Thorin Stonehelm passed his hand over the thick, crackling paper. It was stiff and crumbling with age, the letters faded in places.

These were the words of his great cousin, his namesake, hidden in his father’s rooms for long, long years. They had been secreted in bundles inside an empty barrel of the hellishly strong Rhûnic wine. His father hadn’t ever thrown the barrel out. Thorin had always wondered why.

His father had seemed hewn from the hard red rock of the Iron Hills, fierce and unchanging and larger-than-life, but here in these pages a young Dwarf was brought to life. A young Dwarf – just a child – sorrowing, unsure, grieving, adjusting. Dáin Ironfoot, King and Lord and hero, had been a figure of legend.

Dáin-the-father had been a silly, merry, irreverent old fellow with more secrets than hairs in his beard.

Here was Dáin the Dwarf, whom few people had ever seen.

Teasing words and careless affection leaped from every fragile page. Orc-breath, Ironheaded Imbecile, Boorish Peasant, dearest cousin, thank you thank you…

And the other, the one his father had clung to like a piece of driftwood in a stormy sea? Thorin’s own namesake and his personal hero, for most of his life? He was far more than mighty deeds and a hard-won crown. He was not just a titan of history, not just a name in a song. Here was a careworn leader, a struggling brother, a worried uncle, a loving cousin… he was real here. A real person, a friend.

He had breathed, and cried, and fought, and danced, and roared, and laughed. He had been frustrated and afraid and annoyed and tired and sad… and full of such joy. Such hope.

He had been so very real.

The next words were less faded, the letters etched deeper, as though Oakenshield had been struggling not to tear the page in his agitation.

You are only forty-four. Do not be so hard on yourself. Mahal’s beard, you were only thirty-two at the time! You had a right to your sadness after losing both your parents and your foot. It is not your fault that Gren is an unscrupulous old snake.

It sounds as though this deal with Rhûn is costing you more than you wish to admit. Do not suffer for our sake, Dáin. That solves nothing. I will not stand by while others suffer for me. Not now, not ever again.

Hammerfoot sounds ridiculous. Ironfoot sounds far better. Use Ironfoot. Dwalin and Glóin agree with me.

Thorin put down the letter he was holding and stared at the wall for a moment. He had not wept for his father.

Perhaps he should.

(And then he wondered if one day, people would forget that Thorin Stonehelm was also more than a crown.)