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Thorin II Oakenshield – newly made King Under the Mountain – was somewhat accustomed to the demands of nobility. He had lived as an exile for long years but he had tried to be a king to his people nonetheless. And he had most of his youth to become familiar with the ways of a royal court. So the small flock of administrators and advisors that now took to following him around and filling his every waking moment with questions or demands for his attention had not come as a surprise. That didn't mean it wasn't rapidly wearing on his nerves.
Fortunately, amongst the din were some familiar voices. Balin and Dwalin had been at his side since he first awoke in the healer's tents on the battlefield, blood drying on his skin and the memory of his sister-sons falling before him replaying itself over in his mind. It was Dwalin who had convinced him they still lived, though injured, and likely saved Thorin's life in doing so for the grief was close to killing him.
“There is still the matter of the elves, your majesty,” Ogin, a dwarf from Dain's court in the Iron Mountains said as he scurried along at Thorin's side. It was probably unnecessary to walk at such a fast pace, but Thorin had few enough hours in the day and much to see to. If they wanted to squawk at him about things he already knew, they could keep up. “King Thranduil is requesting a royal visit.”
Demanding, more like. The Elven King was going to make for a very annoying neighbor.
Balin spoke up before Thorin could, thus saving him the trouble of being diplomatic. “The Elven King surely understands the necessity of rebuilding Erebor and tending to the wounded after the battle. Such things must take priority over diplomatic visits. And if he doesn't,” Balin added in a voice that was deceptively mild, “then it is your job to make sure he does.”
“Send an emissary,” Thorin said. “Someone good with pretty words.”
“One of your cousins, perhaps?” Ogin suggested. “The Elven King may be appeased by such a gesture of respect. Perhaps Gloin, son of Groin? A member of the Company, as well as the King's kin.”
“I think someone who did not spend quite so much time in the Elven King's dungeons would be a better choice,” Balin said. “Dain's brother, Fain, perhaps? He has a reputation as a bit of a wordsmith and no unfortunate history with Thranduil.”
“Send a message to Fain that I would speak with him at his earliest convenience,” Thorin ordered and one of the flock immediately detached themselves and went running off down the corridor the way they had come. “Which reminds me, I mean to speak with Dain today. Send for him as well. And my nephews,” he added as a second runner took off. “Someone find them and bring them to me.”
Most of the rest of the flock scattered, leaving only Dwalin and Balin behind. They walked in silence for a moment as Thorin strode through the strange-familiar halls of his childhood home.
“The boys,” Balin said finally in his most resigned voice, “are in their lessons. But since we are headed in that direction, I assume you already knew that?”
“I was feeling crowded,” Thorin said, and if Balin gave him a disapproving look, Dwalin's rumbling chuckle took most of the sting out of it. “Oh, hush, old friend. It will be a lesson to them to better learn the mind of their king. Now speak to me of these lessons. Protocol, correct?”
“Aye. A refresher course – or it would be, if they'd managed to retain any of the things I taught them over the years. How the orcs of Morgoth conquered Dimbar, that they can remember. But how to properly address a foreign dignitary, that has completely slipped their minds.”
Dwalin leaned in close and said, in a voice low enough that Balin could not hear, “Good lads.”
“Well, I cannot say it is entirely their fault,” Balin sighed. “We have not worried over-much with the niceties of courtly life during the years in Ered Luin. But it is best that we get the lads caught up. It will be expected here in Erebor, especially from those who come from the Iron Mountains.”
“I'm sure they're both thrilled,” Thorin said dryly.
“If it keeps them out of mischief till their wounds heal, I'll tie them to their chairs myself,” Dwalin said. “The little idiot pulled his stitches his first day out of bed.”
Thorin didn't ask which of his nephews qualified as a little idiot, mostly because he was afraid it would turn out to be both of them. “Well, pounding some courtly manners into those two will likely keep them out of trouble for a while, though I doubt they'll love any of us for it.”
“It will help in other ways as well,” Balin said. “The sooner we get them acting like the noble Heirs of Durin they are, the better. There has been some talk, especially about Fili.”
“Fili?” Thorin asked. If one of the lads was causing some sort of scandal, his first suspect would have been Kili. Well. Perhaps some comely young dwarf was involved. That sounded like Fili. “What has he done?”
“It's not so much what he's done,” Balin said, “as who he is.”
