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lathalea · 1 year

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The White Raven 7/9

The next chapter of Thorin and Carra's story is here!

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death/dragon sickness Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being a great, great, great beta reader and extra special thanks to Legolasbadass (again!) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚

The tint of Carra’s face closely matched the crispy white colour of the pillowcase beneath it, her silver-white hair scattered across it in disarray. Her eyes were closed, and Thorin held his breath for a heartbeat—before he noticed the slight movements of her chest.

She was breathing. Still.

Sitting on a makeshift wheeled chair, which Nari, the disgruntled healer, procured from somewhere, Thorin leaned closer towards Carra, biting his lip in an attempt to ignore the pain his protesting body evoked. Another spell of dizziness washed over him again, and his body pleaded for mercy, but he pushed those sensations away. Perhaps Balin and Nari were right, and he should have stayed in bed, but at that moment, Thorin’s own discomfort felt insignificant.

His fingertips brushed against the softness of Carra’s hollow cheek. Her skin was cool under his touch, but warmth still lingered within.

“Carra… Karkûnê…“ he murmured. There was no response. Her eyelids did not flutter to show the iridescent depth of her gaze; her lips did not open to utter his name. She was here, beside him, yet completely out of his reach.

“How long has she been this way?” he asked.

“Since she was brought in here on the day of the battle, Your Majesty,” the healer responded and cast a worried glance at Balin. “Most of her injuries are minor, but she has yet to regain consciousness. We do not know why it takes so long but then again, she is not a Dwarf.”

Thorin thanked him with a nod, and his eyes returned to Carra. Her face and arms were marked with multiple bruises and scarrings—mementos of her confrontation with Azog. He closed his eyes, attempting to get rid of the tightness in his throat. At least a fortnight had passed since the battle ended, and her body seemed to refuse to heal at its regular pace. Throughout the years, he learned how quickly she regenerated; one or two nights should have been enough to cure most of it, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, this did not happen. But…

She was still breathing.

He took her slender hand in his. So soft. So fragile.

“I want my bed moved here,” he turned to the older dwarf, not letting go of her hand.

“Thorin?” Balin raised his eyebrows.

Nari’s stifled cough of surprise reached him at the same time. Thorin chose to ignore it.

“She needs me, Balin,” he looked at Carra’s hand. So delicate in his palm, like a folded wing of a sleeping fledgeling.

The older Dwarf pulled at his beard and cast a meaningful glance at Nari. It was enough to make the healer bow and leave the room, closing the door behind him. Only then did Balin speak again.

“I assume that you are aware of what message this is going to send, laddie.”

“What message…? I told you, Balin, she is my wife.” Thorin’s eyes wandered to Carra’s peaceful, unmoving face. With his left arm bound up, he had to gently free his right hand and reach into her hair. He let his fingers run through the silver-white strands until he uncovered the marriage braid he had pleated himself. “She watched over us on our way to reclaim Erebor. Now I shall watch over her.”

His mentor sat down on a nearby bench with a grunt, his gaze resting on Thorin’s hand, once again clasped with Carra’s. Thorin could almost feel its weight.

Balin sighed heavily, “There will be trouble with the lords when they hear of it.”

“I have never supported any of their plans of political alliances via marriage as you very well know,” Thorin furrowed his brow.

“Indeed. I still applaud you for how you handled the situation with Lord Yngví and managed to convince Fili to marry Lady Tarja. You killed two birds with one stone!” A shadow of a smile appeared on Balin's lips. “The Firebeards are our strongest allies, and if Mahal blesses the couple with a babe, it will rule over the whole Blue Mountains.”

“It was not a great feat. They were already in love with each other,” Thorin tilted his head.

“But you saw the opportunity and took it,” Balin’s smile grew slightly. “And now it seems I will be the one on the lookout for an opportunity to explain the current situation to the lords. And Dain…”

“She is my One, Balin.” The rasp of his own whisper sounded hollow in the silence of the stone chamber. He had said these words only once before and only to Carra. They were meant to be said not more than once in a lifetime, and it felt wrong to repeat them in this stuffy, dimly lit chamber and not under a star-studded sky with his Raveness in his arms.

His old friend remained silent for a long while. Silent and unmoving, like a stone statue. Thorin avoided looking into his face by turning his attention to Carra’s hand, which he still held. He felt the warmth of his own body seeping through her skin, but it remained cool despite his best efforts.

But she was still breathing. There was still hope, he reminded himself.

“How can it be? She is not a Child of Mahal.” Balin frowned. “She could not have been made from the same piece of stone as you.” “I do not know, Balin,” he shrugged and presented their joined hands to him. “But I do know this: she saved me. Twice. Once—at Rivendell. And the second time… Do you remember my feather, Balin? That is how I overcame the curse. In the darkest hour I took it in my hand. And so I recalled my One—and my true self.”

Thorin glanced at Carra’s face, but it remained unmoving; her eyes closed.

“My blood sings in my veins whenever she is around. Even now. It feels almost like when you sing to the stone and it sings back, showing you the hidden veins of ore in its depths.” His voice was but a whisper. “I shall not attempt to understand Mahal’s mysterious ways, but I am certain beyond doubt that she is my Other Half.”

His mentor pulled at his beard once again. “Let us only hope that this explanation will be enough for our people to accept her as their queen. Our kingdom is about to be rebuilt. We need unity, not dissent.”

“You told me once that I have done honourably by our people. That I had a choice… This is my choice. She is. If Carra cannot be accepted, so be it. We have never planned for our secret to see the light of the day and it can remain hidden,” Thorin admitted with conviction. After taking a brief look at her pale face, he addressed Balin once again. “And before you mention the issue of succession, we both know that I have already named Fili as my heir. The lords have no leverage here. I will do all in my power to unite the Seven Kingdoms again, but I will not be parted from Carra. That is my final word on the matter.”

Speaking of a future with Carra, regardless of the shape it would take, felt like a fresh waft of hope. She would wake up—and soon. And then they would keep meeting in hidden forest clearings, secluded valleys, and forgotten caverns, just like they had done for years.

Thorin never noticed when Balin stood up with a grunt. He barely felt his hand patting him on the shoulder.

