Shouts of victory thundered through the Great Hall of Erebor. Dwarves clapped one another on the back, their voices rising in songs of triumph, while Bilbo sat in relieved silence, and Bard, Gandalf, Saruman, and Ben confirmed with solemn certainty that Smaug, bane of Erebor, was truly dead.
But Thorin heard none of it.
His feet carried him away from the others, deeper into the mountain. He walked in silence through broad halls and high-carved passages, his steps strangely steady, as though guided by an unseen hand. A tug, invisible and inexorable, drew him forward like a tether wrapped about his very soul.
The darkness of Erebor enfolded him. Here, the air was cool and heavy with the musk of stone left long untroubled. Only faint shafts of light filtered down through cunningly wrought slits and vents—ancient designs to give the dwarves their daylight in secret. But Thorin had no need of them. The ClearSight goggles Ben had given to every member of the company, including himself, gleamed faintly, turning shadow into clarity. He saw as if the sun still shone upon the halls of his forefathers.
Then he saw it. A golden glow ahead, faint at first, then stronger, gilding the walls with liquid fire.
He quickened his pace.
Rounding a final archway, Thorin stopped short. His breath caught in his throat.
The mountain opened into a yawning cavern—and there the treasure of Erebor lay.
Gold stretched out in every direction, coins spilling in endless rivers, mounded high as hills. Gemmed goblets glittered like captured starlight. Crowns set with sapphires and rubies winked from the heaps, while swords with hilts of emerald flame gleamed in careless disarray. Jewels and ornaments lay scattered in such profusion that the very ground had vanished beneath their glow. The air itself seemed to hum with the weight of it.
Thorin's breath hitched. His chest heaved, and his hands curled into fists. Erebor's treasure. My inheritance. My birthright. The words echoed in his mind—yet twined with them came another, darker murmur. A whisper that was not his own, but so closely woven he could not tear it free.
Mine.
The syllable slithered through him like a serpent. Thorin clenched his fists, trying to drive it away, but the voice pressed harder. Must guard it. Must hoard it. Let no hand but mine touch it. My birthright. Mine alone.
His feet carried him down among the gold. Coins shifted beneath his boots, chiming with each step. He stooped, lifted a crown wrought for kings of old, and set it upon his brow. His gaze lingered obsessively upon each glittering surface, as though the light itself filled him with life.
"There you are."
The sudden voice startled him. Thorin spun to see the others entering the chamber. Bilbo stood wide-eyed at the threshold, his mouth falling open in awe. The dwarves halted as one, gazes swept away by the brilliance before them. But Ben's eyes remained steady—fixed not on the treasure, but on Thorin.
For a moment, clarity seemed to return. Thorin shook his head, forcing a smile, and stretched out his hands. "Welcome, my friends," he declared, voice carrying unnaturally strong, "to the great treasure horde of Thror."
Ben's gaze swept the chamber, but his voice was calm and steady. "It is impressive, no doubt. But we have more pressing matters at hand. An army of orcs marches upon us as we speak. The gates must be repaired, the mountain fortified, and you must send word to your cousin Dáin at once."
Thorin nodded quickly, distractedly. "Yes… yes, of course. But first—we need to find something. The Arkenstone. It is here, somewhere in this hall." His eyes darted greedily across the mounds of gold. "We must find it."
"That can wait," Ben said gently. "It's not going anywhere. Smaug is dead. You no longer need the Arkenstone to prove your claim. You are King under the Mountain."
For a moment, Thorin faltered, clarity flickering in his gaze. But then Ben added, "Come on. We need to prepare before the elves arrive."
At once, Thorin stiffened. His face darkened, his tone sharp.
"Indeed," he said harshly. "We must prepare… to defend Erebor against those pointy-eared thieves."
Ben's eyes narrowed. Bilbo blinked in surprise. "What are you talking about, Thorin? The elves are coming to help us fight the orcs. They're our allies!"
