The Desolation of Smaug. But not anymore. The dragon is dead, and Erebor belongs to dwarves again.
All this will one day be mine. I cast my gaze as far as the eye could see and it will all me mine. But there is no gladness in my heart when I think of the future.
Will I become like my uncle? Consumed by greed and grief, longing for nothing but gold? Will my days also be dedicated to a fruitless search for shining gold? Ignoring my friends and shutting out those who love me, discarding my kin like insignificant servants? Setting all aside in an insatiable desire for wealth? If that is what it means to be a king, then I do not want to be one.
Will I wear a crown that sits on my head like a heavy weight? I do not wish to hold the world atop my shoulders. I do not wish to be a figurehead for brave deeds, or a whispered image preserved in statues and paintings. I wish for songs to be sung of me and my brave deeds, not of those done in my name. I do not want to rule the mountain, but to defend it.
I was not made for golden crowns and silver seats, nor for open debates and closed council. I was not made for sitting and watching while others die. I was not made for heaps of coins and hoards of gems. I was made for the open fields, the battle plains, the rising sun and the setting moon. I was made for tavern brawls, and laughing with my brother, and drinking long into the night. I was made for singing and dancing, and for the quiet moments when all is well.
I do not wish to sit on a throne and waste away.
I have seen what it has done to Thorin, and heard tales of Thrain and Thror, and other rulers before them. I have seen the hunger in my uncles eyes as he touches the jewels, lets the glittering gold run through his fingers. I have seen the way he lifts priceless goblets to his parched lips as if to drink their wealth away. I have seen his fervent need for more, the fanatical way he digs through mithril and platinum.
Would I be like that, were I to be king?
Is that truly the path I must take? Am I fated to a life of imprisonment behind golden bars, strapped to a seat made of marble? I do not wish to be like the dwarf lords of old.
My heart hungers not for treasures, but for the sweet warm smell of home.
Read it on AO3! http://archiveofourown.org/works/3631194