“Very well, laddie. I will see what I can do about this matter. And now—allow me to leave you be. You have your wife to take care of.”

Thorin’s eyes met Balin’s in an instant. It was impossible to miss neither the softness of his gaze under those white bushy eyebrows nor the warmth in his smile.

“Balin, I…” he began, his voice faltering. Instead, he covered his mentor’s hand with his.

“I know, laddie, I know.” The old dwarf nodded. No other words were needed between them.

At that very moment, something brushed along the inside of Thorin’s palm, as if a butterfly opened its wings.

“Carra!” He brought her hand to his face, hoping to see the repeated motion of her little finger. Gently pressing his lips against the back of her hand, he breathed in the faint scent of snowdrops.

Her face was as expressionless and pale as before, but when Thorin was about to look away, Carra’s eyes darted about once or twice under her eyelids.

It took him one heartbeat to lean closer toward her; before he knew it, he gave her forehead a soft, lingering kiss. The pain and exhaustion he felt did not matter any longer. Everything besides Carra was of no consequence. His One was still there, and this knowledge imbued him with a new strength.

“Fight, Karkûnê. Do not give up,” Thorin whispered into her ear. “I am here, beside you. Do you hear me, amrâlimê?”

He pressed his forehead against hers in an intimate gesture they exchanged whenever they met. Her skin pleasantly cooled his burning hot forehead while Thorin whispered, “Come back to me, Wings of my heart.”

***

The butterfly circles above the rock basin. Its orange wings flutter gracefully a hairbreadth above the still surface of the water, yet its wings never touch it. Carra cannot seem to tear off her eyes from the afterimages of the spectacle she has witnessed a mere moment ago. More blurred shapes appear in the water, but they are distorted and barely recognizable, fading away quickly.

“Do you see now, Silver One?” The Weaver’s voice fills Carra’s ears. “There are countless possibilities for the thread to run through the loom.”

“But the taint is spreading in the pattern,” the white-haired man, the Water Bearer, says; his words sound hollow. “Everything withers in its wake.”

“There is still hope. Not everything is lost.” The Great Mother walks towards a nearby apple tree. Both its leaves and her gown shimmer in the sunlight. Something tells Carra to follow her creator, and so she does, her legs unsteady.

“Not everything? What about… ” The White Raven’s voice trembles. “Thorin Oakenshield’s life?”

The Great Mother does not reply. Instead, she plucks a large, ripe apple from the tree and smells it with an approving hum.

“Curious creature.” The Water Bearer approaches them from ahead; Carra could have sworn he was behind them merely a moment ago. “Is it the silver dust in your wings speaking or your heart?”

Carra lowers her head—in shame or embarrassment? She does not know which one burns stronger.

She wants to seek redemption—to show that there is still a part of her that is worthy. In fact, she wishes to explain that her question was born solely out of her sense of duty, that her feelings are insignificant, but then her own faint whisper reaches her.

“I speak from my heart,” she says. Always my heart, she thinks.

The Water Bearer and the Green Lady exchange a boundless glance. An eternity seems to pass, as long as one blink of Carra’s eyes.

The Great Mother turns back to her and speaks; a shadow of a smile blooms on her lips, “Then you should already know the answer to this question, my child.”

“I do not understand, Great Mother.”

“Was it not you who alarmed us of the threat to his life?”

Carra recalls the very moment when the Pale Orc attacked Thorin and finds that she does not have the strength to speak. She simply nods as the sense of foreboding tightens its fingers around her throat.

“Your croak echoed so strongly across the tapestry that I almost lost several useful threads!” The Weaver’s voice seems to come from afar, but when Carra turns towards its source, she sees the Weaver standing only a few steps behind her.

“My apologies, my lady,” Carra says faintly. “It was not my intention to cause trouble.”

“Child, you did no such thing. You fulfilled your duty.” The Great Mother shakes her head gracefully, the apple still in her hand. “He is still among the living.”

Something hums in Carra’s ear, and the dread that has been gnawing at her mind finally leaves her; her legs fold beneath her, and she finds herself on the grass, supported by trembling arms. Her heart beats fast, as if after a long run.

Thorin lives. Thorin lives. Thorin lives.

“Thank you, Great Mother.” The world blurs before her, and she needs to wipe away the tears. “Thank you. Thank you.”

“You should be thanking yourself, dear child—it has come to pass through your sacrifice.” The Great Mother extends her hand, and Carra takes it tentatively, lifting herself from the ground on unsteady legs.

The Water Bearer steps towards them. His hands are empty. The butterfly is nowhere to be seen.

“And so the line of Durin remains unbroken,” he says. “So does the pattern.” The Weaver’s elegant fingers move along a thick piece of thread. Its colour makes Carra think of the waters of the Long Lake at dawn. “I was almost certain that this thread would be lost to the tapestry forever.”

The three of them exchange a lengthy glance in silence, and Carra wishes she could understand its meaning.

“Forgive me, Great Mother.” Her throat constricts at her own boldness.” But who will watch over Thorin Oakenshield and his kin now that I am gone?”

“The mettle on this one!” The Water Bearer chuckles, but Carra can barely hear him. A strong gust of wind picks up suddenly, making the leaves rustle in the trees around them. As she looks up, the wind brings another sound with it. A low whisper that reverberates in her ears with longing.

“Carra… Please…”

“Thorin?” Her eyes search the beech grove ahead in hopes of seeing her son of Durin, but there are only tree trunks and shrubbery, and the rustling of leaves. Has she imagined hearing his voice?

“Is that…?” There is a hint of amusement in the Water Bearer’s voice. His white hair dances in the wind.

“That silver in her wings…” the Weaver adds, but before she can finish her sentence, another figure appears in the garden, as if out of nowhere. With a few measured strides, he approaches the Great Mother, who offers him the apple she picked before. He takes it, reverently kissing her on her hand. Even though the newcomer is taller than his companions, there seems to be something dwarven about him. Perhaps it is his robust figure or muscular arms, his long hair, brown as elm bark, or perhaps his thick, braided beard; Carra is not certain.