"Allies?" Thorin scoffed. His voice dripped with scorn. "You are wrong, Master Baggins. The elves come to help no one but themselves—help themselves to our treasure! Their king, that honorless cur, thinks to wash away his betrayal by lending a hand now, as if we are fools to forget his treachery. And for it, he would demand reward?" Thorin snorted.
He turned back to the hoard, eyes burning. "This mountain, this treasure—it is my inheritance. My birthright. I am King under the Mountain. It is my duty to guard it against all who would dare steal it. Let Thranduil try! On my life, I will not part with a single coin. Not one piece of it."
A shadow of unease crossed the company. Balin's eyes grew troubled; he had seen this before. The same gleam, the same sickness, that had consumed Thror.
Ben frowned, then shrugged as though conceding. "Sure. Whatever you say. You are the king, after all."
Thorin's shoulders eased at that. Yet before he could answer, Ben's gaze shifted past him. His eyes narrowed.
"Why is that stone glowing like a star? Is that the Arkenstone?"
Thorin whirled, eyes wide with desperate hunger, scanning the hoard. In that moment of distraction, Ben raised his hand and silently cast Stupefy. Thorin's body slackened, and he collapsed in a heap upon the gold.
Kíli sprang forward. "What did you do?"
Ben lowered his hand. "Put him to sleep."
The dwarves clustered around, Bilbo wringing his hands in distress. Ben's voice rang calm but firm. "You all saw it. That greedy, irrational dwarf just now—that was not Thorin Oakenshield. Something is wrong with him. And it's up to us, his friends, to help him."
The company exchanged uneasy glances. Dwalin muttered, "Aye… but what? One moment he was himself, the next… another man entirely."
"Dragon Sickness."
The company turned sharply. Gandalf strode into the chamber, staff in hand, his expression grave.
Fíli frowned. "What is that?"
"It is a sickness of the mind," Gandalf said, kneeling beside Thorin. "When treasure has long lain beneath a dragon's claw, its greed and malice seep into the gold itself. This is why I warned you not to enter the mountain without me. Smaug may be gone, but his evil lingers still." He straightened, his voice grave. "We must leave this hall. Here Smaug slept, and here his malice lies thickest. Until Saruman and I cleanse this place, no one must enter—or risk losing themselves."
Dwalin bent, lifted Thorin's unconscious form, and carried him away. One by one, the others followed, their eyes uneasy as they left the glittering chamber behind.
But Ben lingered. He stood at the chamber's edge, his gaze fixed on the glittering ocean of wealth. Why only Thorin? he wondered. The others had looked upon it with wonder, yes, but not madness. Even Fili and Kili, of Thorin's own blood, were untouched. No, the pattern was clear. Thror, Thráin, Thorin—each undone by greed and obsession—each bound to one thing.
The Arkenstone.
Ben lifted his hand. "Accio Arkenstone."
Far across the cavern, coins shifted. A cascade of gold slid down a mound as a single stone lifted free, glowing with a light of its own. It sped across the chamber and landed in Ben's palm.
The Arkenstone glowed like the heart of a star—not cold white, but radiant with shifting hues, seven colours shimmering as one. Its brilliance seemed alive, as if the jewel contained the light of creation itself. Ben stared, breath caught. Truly, it was the King's Jewel—no treasure in Middle-earth could rival its magnificence.
He whispered a spell. "Analysis."
The moment the spell struck, his vision was seized.
The chamber faded away.
---
The world vanished.
Ben felt himself drawn into the light of the Arkenstone, as though his mind were being carried backward through ages upon ages. Images poured into him, visions not his own but of something vast, ancient, and watchful.
He saw the Lonely Mountain—not as it stood now, scarred by dragon-fire and ringed by ruin, but as it had once been: young, proud, and untouched. Its stone body rose clean and unbroken, its flanks alive with streams that caught the sun like silver ribbons. Forests clothed the nearby lands, and the River Running coursed from its roots like a vein of life.
