth not. For our Thralls are passing clever, and in his o’er pride, our enemy hath failed to take measure of the sturdy practicality and cleverness of these fans of ours, who have so thoroughly embraced Dwarfendom.”

“For no pale-faced, breathy-voiced women (mostly) are these…” the Mountain King gestured at the Dwarven Thralls, who clashed weapons and cutlery together and raised their voice in Khuzdul cheers.

“Oh, I don’t know,” muttered the darkly handsome dwarven prince Kili distractedly, desperately staring from the walls into the ebony darkness, searching hopelessly for the merest glint of fiery autumn hair. “Do you think she sees me here…?” Golden-haired Fili stared hopelessly at his brother with compassionate soft blue eyes, thoughts churning, and took care to place himself between Kili and Thorin and Dwalin.

“Hark ye!” the King Under the Mountain’s wonderful, black velvet baritone effortlessly shamed the efforts of the storm winds. Dwarven Thralls closed their eyes in joy, and tears of bliss fell from the worshipful eyes of some. “For these Thralls, many of whom are “trekkers” and “naturalists” and “chefs” and “bikers” and “campers” in their own lands, have come well provisioned for survival.”

“Strange to mine ears may be these titles, and strange may be their foodstuffs such as this “beef jerky” and “granola” and “power bars” and “milk powder” and “jellybeans”, but yet not so wholly different as our own, iron-hard, gritty dwarf bread (which we have barrels of in the cellars, nicely ripened by this time I imagine). Already the clever hands of the Thralls fashion nets and traps, to supplement our pantry from silver waters that have always flowed through Erebor. Recall that in these pure mountain waters we have all manner of creatures that make for tasty stews and soups.”

“Plus some of the Thralls have found ancient overlooked barrels of wine and ale, from which they have promised they can distill some powerful elixir they call “mountain brandy,” which, they say, can both lift the heart and cure many ills, and even serve as a weapon if set alight. (Oin’s eyes brightened at the thought). Harken to their hammers and tools, as these Thralls convert one of the forges into what they name a “still”. BTW, no-one is to smoke anywhere close.”

“Aye!” said Balin. “And word of the return of the King of Carven Stone has flown on the wings of the storm, for the Laketown men chatter incessantly like squirrels. Look! Can you not see? ‘Gainst the dark storm clouds, the shadow of birds? Our allies of old, the ravens of Roäc, come!”

Fili, still surreptitiously standing in front of his brother, frowned. “Will not this Elvish King simply have his elvish archers bring them down?”

“Nay.” Thorin’s brilliant gaze softened as the wing’d shadows became clearer against the scudding clouds. “Whatever else he may be, Thranduil is High King of the Forest, the Lord of the Greenwood. And the magics of these ravens are old, old, perhaps as ancient as Thranduil himself. No elf would seek to harm the ravens of Erebor, for in doing so they would be forever cursed, and cast from their kin.

“It is well the ravens come”, growled Dwalin. “You heard that lippety lakeman, Thranduil will no doubt enlarge his army with men from Laketown, who seek to curry favor and fawn upon these silvery-tongued elves, as ones b’spelled.”

“Men!” snapped the King Under the Mountain. “Men are weak. See how easily the mere hint of riches swayed these Laketowners, without any offering to come with us. So I doubt not the mere sight of Thranduil’s sparkling robes and a few draughts of inferior wine will have them groveling in the mud at his fine deerskin boots, as the children of men snatch at sweets. And when he is done with them, Thranduil will turn his back as surely as he did mine own people, leaving them to crawl in the muck. For it does not seem that the riches of the forest flowed in these past years to these villagers.”

“Poor allies are these descendants from the once great city that was Esgaroth, and we must needs make preparations. Come! Let us welcome our old friends that sweep towards us on their blue-black wings, and also prepare a welcome for our enemies that would further desecrate the home of our people – be it a returning dragon, or elves, or men.”

“And I need to find the Arkenstone. And where is my Hobbit? I need a hug. Yes, I know I’ve had plenty of Thrall hugs, but there’s just something about a hug from my Hobbit….”

The smoky music of Thorin’s voice faded along with the excited banter and laughter from the trailing ecstatic Dwarven Thralls. Yeah verily, what the great Elven King had not understood, was that Thrall love for the Mountain King was so vast, that having had the greatest moment of their lives, the Dwarven Thralls were more prepared than ever to follow Thorin Oakenshield to whatever end.

But the dwarven prince Kili still stood upon the jagged walls of Erebor, as the frozen rain cut into his dark eyes and beat against his silky dark hair. His fists clenched as he stared into the dark. Fili stood with him, wonderful cornflower-blue eyes dark with worry. “She saved me, she saved us,” Kili whispered fiercely. “How can I draw a bow, wield a sword, ‘gainst her, ‘gainst her people, ‘gainst her King?” For far deeper than the magics of Thranduil which had touched the Dwarven Thralls, had the magic of Tauriel enfolded the young dwarf prince.

