Disclaimer: The Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of the Tolkien Estate and Wingnut Films. This story is for entertainment only and the author is in no way profiting from it, nor exercising any claims to The Hobbit or Lord of the Rings.

Epilogue: Durin's Day

"Good morning, Uncle!"

Kíli greeted the king cheerfully, then leaned over to give his mother a kiss on the cheek before seating his wife and himself at the breakfast table. Thorin immediately narrowed his eyes suspiciously, such cheer from Kíli always signaling trouble, to which his nephew flashed another brilliant grin.

"And to what do we owe this sudden mood shift?"

Thorin knew he would regret asking the moment it left his mouth, but he could not help it. In the month and a half since the final overthrow of the cult and the beginning of the restoration of the city, Kili had most often acted like a bear with a sore paw. He had been sulky, grumpy, snappish, and generally disagreeable, not that any would blame him given what he had gone through at the hands of the cult.

Today, however, was Durin's Day, and there would be a vast celebration throughout the mountain to mark the beginning of his reign. Never mind that he had already been king for several months; dwarrow kings always counted their years from the first Durin's Day after their ascension. Royals and the representatives of royals had been pouring into the kingdom for days now, including the wives and children of his nephews, and not even that had been enough to break Kili's sour moodiness.

Kíli shrugged as he carefully boosted his son into his lap, but there was no sign of discomfort from his healing shoulder. Fíli, who had just entered with his little daughter, laughed, lightly smacking his brother on the back of the head. A little dark-haired dwarfling followed close on his father's heels until he spied Dis and made a beeline for her lap for a cuddle.

"Someone mistook him for you yesterday, Uncle. Said such a glower could only belong to the new king."

Beside him, Dis began to splutter and choke. Thorin rolled his eyes, fixing both princes with one of the aforementioned glowers.

"Very funny."

Kíli grinned, then grunted slightly when Kala reached out from her father's arms to firmly fist one of her uncle's braids and yank, hard.

"Ow! Kala, don't, sweetie. Uncle is talking to Great Uncle Thorin." The child scowled at the gentle reprimand, then giggled when her father whispered something in her ear. "There's just a feeling about these days, did you notice? I can't help but smile, and I don't know why."

That brought a genuine smile to Thorin's lips; he knew exactly what Kíli meant. It was Fíli, however, who finally put it into words.

"It's triumph, Kíli. The pageantry today will be the end we've always been cheated out of before, even when you and I took the throne in Erebor. You were so badly injured, it really wasn't much of a celebration. And I won't even mention the mess after Smaug's death. This time, the only problem is that Therin isn't here, but even he's alive. He just needs to find his own way for a while, that's all."

*****888*****

Hours later, as the very stones of the great hall seemed to glow with song and life, Thorin could not help but feel that his oldest sister-son had understated the case. As the king spied upon the throng gathering below, he smiled, a thrill tinged slightly with disbelief running through him. So many, for a day that he had thought never to see… or deserve. Lanterns reflected off the splendor of the waiting guests, making jewelry sparkle with every gesture and shift of weight.

Dwarrow made up the front ranks, just below the basalt throne, which was draped in Durin blue and silver velvet. Similar banners hung from high above, rippling slightly in the breeze created by the giant fans that circulated air throughout the kingdom, though smaller ones stood to mark the center aisle. Those were a variety of colors, reflecting the coats of arms of the visitors, as was proper, and the guests themselves had taken care to adorn themselves in matching livery.

Tirik, King of the Stonefoots, stood beneath the grey banner of his people, his brother and Warmaster, Eirik, beside him. Bodil was still here for the Ironfists, claiming that his king, who was also a brother, had been unable to travel due to illness, a spurious excuse meant to insult. Dis had been enraged, but Thorin had waved it off, unwilling to air the dispute where those not of the dwarrow could witness it. He was also certain that Bodil had counted upon just such a reaction. He stood somewhat smugly with a rough looking group behind the yellow banner of the Ironfists.

The Stiffbeards were next, looking somewhat uncomfortable behind their snow white tabard, Njord, the Crown Prince, still at their head. This time, it was not insult but old age and a war injury that kept the king from attending, and Thorin had been most careful to state that he understood completely.

"It will not be long before he is king in his own right. Lord Buri fails quickly."

Einarr spoke softly, wary of the fact that stone carried sound too well at times. The Blacklock still looked uncomfortable in the finery of a lord of Khazad-dûm, but he would settle soon enough, Thorin was certain.

"The Blacklock banner stands alone."

Einarr grimaced at that, shaking his head.

"Last I heard, the fighting had not-"

A stir changed the mood of the throng below, sending up a buzz as those nearest the entrance parted in a wave. The small group coming through the taller races was soon visible from the upper balcony and Thorin caught his breath, staring. By contrast, Einarr muttered a swear word in Khuzdul, body stiffening in shock. Below, the Blacklocks found their banner, its deep purple matching the glaze coating on their armor almost perfectly.

"Problem?"