Time passed in the vision, swift as clouds racing over a sky. Seasons turned to centuries, centuries to millennia. The mountain changed, grew, became aware. At first, dimly—as if rousing from sleep—but then more keenly, as though an eye had opened within stone itself.
It saw.
It watched the birds wheel across the sky, watched deer drink from its streams, watched storms break upon its shoulders. It learned the shapes of the world: Greenwood's endless forests, the grey-tipped peaks of the northern mountains, the winding paths of men who sometimes dared cross the wild. All these it observed in silence.
Then came others. Small beings, even smaller than the wandering Men—stocky, bearded, carrying tools of iron and steel. Dwarves, they called themselves. They set their hammers to the stone, their chisels and picks biting into the mountain's skin.
Yet the blows did not wound. Instead, the rhythm of their labor rang through the stone like music. The mountain shivered in delight, warmed by the sound. It welcomed them.
It watched their joy when they unearthed dull veins of gold, their delight when they turned ore and rock into shining metal and bright-cut gems. The mountain marveled. It had never understood why such useless fragments of itself might matter, yet the happiness of the dwarves gave it pleasure. So it gave more.
The dwarves dug deeper, carved halls and passages, until a city blossomed in the heart of stone. They named it Erebor. For the first time, the mountain had a name, and the name brought it joy.
More dwarves came, filling the caverns with life and light. At last, one stood before the people and declared himself King under the Mountain. Erebor watched with pride.
Over the years, it learned the dwarves were many things. Stubborn, yes—greedy at times, selfish at others—but also brave, loyal, and kind. They sang as they worked, their voices echoing through stone, and Erebor sang with them in silence. It guided their hands to rich veins, softened its stone so they might dig with ease, offered them its bounty as proof of its affection.
For a time, all was harmony.
Until the day of betrayal.
It began like any other day, with the ringing of tools in the deep. A miner's chisel struck stone—and broke through. Behind the rock was no common ore but a jewel unlike any other in Middle-earth. The Arkenstone.
The miner gasped at its beauty. And, as dwarves do, he took it.
But he had taken more than a jewel. He had torn free the very heart of Erebor. That stone was no mere trinket but the source of its life, the miracle that made the mountain sentient, alive, whole. Without it, Erebor's being began to dim, its sense of self unraveling.
The mountain panicked. Its one fear was that the Arkenstone might be carried away forever. But the miner carried it to his king, and hope stirred. Perhaps, surely, a king would understand.
Erebor reached out through its heart. It showed the dwarf visions—images of its pain, pleas to return the stone to its cradle. It begged to be made whole.
But the king did not listen.
He looked upon the gem and named it The King's Jewel. He mounted it above his throne, not to guard it, not to honor the mountain's gift, but to flaunt it—to use its beauty as a symbol of his vanity and pride.
Erebor watched, helpless, as its awareness waned. Piece by piece, its mind faltered. To preserve what remained, it sank into deep sleep. But before the dark closed in, rage filled it—rage at the betrayal of those it had cherished.
And in that rage, it cursed them.
The mountain's will poured into the Arkenstone, its grief and fury binding to the jewel. Let all who covet the heart of the mountain be consumed by their greed. Let their love turn to obsession, their courage to madness. Let the jewel poison them until nothing remains but a hollow shell of hunger and malice.
The curse spread through every chamber of stone, yet its power anchored in the Arkenstone itself. And from that day, the shining jewel exuded a subtle, insidious aura—drawing out the worst in those who lingered near.
Then all went dark.
Ben gasped as the vision broke, and the treasure chamber returned around him. His hand still held the Arkenstone, its rainbow light spilling across his skin. He stared at it, his mind racing.
Now he understood.
Only Thorin was so deeply afflicted by the dragon's taint because only Thorin—and Thráin, and Thror—had lived long beneath the Arkenstone's gaze. For years it had remained above the throne, seeping the mountain's curse into their bloodline, twisting pride into madness.
And Smaug? The dragon must have sensed the curse as well. That was why the Arkenstone had been cast aside, buried in some forgotten corner of the hoard. Not even Smaug, with all his greed, had dared to make it a centerpiece.