“Husband mine, it is good to see you here,” the Great Mother says.

“I would not have missed it for the world, my dearest.” The man’s voice is as deep as the deepest mines of Erebor.

The wind picks up again, and the rustling intensifies, but the Great Mother’s spouse remains unmoving; even his hair and garments remain still, as if carved out of stone.

“Karkûnê… Come back to me…”

Carra’s searching eyes frantically move from one tree to the next, from one patch of shrubbery to another, but he is not there.

“Thorin!” Helplessly she exclaims towards the sky. “Where are you?”

“You will not find him here, Winged One,” the Great Mother’s husband addresses her. “He is under his Mountain.”

“But I hear him as if he was here!” Carra does not dare to lift her eyes and look into his radiant face.

“The bond between you is as strong as mithril,” he explains.

She opens her mouth to speak, but then she hears the Weaver’s voice.

“So it is mithril, not silver… What are you up to, Smith?” With her brow furrowed, the ethereal lady glances at her loom. “You are not hammering out a new pattern, are you?”

He gives out a short chuckle, “Nothing of the sort, Spinner. This pattern does not need any adjustments on my part.”

“Because you have already made them,” the Water Bearer interjects, once again standing by the rock basin, the silvery jug resting at its edge. When his all-knowing gaze meets hers, Carra wants to disappear.

“A pinch of mithril has never done any harm to anyone.” The Smith takes a step towards Carra. “Has it, Winged One?”

“My lord, I do not comprehend…” she speaks shakily. “I only wish to know if Thorin is going to be safe now.”

There is something benevolent in his expectant gaze. Is he smiling? He has heard her, surely, but he does not address her. Carra does not understand what is expected of her now. A glance passes between the Great Mother and the Weaver, but Carra remains oblivious to it, her attention caught by a new occurrence. The orange butterfly appears in front of her, its wings fluttering, and then it flies off to rest on the folds of the Great Mother’s robes, as if on a flowery meadow. Standing by her husband, she gives a shallow nod.

“So be it, Smith,” the Water Bearer says.

Carra blinks, and when she opens her eyes again, she stands by the rock basin once more. This time, the water is black and impenetrable, like the sky on a winter night. An image starts forming, but it feels like a mere shadow of the visions she has experienced before.

*** Thorin sits on a gilded stone bench on a high terrace carved out of the slope of the Mountain. A beautifully ornamented walking cane rests against the wall behind him. A thick fur-lined cloak rests on his shoulders, adorned with golden embroidery. His breath turns into mist in the cold air, and several stray snowflakes find their way to his hair, adorned with braids and golden cuffs. His sunken cheeks and pale skin are in stark contrast with the opulence that surrounds him. A guard passes by and salutes him, only to disappear in the bowels of the Mountain.

Time passes as Thorin gazes into the horizon. Although his left arm remains motionless—his left hand clothed in a glove—his right hand reaches under his tunic. Soon, his ringed fingers emerge, holding a silver-white feather. Thorin presses his lips against its tip and closes his eyes for a moment. He whispers something, but his words escape on the wind.

When an elderly Dwarf clad in burgundy robes approaches him, the feather is still in his hand.

“The delegation from the Woodland Realm has arrived, Thorin,” the Dwarf says. “It is time.”“Time, Balin? It feels like mine has already passed,” Thorin replies.

“And yet they say it is time that heals all wounds,” Balin gestures towards the feather.

Thorin rises from the bench with a pained hiss, helping himself with the walking cane. There is a heavy limp in his walk, and as they enter the Mountain, his solemn voice echoes in the corridor.

“But will it heal mine?” ***

“Your Dwarf rules over his kingdom. There is peace and safety for him and his people,” The Green Lady speaks. “Why the tears, my child?”

Carra brings her fingers to her cheek. It is wet.

“I failed him, Great Mother. He needs me. I should be by his side, not here!” With her vision blurred, she can barely see the four luminous silhouettes standing around her, the expressions on their faces unreadable.

“You are on the path to the Timeless Halls of your winged kin where the reward for your deeds awaits you. You have earned it, Carra.” The Great Mother’s voice is like a sturdy nest shielded from the elements, like a warm blanket on a stormy night.

“I cannot draw joy from such honours. Not when my mate—the one I love—suffers. I’d rather…” She stops, terrified by her own insolence. Nevertheless, Carra has had to speak out. The vision of the terrifying king on the throne of Erebor, cloaked in darkness and blood, has been haunting her since the moment she saw it in the water. But this image was not as horrifying as her sudden realisation. Thorin’s gaze in her most recent vision, bitter and devoid of hope, was disturbingly similar to the darkness in the dragon king’s eyes.

The Smith gives out a lengthy hum. It sounds like a rumble of a distant avalanche.

“What is it that you are saying, child?” The Great Mother stands before Carra now.

“I do not have the right to ask, Great Mother, but there is no greater reward for me than seeing Thorin contented and at peace,” Carra explains, and there is no doubt nor fear in her voice now because she speaks for Thorin, not for herself, for the one she has been watching over since she can remember. “His past has been filled with hardships. And now he needs joy, not grief, to heal. I will do anything you ask of me, I will serve you for as long as you wish… Please, Great Mother, do not let the darkness consume him. Does he not deserve a long and happy life now?”

“You would relinquish your place in the Timeless Halls for the sake of this Dwarf?” The Weaver inquires. There are several threads in her hand, but Carra does not see their colours.

“For Thorin’s happiness, I would, my lady. As my last gift to him.” Carra swallows. She has just sentenced herself to oblivion, and yet it does not terrify her in the slightest. Only Thorin’s future matters to her, just like it always has.

“Shall we grant her this reward, husband?” The Great Mother turns to the Smith, who looks at a little pebble in his palm, and then tosses it up, catching it in a blink of an eye later.

“Your devotion reminds me of my own children, Winged One,” he declares. “Know that the path you chose is a path of no return. If you take it, the Timeless Halls will not welcome you. You will become like this stone. Stones do not have wings nor do they dream. Do you understand?”

“I do,” she speaks quietly. “This is the path I want to take.”