“There's been talk,” Dwalin said gruffly. “Mostly from Dain's lot. They say it isn't right to pass the inheritance through the female line. Better, they say, to go back through the male line and name Dain or his brother crown prince instead.”
“Are they now?” Thorin said lowly. “And my cousins from the Iron Mountains? Does this grumbling start with them?”
“Not that I've seen,” Balin said, “and I've been watching. I have Nori keeping his ears open and you know how that one is at ferreting out information. He says it mostly seems to be coming from Dain's mother's kin, but they fall silent when Dain himself may hear.”
“If there is any sign that Dain himself is involved, I expect to be told at once. Until then, I will leave it in your capable hands. Nori is helping, you said?” Erebor had never had a spymaster, not that Thorin had known of, but perhaps they had just been very good at their jobs. “After I meet with Dain and his brother over this nonsense with Thranduil, bring Nori to my rooms and we'll discuss this privately.”
They fell silent as they approached the small council room that had been appropriated for the princes' lessons. The door was mostly closed, shielding Thorin from the view of those inside and Thorin paused, Balin and Dwalin at his shoulders, just in time to hear the tutor begin a new subject.
“I have saved this lesson for the last of the day,” the tutor said, “because I did not want its impact to be lost amidst the other issues we have discussed.” He was perhaps Thorin's age, though with a wider waistline and more grey in his hair. His clothes were finely made and the beads in his hair and beard were gold.
Thorin leaned over to Balin. “Where did we find him again?”
“He is Loti, son of Gror. A member of Dain's court,” Balin said quietly. “He was originally from Erebor, but his parents fled to the Iron Mountains after Smaug attacked. His father held some position of minor importance for your grandfather, if I remember correctly.”
Thorin's nephews were seated at the long wooden table, parchment and quills before them so they could take notes. They were both dressed casually, in tunics and soft cloth instead of leather. Kili was slouched in his chair, but Fili sat straight and was holding himself still. Thorin could see the white of bandages peeking out from beneath the collar of Fili's tunic, marking one of the places he had been shot with an Orcish arrow that had originally been aimed at Thorin's back.
Kili's wounds were mostly covered, save the deep, healing cuts where he had defended his uncle's life with his bare hands, wresting a dagger from a goblin that had tried to slit Thorin's throat. Both of them wore their hair unbraided as their wounds doubtless made lifting their arms to weave plaits uncomfortable at best, though each had their hair pulled back from their faces and held in place with the matching mithril clasps that were twinned to Thorin's own.
He paused in the doorway, struck again by the same light-headed feeling of relief that had rushed over him in the healer's tent some three days after he woke, when he had ordered, then begged Dwalin to take him to their bedsides. It was not until he had seen them, laying in cots placed side by side, with Bilbo hovering anxiously between them, that he had let himself believe they would live.
“It has come to my attention,” Loti, son of Gror, said in a stern voice, “that many of the courtly ways were not observed in the Blue Mountains. Terrible times call for sacrifice,” - and Thorin had to cover his mouth against a laugh at the idea that courtly ways were the greatest sacrifice the Dwarves of Ered Luin had made – “of course, and the line of Durin persevered despite all. But now that Erebor is reclaimed, there are certain behaviors and traditions that will be expected of you.”
“If he mentions marriage, I expect at least one of the lads to run for his life,” Dwalin said, his voice no more than a murmur.
“Unless it's my marriage,” Thorin returned, “in which case I envision a sudden interest in matchmaking in their near future.”
“They'll have you married off to the burglar and halfway to the Shire before any of us knows what's happened,” Dwalin said. “If only to get out of these lessons.”
In the council room, Loti was explaining the proper way to address the King in public – though Thorin suspected that was a lost cause. He had never insisted on titles with his closest kin and friends, and he would doubtless be “uncle” to them on all save the most formal occasions. In truth, after eighty years, that title felt more familiar than his kingly one.
“Even in private?” Kili asked, dismay making his voice sound even younger than it was.
“Even in private,” Loti affirmed. “His majesty is always a king and must be afforded that respect at all times. Which brings up to our next subject. Kneeling.”
Kili, Thorin couldn't help but notice, looked terribly confused.
“You must always kneel before the King,” Loti instructed them. “When he enters a room you must remain kneeling until he gives you leave to stand. If he does not, you must remain. If you are approaching the throne, you must kneel at the base of the stairs and come no closer, even after he has bid you to rise, assuming he does.”