Ben exhaled slowly, relief mingling with unease. At least he now knew how to break the curse. The stone had to be returned—set back into the mountain's heart, with an apology given not in words alone, but in truth. A dwarf would have to make amends for the trespass of their people, or Erebor's curse would never lift.
He closed his hand around the jewel, its light leaking between his fingers.
That, he thought grimly, would be the hard part. Convincing Thorin Oakenshield—proud, stubborn, kingly Thorin—to give up the one thing he desired most.
---
Thorin stirred. His breath came ragged, his limbs heavy as though he had awoken from a fevered dream. The rough grain of a wooden cot pressed against his palms as he pushed himself upright. A lantern of faintly glowing crystal swung on the wall, its light pooling across the chamber in quiet gold.
Nearby, Ben sat in a high-backed chair wrought of his own conjuring, a leather-bound book open in his hands. At Thorin's movement, he flicked a finger, and the book dissolved into motes of light before vanishing into the depths of his storage ring. His eyes, calm yet watchful, turned wholly to Thorin.
"You are awake," Ben said softly.
Thorin pushed himself upright, wincing at the stiffness in his body. His voice was hoarse. "What… happened?"
Ben hesitated, then answered plainly, almost apologetically. "I stunned you."
Thorin's brows knitted, anger kindling in his tired eyes. "You did what? Why?"
Ben raised a hand. The air shimmered, weaving into a likeness of Thorin himself. The illusion's eyes burned with hunger as his voice echoed: "I will not part with a single coin. Not one piece of it!"
Shame flickered across Thorin's face. He lowered his gaze. But before he could speak, Ben raised his other hand, and another figure coalesced—Smaug, vast and looming, his eyes like embers in a sea of darkness. The dragon spoke the same words, with the same cadence, the same devouring greed.
Thorin paled, as though all blood had left his face. His hands trembled against his knees.
Ben let the illusions fade. "You must be wondering why this is happening," he said gently. "Why you alone feel this sickness gnawing at your mind."
Thorin looked at him almost pleadingly, as though begging for an answer.
Ben leaned forward. "After I put you under, I found the Arkenstone."
Thorin's head snapped up. "You found it? Where is it?"
But Ben did not hand it over. Instead he met Thorin's eyes, his own voice steady. "When I held it, it showed me some things—things you need to see."
Thorin's breath caught. Slowly, he gave a single, grave nod.
Ben reached out with Spirit Magic, weaving threads of thought and memory. Their eyes locked, and suddenly visions poured into Thorin's mind.
He beheld the Lonely Mountain in its youth, green and unbroken, before stone halls and pickaxes, before forges and fire. He felt the mountain's slow awakening, its wonder as it watched rivers and forests, beasts and men, the turning of seasons. He felt its joy at the dwarves' chisels and hammers, like music striking against its bones. He felt its affection as it gave up gold and silver, guiding its people to prosperity.
And he felt the betrayal—when the Arkenstone, its very heart, was torn from its breast.
He saw the Dwarf King take the jewel, ignoring the visions that begged its return, mounting it above his throne like a bauble of pride. He felt the mountain's anguish curdle into rage, and its curse fall heavy: that every king who coveted the stone would be consumed by greed until only madness remained.
The vision faded. Thorin swayed, chest rising and falling, his face gray with weariness and sorrow. Moments passed. At last, he drew himself to his feet. His shoulders seemed bowed with invisible weight. "I know what I must do," he whispered.
Ben nodded. Reaching into his coat, he drew forth the Arkenstone. Its glow bathed the chamber in rainbow light, like a star caught in his hand. He held it out.
Thorin hesitated only a moment before taking it. The instant it touched his skin, desire flared within him like fire. His heart pounded, and for a fleeting, terrible moment, he wanted nothing more than to flee—flee back to the treasure-hoard, to clutch and guard, to keep forever.