“Very well,” the Great Mother grants her a smile as warm as a spring day. In her open palm, a flower blooms. Its countless petals are orange, and it smells like fire.

“You have fulfilled your duty as the White Raven, dear child. We shall bestow upon you the reward you have chosen,” she offers Carra the flower in her outstretched hand. “Accept it, if that is truly your choice.”

“Thank you, Great Mother.” She touches the flower with her trembling fingers. It feels hard, like a piece of stone. “Thank you, Great Smith…”

As Carra closes her hand over the silky petals, a curtain of darkness falls over her, and it is as if the air disappeared from her lungs. She cannot move; she cannot speak. This must be the end, she thinks, and in the cold stillness of oblivion, a familiar sound reaches her ears.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

The loom resumed its work.

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lathalea · 1 year

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The White Raven 6/9

Yes, it's happening, I'm back with a fresh new chapter of this fic, and I'm so nervous! It took me a while to get here but I hope you'll like the next part of Thorin and Carra's story.

Relationships: Thorin Oakenshield x OC Carra Rating: G Warnings: mentions of injuries/death Author's notes: This is the story of Thorin Oakenshield's quest to find the White Raven, a mysterious creature of legends only few were fortunate enough to see. This is the story of love stronger than time, destiny, and laws of gods and mortals alike. You can find this fic on AO3.

Special thanks to @legolasbadass for being an amazing and insightful beta reader and helping me out with Very Important Things Like Commas and Temporal Issues In Middle Earth😍🤣 Extra special thanks to @legolasbadass (yes, again, OMG, you're so popular! 🤣) and @i-did-not-mean-to for our Silm evenings and very deep discussons that helped me write this chapter 💚 Thank you everyone who showed their support for this story, you motivated me to continue writing 💙 You are the best readers in the world 🤩🤩🤩

Khuzdul: Lulkh - fool Yasthûnê - my wife ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam - [the] greatest sacrifice Adad - father Tharkûn - Gandalf

Thorin did not know how much time had passed. A few heartbeats? An hour? An eternity? Vaguely familiar shapes circled the darkening sky above him. Ravens? Eagles? He did not know that either. Thinking did not come easily any longer. His thoughts were muddled. His wound pulsed in pain with the rapidity of trickling blood. And he could not move. His foe’s blade had pierced his body. Some unknown solid weight pressed him to the cold, unforgiving surface. It was difficult to breathe. His nostrils filled with the stench of Orc blood. The icy chill spread through his limbs.

He opened his mouth, but only a whisper came out before Thorin lost the internal battle with his own body.

“Carra…”

Silence. Bird-shaped clouds in the sky. Snowflakes on his cheeks. Or perhaps tears. He could not keep his eyes open any longer. His mind slowly drifted off into the darkness.

***

“Uncle! Uncle Thorin!” A faraway voice invaded Thorin’s mind, stirring it awake. This voice sounded familiar. But he was tired. Too tired. The darkness beckoned, offering the comfort of oblivion. He needed to rest. Sleep.

“Look! Kili! He is here!” another voice replied, slightly deeper than the previous one. “Under that Orc carcass?” the first voice asked.

“There is so much blood… Isn’t that Azog?”

“Aye! Or what’s left of ‘im,” a third voice joined in. Older. Raspier.

“Look at his back!”

“Either that’s Orcrist’s tip or I’m the Goblin Queen! That son of a goat did it! Quickly now, lads, help me take that beast off Thorin. Fili, on my mark, pull!”

There was movement. More voices. Piercing pain. A dull grunt filled Thorin’s ears. Was it his own voice?

“He’s alive!”

“Thank Mahal! Uncle Thorin, can you hear me?”

“He’s unconscious, you lulkh!” “We need to get rid of that filthy Orc blade first. It’s stuck in ice.”

“Slowly now!” A sea of pain washed over Thorin, his whole body stiffening with each wave. But the darkness patiently waited for him and took him in its merciful arms once more.

***

“He’s still breathing!”

“Thorin, wake up! Wake up, ye lazy bastard!” someone growled straight into his ear. “Damn it!”

“Dwalin, look, we stopped the bleeding.”

Those voices again. Pulling Thorin back into consciousness. Into the pain and emptiness.

“Let’s finish dressing his wound and then we’ll take ‘im to Oín,” the growling one said.

“What’s that, Fili?” the young, familiar voice said. “Where?” “Over there, by that pointy rock on the other side of the river.”

“Looks like a dead Warg to me,” the one very close to him rasped out. A pair of hands kept on doing something to his chest. It hurt. He wanted it to stop.

“Too small for a Warg, Dwalin. It’s… by Mahal’s beard!”

“Where are you going, Fili? Wait for me!” The first voice sounded irritated.

A sound of hurried footsteps. Iron-heeled boots against ice.

“Those two can’t sit in one place in peace if their life depended on…” the raspily-sounding one grunted. “I tell ya, Thorin, when ye’re better, we’ll send them on guard duty. First morning shift for a month. That’ll teach ‘em!”

Somehow, it made Thorin want to smile. But now, even smiling hurt.

“It’s a raven! So big! Look at its wings! Why are you staring, Fili?” the youthful voice reached his ears again.

“I think it’s… the White Raven.”

“What?! It’s just a fairy tale!” “I’ve seen this raven before, Kili,” confidence rang in the second voice. “I think it followed us on the way to Erebor. It helped me fight off a Warg-rider in the Misties just before the eagles came.”

Thorin took a reluctant breath. His heartbeat thrummed in his ears.

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t look good. There is so much blood… Is it dead, Fili?” “Let me see… That’s a nasty wound.”

Thorin’s muscles tensed. He wanted to open his eyes. He wanted to speak. But his body didn't want to obey.

And then he heard two gasps at the same time.

“What’s happening?”

“Do you see it too, Fili?”

“It’s… it’s magic!”

“No, it’s a shapeshifter!”

“Look! Look!”

“A woman?!”

Both voices intermingled in Thorin’s exhausted mind, making less and less sense. He needed to act. He needed to… He breathed in. The air smelled like snowdrops.

“Thorin! Ye’re back! And here I was thinkin’…” A tattooed forehead and a bushy moustache appeared before his eyes. “Stop squeezing my hand so hard!”