Fili twirled his quill between his fingers. “I thought it was the custom for princes to bow to the throne.”
“For a trueborn prince and legitimate heir, yes,” Loti said. “But his majesty has not been so blessed and is forced to find heirs amongst the lesser lines of Durin. For the sons of a female line, kneeling is required.”
Thorin frowned even as Kili said up straight in his seat. “Did you just call us illegitimate?”
“Not of the King's own blood,” Loti said. “Not a direct heir. The king's immediate kin may bow to the throne, but lesser lines must kneel at all times. You must also wait for permission to address his majesty directly, and, as I have already explained, address his majesty as such at all times.” He clasped his hands over his stomach. “Frankly, it is only his majesty's graciousness that has kept you in the line of inheritance at all. By all rights you should be accounted by your father's bloodline. Not Heirs of Durin at all, really.”
Balin drew in a sharp breath and Thorin swallowed a growl deep in his throat. He shook his head sharply as Dwalin took a step forward as if he meant to burst through the doors. Dwalin bared his teeth at him, but subsided.
Kili was frowning at the table. “But uncle never-” He subsided when his brother placed one hand on his arm.
“We will of course follow protocol,” Fili said, offering Loti a small smile. “My brother and I would demand others show our uncle the respect he deserves.” He slid his hand down to cover his brother's, gently, mindful of the bandages that still wrapped over Kili's palms and several of his fingers. “We can do no less ourselves.”
Loti offered an approving nod. “Quite so, Master Fili. Now, there is-”
“Of course,” Fili said, and his voice was steel and iron. “Indirect heirs or not, we are still his majesty's heirs. His chosen heirs,” he added and there was so much pride in that word that it made Thorin's throat tight. “Scions of a lesser bloodline we may be, but it is by his majesty's own decree that we are princes of Erebor, correct?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“Which makes my brother the crown prince of Erebor,” Kili said.
Loti was beginning to look concerned. “There has not been an official announcement-”
“Surely his majesty was no less a king in Ered Luin than he is in the halls of Erebor,” Fili said. “I am sure Master Loti is not implying any such thing. To say that his majesty's decrees were not binding-”
“No, no,” Loti said. “But the ceremony is certainly important-”
“I remember a ceremony,” Kili said. “I remember his majesty putting a circlet on your head and naming you crown prince for the whole settlement to hear. Perhaps Master Loti is saying that uncle- his majesty's decrees are meaningless unless Master Loti himself has witnessed them and offered his approval?”
“No!”
“And according to the protocol, as you have so effectively taught us,” Fili offered Loti a gracious nod of his head, “the prince, or princes as they case may be, is to be referred to at all times as 'his highness' or by the title of Prince. Do I remember incorrectly?”
“Sounds right to me, Your Highness,” Kili said cheerfully and Fili squeezed his hand carefully.
“I should hate to think that Master Loti – or those he serves, such as his lordship, our distant cousin – would disrespect our King's wishes,” Fili said. His back was straight as he arched one golden eyebrow at his tutor. “I should hate to have to address these concerns directly with his lordship.”
“No, no,” Loti said quickly. “I'm afraid you must have misunderstood, Mas – Your Highness.”
“I was quite certain I must have,” Fili said, while his brother – who was certainly never going to have a future in politics – smirked openly and slouched back down in his seat.
Thorin shook his head, but if he let himself puff up a bit with pride, so be it.
“That one,” Dwalin said, “is going to be a damned good prince. It's a good thing his brother can fight, though, because that little idiot wouldn't last five minutes in a council meeting.”
“Yes,” Balin said dryly. “Not unlike another younger brother I could name.”
Decades of exposure to the sons of Fundin told Thorin to lean out of the way as Dwalin aimed a punch at his brother's shoulder. “I think we should look for a new protocol instructor.”
Balin, ignoring his brother's retribution, shook his head. “Lord Dain might take it as an insult, since he offered us Loti's services.”
“Lord Dain should keep a closer eye on his court, lest they go spreading treason around in his name,” Dwalin said gruffly. “Not Heirs of Durin, my hairy ass.”
“Let him stay,” Balin said. “It will be interesting to see how Fili handles their interactions in the future. I do believe I'll start reviewing his lesson plans, however. Just to make sure their education isn't being undermined.”
Thorin grunted. “Politics.”
“Get used to it, Your Kingliness,” Dwalin said. “I'm pretty sure it comes with the bloodline.”
