Broken Glass | Thorin & Bilbo
Weeks it had been since the Battle of the Four Armies, Thorin and his two heirs had been wounded and it had originally been claimed fatal. With the dedication of friends, family, and visitors that came to pay respect to the Line of Durin, one of the three had been saved. Unconscious he lay for days, waking only to pain, anguish, regret, and guilt. His nephews held tight to their final strings of life for quite a while after Thorin’s wakening, instilling him with hope that they too would come around to consciousness and they would give Erebor the rightful reign that Thorin had originally intended upon the slaying of Smaug. His cousin, Dáin II Ironfoot, had taken the throne as acting King Under the Mountain during the rightful ruler’s healing, whom was working on rekindling ties with their neighboring factions and races.
It was when Thorin was well enough to stand, walk (with a bit of a limp), eat, and go about his day in a more practical way than he had been laying in bed rest under the watchful eye of his companions, that the death of Fíli, his oldest heir, occurred. Emotionally distraught, Thorin laid by his nephew until he was forced away, saying that they needed to prepare the body for ceremonial purposes. They also warned the King that he should prepare for the death of his youngest, as well, as he did not seem to be improving. He spent the next days beside Kíli until his young heart stopped beating. This all could have been prevented.
He blamed himself for everything.
And that was exactly why Thorin stood from his resting place beside his nephew’s deathbed, slowly pushing himself up and limping out of the room without a word. No tears, no screams, no pleas to Mahal to bring his heirs back to the living world. Silence spoke louder than anything. Anger filled him, rage drove him, and nobody followed him. Those who were close to Thorin knew well not to bother him when such fury ran through him. He reached his final destination, which was his own private King’s chambers, entering and slamming the door behind him. He did not lock the door, but it did not matter. Nobody would dare interrupt him in such a sensitive state. Nobody in their right minds, anyway.
Out of breath he was, as traveling with such battle-wounds was quite draining, but he continued to the vanity that sat in the far corner of the room near one of the large windows that overlooked the grounds surrounding The Lonely Mountain. He dared not look at the destruction that could be seen from it, and instead focused on the mirror in front of him. His own battered reflection stared back at him. His face was bruised, cuts extending from the bridge of his nose, across his brow, and up towards his forehead, bandages wrapped around his torso starting from his lower abdomen and wound their way up to his chest, where they extended across one shoulder and a large bicep. Thorin did not feel or look regal, and he did not deserve the right to. Not after all of the shame and dishonor he had brought the Line of Durin, his nephews, his people…
He would display the disgrace that he felt.
The way a dwarf would mourn was quite unique, as it often involved the severing of one’s beard. To sever one’s hair, however, was something considered to be extreme. Upon the vanity lay the Orcrist, recently cleaned from the blood that it shed during the battle. Near it was a small dagger, one that could be used in a survival kit or to skin an animal. Thorin would not hide his grief. His nephew’s lives had been cut far too short for the sake of his own sickness, something that he had promised not to fall to. How would he go on in the days before him? How would he lead his people without his nephews (whom he had helped raise since they were mere dwarflings, being beside them long enough to be considered their father) and knowing he had been the cause of their death? Loyal, they had been, protecting him until the end, even though his ways were destructive.
Without further thought, Thorin pulled his hair to one side, tied a spare ribbon about the long locks, and took the Goblin Cleaver into his dominant hand. Sure was his grip, but it trembled. There could be no hesitation in this matter, no regret other than the fact that he had done so much wrong. He deserved not to be looked upon as an honorable king or dwarf. The blade was placed firm against the thickest part of the ponytail that he now wore, and with one effortless slice, long locks of hair, stray braids, and dwarven beads fell to the floor beside the King’s bare feet.
Looking in the mirror once again, Thorin let out a shaky exhale. He would not stop here, as his hair was still a decent length for a dwarf. But with his sword, it would not work. Instead, the elvish blade was placed unto the surface it originally had rested, and he took the skinning knife. Holding tight onto chin length locks, Thorin began to cut away, revealing his face in such a light that one would have never imagined seeing.
The more he cut, the more difficult it became to withhold the emotions that he felt from the death of those that were most important to him. Tears began to fall down the King’s face, hot, salty, and his eyes stung as more threatened to fall. But he would not stop. The choked sobs were louder than he imagined, more than likely audible to anyone standing outside his chambers. The closer he got to his scalp with the knife, the more the danger of cutting his actual skin became. And yes, it did happen, straight across where Thorin’s ear met the rest of his head, a careless gash that oozed blood forming. A frustrated groan came from the depths of Thorin’s chest, fist colliding with the surface in front of him, skinning knife dropping to the floor. Half of his hair was cut close, the other still quite messy and shaggy. He could not bring himself to continue.
Usually strong hands placed themselves on the vanity, supporting his weight as he leaned over it, blue eyes staring with outrage at the reflection that stared back at him. His breathing was ragged, and the wounds beneath his bandages ached because of the stress that had been put upon them.