“Carra…” Thorin managed to rasp out. He could barely keep his eyes open.

“What are ye sayin’?” Dwalin demanded.

“Help…. her…” He tried again. “She is…” “What? I can barely hear ye.”

The last wisps of strength were leaving him. He could feel the darkness beckoning to him once again. “Yasthûnê…” Thorin articulated slowly. “My… wife.”

***

Warm rays of sun gently caress Carra’s cheek, and she enjoys the sensation for a short while before opening her eyes. It takes her a moment to adjust to the bright light. She lays on soft ground, the strands of her silver-white hair interlacing with the lush green blades of grass. A multitude of colourful flowers adorns the meadow around her, their sweet fragrance wafting through the air, intertwining with the lazy buzz of bees. She rolls onto her back and stares at the perfectly clear blue sky above. Then she takes a deep breath. A distant echo of pain rings out in her mind, but there are no bruises or wounds on her body.

When a puffy white cloud drifts into her blurred field of vision, Carra wipes off the wetness from her cheeks, stands up, and looks around. The endless meadow seems to stretch for miles in every direction. A soft breeze kisses her face, bringing the faint sound of water lapping against a distant shore. She follows it, and soon, a sparse grove of trees appears in front of her. Beyond it, she sees a stream, its silvery current sparkling in the sun. For a brief moment, an orange butterfly dances just above her nose and then flies off towards the meadow behind her. Carra’s eyes follow its flight when a curious harmony of sounds draws her attention back to the stream.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

It seems to be coming from across the stream, and Carra decides to find its source.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

As she walks through the grove, she encounters a young doe nibbling on a nearby shrub. It glances at her curiously and then trots away, as if deciding that Carra’s presence is disturbing its meal.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Tap-tap. Swoosh.

Carra walks on, her bare feet sinking into the silky soft moss, step after step, until she finds herself at the edge of the grove. The stream is only several steps ahead. Its murmuring waters bring a hum of voices.

Tap-tap. Swoosh. Ta-tap. Ta-tap. Tap.

An irritated sigh.

“Another broken thread?” A warm, feminine voice asks. It makes Carra think of spring in full bloom.

“Too many of them. It seems like another busy day for my husband.” Another woman speaks, her voice as melodious as the nearby stream.

“And you? You have been weaving since dawn,” the first one says.

“This pattern grows ever more complicated. It changes much too often for my taste these days.” The other woman sighs again. “Tell me that at least your work bears fruit.” “Some of these seeds refuse to sprout. The taint is spreading. I feel it in the earth.”

“The Fallen One is regaining his strength,” a third voice joins in. Deep and resonant. “I see his traces beyond the veil.”

Carra takes a careful step forward and focuses all of her attention at the opposite side of the stream. There, a garden of breathtaking beauty blooms before her eyes. Within it, she notices three silhouettes, the owners of the voices she hears. At first, their appearance seems similar to Elves, but soon after, Carra quickly understands her error. They are taller, their posture and movements are even more graceful, and there seems to be an otherworldly glow about them. Whenever she tries to look up into their faces, Carra has to squint—not only because of their radiance but also because their features seem to be ever-changing, fluid, like water in a mountain stream. Each of these noble figures is clad in finely ornamented robes that sway slightly when the same gentle breeze that brought her here plays with their hems.

One of the ladies kneels on the ground, ignoring the dirt stains on her garments. Their fabric is as green as her eyes. Her right hand rests over the brown, freshly turned soil and wisps of chestnut hair fall over her eyes. The other lady, her hair wavy and black as night, sits by a strangely-looking wooden frame with numerous threads attached to this elaborate contraption. Their colours form an intricate, multi-level pattern that seems to grow—bloom—in all directions in Carra’s eyes. She immediately feels dizzy and has to look away. Then her attention focuses on the third figure that joined the others a mere moment ago. A strapping man, his aspect equally stunning as those of his two companions, strolls towards them, his movements measured and dignified. As far as she can discern, he is clean-shaven, unlike Dwarves, and his long, white hair flows freely down his shoulders. In his hands, there is a silver jug, its surface glistening in the sun.

“Even though you bring morbid news, you are a welcome sight, brother-in-law!” the black-haired lady says, clasping her hands and moving away from her loom. “May I offer you some refreshment?” He bows reverently to his companions, and before they respond, he fills three silver cups with the contents of the jug.

Carra licks her parched lips.

“The sweet water from your fount!” The Green Lady stands up graciously and takes one of the cups.

“I know how fond you are of its taste.” The man’s hair dances in the wind as he speaks. An orange butterfly flutters among his flowing strands. “You come bearing gifts but it is not why you are here.” The Weaver looks into his eyes.

“I have simply come to admire your weaving skills,” he offers.

“Dear Dreamer, you are curious about my winged children, are you not?” The Green Lady gives him a nod.

“It is only natural,” he refills her cup. “Some of them bear our blessing, do they not?” “Indeed they do.” The Weaver approaches him with her cup and states, “How interesting that you chose today of all days.”

“My visions are blurred. Inconclusive.” He stills, gazing up into the sky, and then turning his attention back to the two women. “Tell me, have our gifts to them remained a blessing or have they rather turned into a curse?”

The Weaver sits back at her loom and looks closely at the glistening fabric; her fingers run along some part of the pattern hidden from Carra’s sight. “Your children have been fulfilling their duties well. Although the youngest one tends to make my work a tad more challenging.”

“The youngest one?” the man frowns.

“The one with wings dusted with silver.” The Green Lady takes a sip from her cup, her features schooled in a neutral expression.

“Silver? That certainly explains quite a bit. Your husband and his experiments…” The Weaver shakes her head. “Why now? Why this one?”

“I truly cannot say.”The Green Lady gives her an enigmatic smile and takes another sip. “But perhaps you would rather see her for yourselves.”

“Perhaps we would.” The Weaver’s fingers hover above the countless threads of her loom while the man nods. The butterfly lands on his shoulder, folding its orange wings.

“Very well. She has been listening to us long enough,” the Green Lady says, taking a look at the dark patch of planting ground under her feet. “Come, child.”