His handsome golden-haired brother sighed. “This storm is upon us. I doubt not that one such as Tauriel who chose to save you, and smiled upon you, also walks the dark with troubled thoughts. But this night is yet young, and there is always hope…”

(This post was edited by Avandel on Jun 27 2014, 1:29am)


Jun 27 2014, 2:23am

Post #2 of 8 (2702 views)
Wonderful [In reply to] Can't Post

Once again, you've outdone yourself Avandel! I wish I had your gift for writing, but I'll settle for reading your fantastic posts! Thank you! Heart

"Jagatud rõõm on topelt rõõm - a shared joy is a double joy". ~Estonian saying

“As such, you will address His Majesty as His Majesty, the Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Carven Stone, the King Beneath the Mountain, the Lion of Erebor, the High King of the Dwarves, the True Treasure of Erebor, the Face that Launched 10,000 Sighs, or Thorin the Majestic..."



Jun 27 2014, 2:31am

Post #3 of 8 (2699 views)
Thank you very much! [In reply to] Can't Post

Now I have to go and hide behind Thranduil's elk, 'coz Lurker will never think to look for me there......Shocked

PS. The trouble with writing anything about Thorin, I go looking for pictures, and get so TERRIBLY distracted LOL.Tongue


Jun 27 2014, 2:49am

Post #4 of 8 (2695 views)
Yes, that does tend to happen! Speaking of which... [In reply to] Can't Post

Where did you find that pic of Thorin and Balin? Is it from a vlog? I don't remember seeing that one before. Smile

"Jagatud rõõm on topelt rõõm - a shared joy is a double joy". ~Estonian saying

“As such, you will address His Majesty as His Majesty, the Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Carven Stone, the King Beneath the Mountain, the Lion of Erebor, the High King of the Dwarves, the True Treasure of Erebor, the Face that Launched 10,000 Sighs, or Thorin the Majestic..."



Jun 27 2014, 5:00am

Post #5 of 8 (2689 views)
Probably from a blog but [In reply to] Can't Post

I think I must have got it online, in that I have 4 of them taken in sequence. The one I use most is where Thorin is kind of looking up and there is a hank of hair falling across his face.

So fierceHeart

Grey Havens

Jun 27 2014, 12:25pm

Post #6 of 8 (2685 views)
OMG, these are so great [In reply to] Can't Post

Please keep them coming! And your descriptions of Thorin (and Thorin's hair) are the best ever. Waiting in breathless thralldom for the next installment Smile

And once again the world has not arranged itself just for me.


Jun 27 2014, 2:09pm

Post #7 of 8 (2697 views)
Ditto, with much applause [In reply to] Can't Post

 I am so enjoying this, the perfect cure for my winter blues.Cool

'People don't know where I begin and latex ends, which has always been an ambition for me.' (Martin Freeman)

Lurker in the Mirk

Jul 12 2014, 2:27am

Post #8 of 8 (2701 views)
An appreciation is never late, it arrives precisely when it means to [In reply to] Can't Post

Ok... belated maybe Tongue I need to pay tribute to this pure gold nugget! Just ROFLMAO.

“And I need to find the Arkenstone. And where is my Hobbit? I need a hug. Yes, I know I’ve had plenty of Thrall hugs, but there’s just something about a hug from my Hobbit….”

And shockingly pleasant surprise: a voice of reason, among the enthralled no less. Loves party-loving thrall Heart Of course Gloin don't know the half of it *Ngiak*

“Oh, I don’t know about that!” said a listening Thrall sotto voce. “I’ve been at some of those parties of Thranduil’s, and they are just KILLER. The moose looked like it was having a wonderful time with everyone’s rides – and there was this big horse all the way from Rohan, I swear, you can’t tell ME animals don’t fall in love…” the Thrall fell silent as Gloin glared at her.

Poor poor Kili Fili though. Talk about being caught between stubborn stiff-necked pride, and love-lorn mush *sniggers and skips off gayly past all the uber S.L.O.W. panning shots of Thorin looming at every turn Tongue*

Fan of both books and movies; it seems I have severely misnamed myself... for the moment.

Heart Appreciating Thranduil, thread by thread: I, II, III, IV, V, VI, VII
(Tis true! More appreciation threads for Thranduil exist than ME movies)

Laugh Thrall Wars!: What business do Elves, Dwarves or Men(?) have with drooling thralls, yea, unto the slopes of Erebor? ... oh, yes, the Hobbit's lingering in some shadows, ever ready to swoop to the hairy rescue. Take cover if you dare!
Teh partsies: Prologue (aka the potato-mash of whatever came before), Two, Three

"BoFA"= The Battle || "BotFA"/"tBofTA" = The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

Middle-earth dispatches out of the lurkmirk


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