But he closed his eyes. His breath came deep and slow. When he opened them again, the hunger had dimmed, replaced by grim resolve. He clutched the Arkenstone tightly and strode to the door.
Outside, his companions waited. Dwarves, Bilbo, Gandalf—all turned as he emerged. Their faces bore no condemnation, only quiet encouragement. One by one, they nodded to him. Thorin met each gaze in turn, then pressed on, leading the way.
Together, they walked. Through echoing halls, down stairways, along vast corridors of stone, until at last they came to the edge of the great vertical shaft—the endless chasm where veins of gold glimmered like rivers in the dark.
Thorin halted, staring into the abyss. His hand clenched tight around the Arkenstone.
Silently, Ben drew a carpet from his ring. With a rustle, it spread across the stone and hovered, steady as rock. Ben stepped onto it and gestured. Thorin followed, joined by Bilbo, Gandalf, Balin, Fíli and Kíli.
The carpet lifted and began its slow descent. Though soft underfoot, it carried them as securely as stone. Above them floated a bright orb of light, summoned by Ben's will, illuminating the abyssal walls. The air grew cooler, heavier, as they sank deeper into the mountain's bones. Gold and crystal veins glimmered faintly, like the eyes of the mountain watching.
No one spoke. Their awe was tempered by the weight of what they approached.
At last, they reached it—the hollow in the stone where the Arkenstone had once lain. The veins of gold and crystal converged there like roots to a heart.
Thorin staggered forward. Sweat shone on his brow. His grip on the jewel trembled. "It is mine," he whispered hoarsely. "It should be mine!"
The others froze, dread tightening their throats.
But Thorin pressed on. Step by shaking step, he forced himself forward. At the hollow, he lifted the Arkenstone high. His cry tore the silence. With one final act of will, he pressed the jewel into its resting place.
The stone slid in perfectly.
Light burst forth. The Arkenstone's inner fire blazed like the heart of a star. The golden veins and crystal strands throughout the chamber flared in answer, rivers of fire and starlight cascading outward into the mountain's deeps. The cavern shook with a low, thrumming pulse—the heartbeat of Erebor.
Thorin dropped to his knees, gasping. And then… silence. The voices were gone. The hunger, gone. Only peace remained, vast and immense, as though the mountain itself was listening.
He bowed low, his forehead to the stone. "Erebor… forgive us. Forgive me. You gave us so much—treasure, wealth, a home. You gave us safety and prosperity. And we repaid you with pain and suffering. We tore your heart away, drove you into madness. I, Thorin son of Thráin, son of Thrór, beg your pardon—in Durin's name."
The silence deepened, heavy with expectation.
Then the Arkenstone flared. A wave of light surged outward, racing through the abyss, rushing up through the mines, seeping into every hall and vault. The taint of Smaug was swept away. Gold gleamed pure once more. Jewels blazed like captured stars.
The company shielded their eyes, awestruck.
Then a single beam of radiance fell from the Arkenstone and touched Thorin. He lifted his face into it. No voice spoke, yet the presence of the mountain filled the chamber—vast, ancient, holy. Strength older than stone, endurance of peaks, patience of the deep earth settled upon him like a mantle.
Kíli's voice cracked with awe. "What's happening?"
Gandalf's eyes shone as he answered, solemn. "The mountain has judged him—and found him worthy. It blesses the King under the Mountain with a fragment of its own eternal strength."
Awe fell over them. Bilbo, Balin, Fili, Kíli, even Gandalf bowed low to the glowing heart of the mountain. Ben inclined his head in reverence, lips pressed tight with quiet respect.
Slowly, the Arkenstone's light receded. The gem sank back into the living stone, as though returning to the place it had always belonged.
The carpet rose, carrying them upward. And as they ascended, they beheld Erebor renewed. Gold shone bright, innocent and unstained. The vaults blazed like halls of heaven. The mountain breathed in peace once more.
And at the heart of it stood Thorin Oakenshield, crowned not by greed but by grace, at last the true King under the Mountain.