It takes Carra a blink of an eye to realise that she is not standing in the grove any longer. She gasps and blinks twice, but her eyes do not deceive her. Now she faces three luminous beings—in their garden across the stream.

“Great Mother!” she whispers and falls on her knees in front of the lady clad in green, bowing her head. In the presence of these great figures, blinded by their magnificent splendour, she feels like a feeble, featherless fledgling that fell out from its nest.

“Rise, Carra,” the Green Lady addresses her softly, and Cara does what she is told. “Do you know why you are here, my child?”

“I…” she croaks faintly, unable to stop staring into Great Mother’s incandescent face. A kaleidoscope of images fills her mind. The freezing ice. Thorin’s face when he notices her and his widened blue eyes. The Pale Orc, his teeth bare, with his blade pointed at her mate. Her bloodied talons clawing at Azog’s face. And then—darkness.

“I have died.” She hears her own voice.

In a blink of an eye, the images are gone, dispelled like a wisp of smoke on the wind. Only the orange butterfly swirls around her head.

“Do you know, child,” there is a frown on the Weaver's face when she turns to Carra from above her loom, “how thin these threads are? How delicate? Even the slightest whiff of wind can change the pattern—or destroy it as if it was a spider’s net.”

“I have only tried to protect the pattern,” Carra swallows, feeling three pairs of eyes on her.

“You have saved some vital parts of it, that is true, but I hear that you also left us with tangles in the weave,” now her life-giver speaks, her eyes glistening like emerald waters of a fathomless lake.

“Forgive me, Great Mother. The line of Durin had to stay unbroken. I did my best. But I have failed,” Carra hears her own trembling voice. “Darkness clouded my dreams…”

“And so you staked out your own path, Silver One,” the Weaver speaks as if to herself, patting her index finger against her lips in reverie. “Which left us with all those new thread combinations.”

Then she exchanges a glance with her companions, and the man called Dreamer speaks.

“See for yourself,” his eyes, grey like a wolf’s fur, rest on Carra. First, he raises his eyebrow but then motions her towards a small rock basin. She can swear that this object has not been there a moment ago. He takes the silver jug and fills the basin with a narrow, glistening stream of water. The orange butterfly dances above it and then rises above their heads. The water’s surface resembles a mirror, and Carra’s eyes are drawn to the movement she seems to see in its depths.

Countless veins of silver run through coarse stone walls of a cave, glittering like gossamer strands that cover foliage at dawn, but instead of dewdrops, tears flow down from a Dwarf-woman’s cheeks, following the crevices of her wrinkled face. She wears a crown of snow-white braided hair and a dark blue robe with golden ornaments. In her weatherworn hand, she holds a piece of parchment with a green, rectangular seal at the bottom. Beside her sits a slightly hunched elderly Dwarf with bushy, grey whiskers and rows of faded tattoos on his bald head.

“Now we are the last ones, Dwalin,” the Dwarf lady sobs. “My boys… My brothers… And then Balin… Dain and his son… Gone.”

“Aye,” the old warrior gently closes his hand over hers. “But they will not be forgotten.”

“Gone…” Carra’s lips tremble as she stops herself at the last moment from touching the water. As she moves her hand back, a curtain of ripples falls over the image, changing the scenery.

The image of the familiar green and black shape of the Great Gate of Erebor fills the rock basin. An army of Dwarves rides to battle on their war rams, led by the King Under the Mountain. Carra recognizes his blade at once. Orcrist. It is Thorin! She gasps. The Raven Crown graces his temples frosted with grey. And his beard has the same colouring as her feathers. Silver-white. As the events unfold, she recognizes them from her past dreams. The Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain and the Iron Hills join forces with the Men of Dale. The battle is long and bloody, but the allied forces ultimately crush their enemies. At that moment, the vision changes. She does not recognize this new detail. An armour-clad warrior rides from Dale on a white war ram. As soon as Thorin sees him, he dismounts, and soon both men greet each other with a strong embrace.

“The city is safe, adad!” The young warrior grins, taking off his helmet. The wind plays with his entangled hair, which seems to glow in the setting sun.

“You did well, Thráin,” Thorin replies, his gaze softening. He presses his forehead against Thráin’s and whispers, “You made me proud, son.”

A faint whiff of wind kisses the water’s surface, transforming it into a flurry of silvery ripples.

By a gilded cradle sits a young Dwarf-woman. Her chestnut hair glints as if enchanted with fire, contrasting with the snow-white laces of her sleeping gown. The mithril beads in her braids clink when she takes her babe into her arms, and a smile brightens her heart-shaped face.

“You will be a king one day,” she whispers lovingly, kissing her little one on his forehead. Quietly humming a sweet lullaby, she adjusts the blanket her son is wrapped in. Carra notices that its hem is embroidered with little black and golden ravens.

A sudden wrinkle on the water disturbs its surface, making the water glitter like diamonds.

A cold, pale sheen illuminates the green marble walls when the King Under the Mountain ensconces on his throne. The source of this light comes from a jewel of unmatched beauty set over the king's head. The golden and obsidian crown rests on his raven-black hair. But the ruler of Erebor, Thorin II Oakenshield, is not smiling. A deep, menacing frown darkens his face. In his hand, he holds a wide dwarvish sword. Blood drips from its tip onto the cracked marble floor. There is no red-haired Dwarf queen beside him. There are no children playing at his feet. There is only deathly silence. And the shadow he casts is that of a dragon.

When the visions finally fade, Carra finds herself staring into the bottomless depths of a pair of grey eyes. She does not notice when the orange butterfly lands on the edge of the empty jug.

***

“Carra…” her name sounded like a helpless croak. Thorin’s throat was parched.

It took him a while to regain all of his senses and open his eyes. He lay on a large cot in a spacious tent that looked suspiciously like a work of Elvish hands. He grunted. Every single part of his body seemed to hurt. Bandages covered most of his torso, and he could not move his arm without inducing even more pain.

A louder groan left his lips when he tried to sit up and failed. Something in the nearest corner of the tent moved.