“All right,” Thorin said as Loti babbled some flustered nonsense about when one should address a member of the royal family by name instead of by title – the answer seemed to be 'never' but took a lot longer to say than that, which was why Thorin was never going to be good at all this political nonsense. “Keep him on. But I don't want to hear of him speaking such again, in my nephews' presence or otherwise.”
“I'm sure Nori will be paying very close attention to Master Loti in the future, Your Majesty,” Balin said.
Thorin tipped his head toward the council room. “I don't remember my father or grandfather insisting on any of this when I was young. Do I just not remember?”
“No,” Balin said. “Most of this is old-fashioned bunk, but it is the protocol. I believe your great-great-grandfather insisted on being addressed by title at all times, even by kin, during the earlier years of his reign. Though it has been strongly implied that it has a direct connection to the fact that his wife never gave him any heirs until he let the matter drop.”
“The runners finally managed to dig up your cousins,” Dwalin said. “Here comes Dain and his lot.”
Dain, son of Nain, Lord of the Iron Mountains and one of the Heirs of Durin, swept in to the council room through the far entrance, his brother Fain at his right hand and a small entourage of attendants and advisors crowding at his heels. His gaze swept the room and paused briefly on Thorin in the opposite doorway, then swept past without betraying any surprise at seeing his king lurking in the doorway like a common eavesdropper. Instead Dain fixed his gaze on the room's occupants and dipped into a low bow, the others mirroring him. “Your Highnesses, I apologize for the interruption. I was summoned by King Thorin.”
Fili and Kili had stood upon Dain's entrance and now they returned his bow, Kili with his usual grace, Fili a bit slower, stiff from the shoulders to the waist. “My lord cousin,” Fili greeted him and gripped Dain's hand in a warrior's clasp. “No apologies are required at all. Master Loti had just said we were on the last lesson of the day.”
“Yes,” Loti said quickly, and his bow was low enough that his beard brushed the floor. “Just about done, I should think. Quite a bit of progress made today, my lord.”
“You may go,” Fili told him and Thorin choked back a laugh as the tutor nearly ran to gather his books and parchments. “You said my uncle – his Majesty – had summoned you here?”
Figuring that was his cue. Thorin shoved the door open and strode into the room. Dain and his entourage immediately knelt, one knee on the floor, heads bowed respectfully, while Loti all but threw himself to the floor in his haste to show obeisance. Only his nephews hesitated and that, Thorin knew, was not because of disrespect or ill-breeding or whatever ridiculous gossip Balin's spies might have dug up, but because he had never asked it of t hem before. They had knelt to him twice in all their lives; the day he had formally named them his heirs, and the day they had arrived in Erebor. He had always been their king, but he'd made the decision a long time ago to be their uncle first. He felt no need to change that now.
His nephews began to kneel, Kili with an edge of uncertainly, obviously following his brother's example – Thorin did not let his amusement show, at least he tried not to. Fili for his part, seemed perfectly comfortable save for a tightening around his eyes and Thorin realized that the movement pulled on wounds that were still healing. He stepped forward and touched Kili's shoulder, halting his movement, and caught Fili beneath the chin, two fingers tipping his heir's head up to meet his eyes. “You do not kneel to me,” he said quietly and firmly. He laid a hand carefully over Fili's chest, where one of the arrows had come so close to his heart that Oin had thought he'd never recover. “I have had far greater signs of your respect, nephew. You will never kneel for me.” He cupped the back of Fili's head and pressed a fierce kiss against his nephew's temple. “Greater kings than I have been blessed with far less,” he said quietly, turning his head to meet Kili's bright gaze. “My oath to you that I will be worthy of the loyalty you have given me.”
“An oath you have already kept. A thousand times over, Your Majesty,” Fili said and his brother nodded his agreement.
Thorin shook his head, only lifting his hand from Kili's shoulder to cup the side of his head as well. “My boys,” he said, letting affection color his voice for a moment before he knocked their heads together gently. “And for Durin's sake,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over Kili's indignant squawking, “enough of this 'Majesty' nonsense. “I find I quite like the sound of 'uncle' after all these years.”
Fili's eyes crinkling in a smile even as he rubbed the side of his head. “We quite like it, too, Uncle.”
“That's settled then.” Thorin rubbed his hands together briskly while Kili smirked triumphantly at their tutor. “Now, Dain, Fain. I could use your help with that blasted Elven King.”