Thorin murmured to his Warmaster, eye catching on the foremost warrior in shocked fascination. It was clearly a dwarrowdam, and the casual way she moved assured the king that she did not wear the armor nor carry a spear for show. He wondered just how good she was…

"Not for you, my lord. 'Tis my sister, Kyri. It means that the Blacklock candidates are all dead, and the council of elders selected their own choice. Since they are all 'dams at the moment..."

The other dwarf trailed off, shrugging slightly.

"Interesting."

Thorin murmured, caught by the novelty of a 'dam leading one of the Seven Families. Considering the amount of casualties taken by the Blacklocks during the War of the Ring, it really was not that much of a surprise. Dwarrowdams were considered equal in dwarrow society, but seldom chose the path of the warrior for many reasons, their numbers being one. Einarr must have caught something in his tone, because the Warmaster gave him a slightly knowing grin.

"Shall I make it a point to introduce you afterwards, then?"

"Quiet, you." Thorin retorted good-naturedly, glad to find the other relaxing enough to tease him. "Here come the Firebeards and Broadbeams."

"Late, as usual."

Einarr was still a Blacklock in mindset, obviously. Thorin would have to work on that.

"They had further to come."

Marching the length of Khazad-dûm could be quite a chore, though there were flat cars outfitted with benches that served as conveyances in some areas if they could get the tracks repaired and the pulley system working properly.

Below, King Iari proudly strutted forward to take his place beneath that awful puce green Broadbeam banner, his two young princes behind him, and Ónar escorted his cousin, Vali, the Firebeard King. They were adorned in orange, copper highlights giving their armor a very distinctive tint. Thankfully for the comfort of the other guests, the hideous mask-like helmets they wore into battle had been left behind. The two western dwarrow clans had but one capitol since the First Age, but still maintained separate ruling families, deciding upon laws jointly. It became rather… spirited, Thorin understood, when the two rulers did not care for one another. Thankfully, these two not only got along well, they were cousins.

Thranduil, the nearest to them, edged slightly away, a sneer ever present upon his lips. Thorin hoped having to attend the formal ascension of his long-time foe and once prisoner sat ill with the Woodland ruler. Across the aisle from him, the twin sons of Elrond were standing with identical grins on their faces, their grandfather, the Lord Celeborn, beside them. Those two had taken great delight in informing Thorin that their presence would force Thranduil to attend, as well. Legolas and Tauriel were standing pointedly apart, as well. Good. That should make for a very uncomfortable afternoon for the elven king.

For the Men, young Bard II of Dale had come down, joining Eomer of Rohan and Aragorn of Gondor. Behind Aragorn, of course, was Prince Faramir and his wife, as well as a majority of the nobles of their three realms. Thorin could feel himself stand prouder at the long overdue recognition from men. Radagast was also in attendance, having somewhat cleaned up, and looking distinctly uncomfortable with the crush of people about him. The shortest contingent, however, was in many eyes the most important. Standing near the dais were four small figures with very large feet, two proudly standing at attention on either side while the two in the middle looked definitely uncomfortable with the attention they were receiving.

Somewhere out of sight, a hammer rang on an anvil, the beat picking up speed as the audience joined in, using feet or spear butts.

"Thorin!"

An angry hiss heralded the arrival of Dis and Dwalin, and the king reluctantly turned away, unable to watch the arrival of the other Longbeards as he hurried to assume his place outside the great doors.

*****888*****

Kíli could feel the excitement in the air as he made his way slowly to their assigned spots, footfalls and cane tapping in time with the beat. At his side walked Fíli, as befitted the elder line of Durin, while just behind was their mother, sister, spouses and children, with the rest of those blood related to Durin behind them, then the other Longbeards present.

It held such a different atmosphere as the solemn meeting of the army when he had to stand and speak of what he had gone through that there was thankfully no comparison. The only ones missing were his Uncle Vili and younger brother, Therin.

"I'd hoped he'd be here."

He murmured, just loudly enough for Fíli to catch. The golden hair shook minutely.

"It's not your fault, Kíli. It was his choice then and now."

"If it weren't for him-"

"I know." Fíli's voice was tight, a note of finality to it that told Kíli to drop the subject, but it still hurt. "Do not let him steal this moment from you. Enjoy it. This is what we should have had at the end of the quest."

With that, both brothers stepped up on the lowest step of the dais and turned to the crowd. Fíli raised up his arms, though Kíli did not, still hindered by a healing shoulder and a cane that kept him upright. With the single gesture, a final, deep thump came from the crowd and then silence. The next line belonged to him, and he cleared his throat nervously, the crystals of the chandeliers refracting the light and still causing a slight sting to his eyes.

"We gather here for one purpose. To formally crown Durin VII! Do any say aye?"

The other families had already given ascent, and so, that part could be condensed. It was as well, for the ancient Khuzdul that would have been spoken was not for outside ears. Only twice had an outsider ever been present for the crowning of one of the Durins, and both those beings were gone now. The very mountain seemed to shake with the force of the response from so many throats.

"Aye!"