“Your Majesty…” A young Dwarf in a healer’s tunic appeared seemingly out of nowhere. “You are awake!”

“Where…” Thorin coughed. Even breathing drained his strength.

“All is well, my lord. Try not to speak, please. The enemy is defeated. Erebor is once again ours.”

“Is… my…” His attempt at speaking failed once more.

“Your kin and companions are alive and well, Your Majesty.” A mug was pressed against his lips, and Thorin greedily drank its contents. He welcomed the sweet taste of water on his tongue. It probably came from the spring at Ravenhill.

Ravenhill.

His heart sank.

“Carra…? Where…?” he whispered. Every word felt like a struggle.

“Forgive me, my lord, who?” the healer frowned.

Thorin did not respond. He was already asleep.

***

“The White Raven?” Dain Ironfoot’s brow furrowed as he clutched a tankard in his hand. “Here, in Erebor? Are ye drunk, Fili?”

“It’d take more than a mug of ale to make me drunk, Uncle!” the young dwarf protested. “I swear on Mahal’s beard. She fought the Pale Orc together with Uncle Thorin and…”

“She?” said Agnarr, one of Dain’s captains who sat on his left, raising his eyebrows, which resembled a thick, black caterpillar.

“Aye! I found her myself! And then Tharkûn said… well, he didn’t want to say anything about her at first, but I convinced him to tell me…” Kili started with a mischievous smirk, only to be interrupted by his brother.

“He followed the wizard day and night and bombarded him with questions, until Tharkûn had enough,” Fili whispered conspiratorially, leaning towards Dain.

“Well, I convinced him, didn’t I?” Kili huffed. “The wizard said that if not for her, Thorin’s fate would have been very different! You saw that wound of his.” “Aye, if that orc blade went in a bit lower, he’d be resting in the catacombs together with the kings of old,” Ironfoot muttered under his breath.

“Exactly. Besides, before he left, Tharkûn mentioned something about treasure, too!”

“A treasure?” Dain Ironfoot asked.

Kili shrugged in response, “I don’t think he meant the gold in our mountain…”

“Wizards and their riddles…” Dori sighed, pouring himself another mug of ale.

“So ye’re telling me,” Dain demanded, “that a creature straight from our legends appeared out of thin air and fought the Pale Orc with Thorin? And that the White Raven is a woman?”

“And a pretty one, too!” Bofur winked. “That hair of hers…! White as snow!”

“More like silver-white to me,” Fili puffed out a cloud of pipeweed smoke.

“Was she not supposed to be a great bird? Like the legends say?” Dain grunted.

“She is!” Kili nodded eagerly. “I mean, she was a bird, but then she turned into a woman, I saw it with my own eyes!”

“Now she looks more like a Dwarf,” Fili added.

“A raven looking like a Dwarf?” Vari, son of Nari, another of Dain’s soldiers, scratched his bald head.

“And a bit like an Elf, too,” Kili grinned and waved his hand in the air. “She has pointy ears, you know. Ouch, Fili, why did you kick me?”

Dain groaned, “Pointy ears…? By Mahal’s beard, I think I need another mug of ale.”

“Are ye drinkin’ without us, ye sewer rats?” Dwalin appeared by the table, followed by his brother.

“We’re all celebratin’ our victory over the orcs and wargs!” Captain Agnarr pointed at the multiple groups of Dwarves gathered around them in one of the least ruined halls of the Lonely Mountain.

“There’s nothing better for a soldier’s morale than a few casks of the Iron Hills ale,” Balin sat beside him and poured two mugs—for himself and Dwalin. “What would you say about a toast?”

“To victory?” Ori proposed.

“We drank for that last time,” Vari shook his head.

“If all you said is true, lads,” Drengi, a large dwarf, said, two golden teeth glinting in his mouth, “we should be toasting the White Raven.”

“To the White Raven!” strong voices echoed against the ceiling of the cavern as more dwarves joined the toast with their mugs raised into the air.

“To Thorin Oakenshield, King Under the Mountain!”

“To King Thorin!”

“To the Lonely Mountain!”

“To the Longbeards!”

In the growing racket, Balin turned to Fili and Kili.

“What did you tell them, lads?”

“Nothing much besides what we saw when we found Uncle Thorin after the battle,” Fili said.

“And that the White Raven helped us during the Quest,” added Kili. “Fili, I completely forgot! Remember what Uncle Thorin called her when we were taking him back to the Lonely Mountain?”

Fili nodded, but before he answered, Balin put his hand on Kili’s shoulder.

“That, my boy, is better left unsaid.”

“But Uncle Dain said that the King Under the Mountain will need a queen now and that he has a perfect candidate for Uncle Thorin. How can Uncle Thorin marry her if he…” Kili continued.

“This is the conversation that Thorin—and Thorin only—needs to have with Dain. Do you understand?” the elderly dwarf searched their faces solemnly.

“Aye, Uncle Balin, we do,” Fili reassured him.

***

“...since we moved his majesty into the Mountain. His fever has dropped and the wounds are healing well but he keeps on asking about someone named Carra.”

“Thank you, Nari, you were most helpful. Try to catch some sleep. I will stay with him now.” Words spoken in a soothing timbre of voice reached Thorin through the haze of dreams.

“Balin?” he blinked a few times, trying to chase the drowsiness away.

“I’m here, laddie,” a familiar silhouette in a burgundy robe stood before him. “You gave us a scare for a wee moment there.”

Thorin could not stop himself from smiling at the sight of the familiar face of his old mentor. As he attempted to sit up, an intense spike of pain ran through the left side of his body. The only thing he managed to do was lift his head slightly. At that moment, an additional pillow was placed beneath it. He grunted. At least the Dwarvish beds were much more comfortable than the Elvish ones.

“Carefully now, laddie. No sudden movements. Your foot needs time to heal properly. Your left shoulder and arm were badly injured too. The healers had to use a splint…”

It was a challenge to focus on Balin’s words, but as the dizziness subsided, Thorin’s thoughts became more coherent. Various parts of his body ached, his left leg felt heavy, and he could not move his left arm—it was indeed encased in a splint, exactly like Balin said—but he was able to take a look around the room. Even if he did not recognize this particular place, he recognized its walls hewn from the same greenish rock as the walls of the old chambers he used to live in as a young prince. A lifetime ago. And now, he was home again. Home.

“Tell me everything. Is Erebor safe?” With a pained grunt, he turned towards Balin.

“Aye. Worry not, the Mountain is well-protected. Dain is here with his warriors. We are working on making our home liveable again,” Balin replied, patting Thorin’s right hand, which lay on the bed. “You did well, laddie. The corridors and caverns are echoing with stories about the return of the King Under the Mountain who killed the Pale Orc and avenged his esteemed grandsire.”

Killed. He swallowed, attempting to ignore the memories of that fight that came back to him like an unstoppable flood—and of the price he paid to survive. Or rather, the price someone else paid for him. He lost her.

“King? Me? A Dwarf who succumbed to the curse that plagues his house? Who valued hoarded gold over…” With a sneer, Thorin looked away, his voice hollow. “I am not worthy of that title, Balin. Not any longer.”

“Do you remember that audience in the throne room when King Thrór met with the refugees from the White Mountains? You were still a prince at that time.”

“How could I forget? Not only did I break protocol, but also I interrupted Grandfather. I declared that if he would not send his troops, I would fight the Orcs who invaded their homes—on my own. Mother was truly ashamed of me on that day. And Father would not speak to me for a month.” “Ah, the impulsiveness of youth,” Balin nodded. “But you have always had your heart in the right place. Do you remember what I told you on that very day?”

“Life is like a battle. When you fall, you have to rise again and fight. Otherwise you lose,” Thorin said under his breath. He recalled the countless nights when he whispered those words to himself, lying on the hard ground, far from home, when the thought of retribution was the only thing that drove him forward.

“We reclaimed our homeland thanks to you. You overcame the curse and led us to victory. You have fought and won this great battle, Thorin,” the elderly Dwarf spoke softly.

“I did not. Not alone,” Thorin admitted, unable to look Balin in the eye, his throat constricted. Something ached in his chest, and it was not his wound. “I had help.”

“Indeed. I saw the Pale Orc’s corpse. It bore marks of dwarven weapons… and others that bore resemblance to talons and a beak,” the older Dwarf said.

Thorin did not reply. Not because he chose not to speak but because the right words would not come to him.

After a pause, his mentor added, “Fili claims that he heard a deafening sound, like a large bird’s screech, only moments before they caught sight of you on the frozen river.”

“A screech…” Thorin repeated to himself. Something stirred in his mind; Azog’s hideous grimace, the ice beneath him reverberating with a strange sound that filled the air, and the moment when the tip of Orcrist’s blade plunged into the Orc’s chest. He blinked several times. His own words rang in his ears.

“Carra, no!”

He remembered the darkness that came afterwards. And pain.

A life for a life.

It should have been him.

Balin’s voice seemed to come from far away.

“... I heard the guards retelling the old legends of the White Raven. And a new tale is spreading through Erebor: a story about a large, white-feathered raven that bravely fought by the King Under the Mountain’s side at Ravenhill,” he said.

Thorin remained silent, staring at the white sheets that covered him. White as ice on that day. White as the feathers in her wings. He felt cold.

Silence seemed to stretch between them like the bottomless chasm beneath the Mountain until Balin spoke again.

“Help me understand this, laddie.”

Reluctantly, Thorin’s fingers found the leather band strung around his neck and pulled it from under the blankets that covered him. His old friend’s eyes widened at the sight of a silver-white feather.

“The White Raven…” The words in Thorin’s mouth tasted like ash. “Carra. I have known her for most of my life. After Smaug's attack, she left her nest behind and followed me to the Blue Mountains.” Thorin met his mentor’s eyes.

“The White Raven... The stuff of legend, eh?” Balin hummed, examining the feather with reverence.

“I am aware of what it must sound like. Legend or not, she is real. She was,” he corrected himself, swallowing hard. “At Ravenhill… Had she not intervened, Azog would have taken my life. She chose ’ugbalul ’uhaskhajam and gave her life for me instead.”

“Thorin… By Mahal’s hammer, laddie, what are you saying?” The feather fell from his mentor’s hand onto the bed. “’Ugbalul ’uhaskhajam, the act of sacrificing one’s life in battle to protect another, is only performed by one’s kin!”

“Or a spouse,” explained Thorin flatly.

Balin looked down at the silver-white feather and then glanced towards the door before speaking again.

“Dwalin told me that you spoke of a wife,” the elderly Dwarf said. “We thought it might have been your feverish mind speaking, nothing more.”

“It was not. She is… Carra was my wife, Balin.” His own whisper sounded hollow.

Balin stayed silent for a few heartbeats and then cleared his throat, as if deciding on something.

“That certainly explains quite a bit—including a very curious occurrence. You see, Thorin, after the battle, we did not find any signs of this revered bird at Ravenhill. Instead, there is a strange woman of mysterious provenance in our infirmary, and the healers…”

“Here, in Erebor?! Alive?” Thorin grabbed Balin’s sleeve, seeing him nod. “Tell me, what colour is this woman’s hair?!”

“Her hair is like this feather: white, dusted with silver,” his mentor replied. “She lives and is under good care. We brought her into the Mountain together with you, but...”

“Thank Mahal!” Thorin rested on his right arm, lifting his upper body as much as he could. “Balin, take me to her at once!”

Swiftly, he moved to the side in an attempt to rise from the bed while a pang of pain shot through his body, sudden like lightning. He fell onto his pillows, taking deep breaths and fighting a wave of dizziness.

“I am afraid you are in no shape to walk, laddie,” Balin rested his hand on his uninjured shoulder. “You are on the mend, but the healers say that you will need time to…”

“Balin! By Mahal’s beard!” Thorin fisted his hand, trying to curb his temper and ignore the pain. “Do you not understand? I need to see her!”

“You are as stubborn as your grandfather,” the elderly Dwarf shook his head in defeat. “Let me talk with Nari and see what can be done. I will be back in a jiffy.”

Balin’s jiffy felt like an eternity to Thorin, but he waited, albeit impatiently.

Carra was alive.

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