Fíli picked up the formal cadence next.

"We, elder rulers of Durin's line, do summon Durin VII and Last, to the Halls made by his hand and will,"

By earlier agreement, for there should have been only one doing this, Kíli continued. Both of them had tried to beg off, saying it was Dwalin's place as the eldest living of the Blood, but the warrior was also Thorin's shield-brother, meant to escort him in. The next in line, Glóin, was still back at Erebor, and Gimli was technically younger than his cousins. Compromises had to be made, and since Nori and Ori were not openly acknowledged as direct line and Dis could not do so as a dwarrowdam, it fell to the two of them.

"To stand once more in the place that Mahal planned for his First Son, acknowledged by the Seven Families as High King of all dwarrow, Durin's Folk."

It was an older meaning to the phrase 'Durin's Folk', which most outsiders thought referred only to the Longbeards. Bilbo, who had seen the etching above the secret door in Erebor, had been one of the only outsiders to understand the truth. That Durin had not had a separate group of dwarrow to call his own from the beginning, making his people out of an amalgamation of his brothers' folk, and so, in the broadest sense, all dwarrow were 'Durin's Folk'. He had obviously passed that knowledge on to Frodo, as Kíli saw that worthy give a slight nod, then lean over to quietly explain it to his cousins and friend.

The deep notes of the horns rang out, accompanied once again by the metallic beat of hammer on anvil, and the great doors of the hall swung open. Three figures stood there, silent, waiting.

Thorin, in the deep blue of Durin, stood in front of two others, waiting seven rings of the anvil before stepping forward to the flair of horns. There was a rippled mutter among the eastern dwarrow as some noted that the king did not wear the traditional brown and red of Khazad-dûm. That would set some of the older, more conservative lords to talking, but his uncle had shrugged it off when warned.

Behind him, however, both escorts were in the traditional colors, causing yet more talk, especially when someone identified Einarr. A step behind Thorin, the former Blacklock turned Khazad-dûm's Warmaster, carried his weapons with an ease that dared anyone to comment upon his choices or the king's. Next to him, Dwalin's twin axes only underscored the folly of it.

Well, the ceremony was about to be changed even more, so he braced himself for Fíli's next line as Thorin stood beneath the dais at last. Yet, it was not truly his uncle, either. Kili's breath caught as he stared down into familiar blue eyes and saw a stranger looking back. There was an ancient wisdom and pain there that he could scarcely comprehend, and a dignity greater even than Thorin's own. Then one eye winked at him, and it was Thorin's pleased twitch of the lips that made Kíli smile in return.

"Who bares the crown of Khazad-dûm to its rightful king, acknowledging not only the acceptance of the dwarrow, but all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth?"

Thranduil's face turned thunderous at that, and he turned as if to leave, but someone, Kíli couldn't see who, kept the Woodland ruler in his place. Kíli could not help catching the arrogant idiot's eye, allowing his smirk to turn ever so slightly malicious. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tauriel stifle a laugh and Legolas shake his head reprovingly.

"I do."

The clear voice that answered dared anyone to object. Frodo had been adamantly against his planned part until Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and Arwen had all added their approval to Thorin's request. It was simply good politics, much as it embarrassed the self-effacing hobbit.

The crown Frodo held was a fine weave of mithril, gold, silver, and platinum wire, holding seven stones nestled to stretch from ear to ear along Thorin's forehead. Supposedly forged by Durin II, it was a breathtaking piece of art discovered in a secret compartment within the royal apartments. Thorin had gone a bit pale when he first saw it, but would tell no one why.

At first, there was silence as Thorin stepped to face the hobbit, allowing the crown to be lowered, then a single voice began to softly sing the Song of Durin. One by one, all who knew it within the crowd, including a surprising number of elves, picked up the tune, keeping it soft and solemn.

Crowned once more, Durin VII gave a nod of recognition, then majestically swept up the final steps to take a seat upon his throne.

*****888*****

In the shadows hugging the back of the hall, a single dwarf stood behind a pillar, tears streaming down his face. Therin hung his head, pride in his uncle soaring to new heights, along with a longing to be up there with them, but he would not allow his feet to move; to be accepted or rejected by a company of those who had given so much more than he had ever understood for this moment. It was not his place, and perhaps, it was never meant to be.

As Therin walked from the hall to begin the long trek out of the city, he could not help feeling a bit bitter. It should have been his triumph, his place at the side of the king, and yet… Perhaps that was not what Mahal had meant to be his destiny?

Bilbo's voice was running softly through his head, telling two enraptured dwarflings and two equally attentive fauntlings another part of the great story of Erebor and its reclaiming, dipping to a hushed, halting sorrow as he related the fall of the princes and the king. Those three had been through trials few could comprehend and even fewer would dare to reach this moment. Peace and acceptance flooded him, a single tear tracking its way down his young face.

This was their moment, not his.

His lay out there, in the unknown future, but of one thing, he was certain; Mahal would always bring a Son of Durin to his true home, no matter how far he had to wander to find it.