Erebor was not a joyfull place to those who looked apon it from the outside. It was a Mountain that long held its nickname of The Lonley Mountain to be true. The kings under the mountain held a job that few were strong enough to handle, and even fewer were willing to do. For the kings of Erebor, sheperded the souls of those lost to hardship and stife, to war and hunger and goblin attack, to accident and old age and murder, all of the souls that died went through the under gates of the mountain, greeted and ushered onto the next life to be judged by the creator by the king.
The people of Erebor adored thier king. Each time a new heir would take up the heavy burden that came along with the crown, they gave thier support and thier love. For such a job wore apon the soul of a person, the many woes of the lost people dragging at the many kings sanity and happiness. Yet not once had a king of Erebor shirked thier duty or tried to pass the crown to anouther before they could handle no more. Each time the line of Durin stepped forward to claim thier crown and take up the task of escorting the dead to thier rightfull place. Such was the curse of the mountain.
As much as his own people could show thier support and thier loyalty, not everyone in the world of Middle earth held such views on the king of death. As such when a young prince named Thorin just barely of age took the crown from his ailing father, he was made aware of just how feared his position was to peoples outside of Erebor, how loathed and terrifying he became as the king of death. As much as his kin and friends tried to sheild it from him, every time he dared to wander outside of the mountain he saw the fear, and the hatred. For he was the one that came to take thier family away when they passed, and for that crime he was forever guilty and to be shunned.
So king Thorin stopped leaving the mountain, he slowly lost the gleam of Life in his eyes as the years of his service wore on. His hair was streaked with silver and his face was lined with an age he did not own; there was no joy in the king under the mountain, for he had no one to share the burden and no one willing to comfort him in the way only the one closest to his heart could. Thorin had given up finding his one when he took the crown, for who would want the king of death as a life mate?
So his heart grew heavier and heavier in his chest with each passing day, and his vitality began to drain away. He was holding on, but his people could see his suffering, and knew he had not long to last. So they began to search for something to help thier king that they so loved, something or someone to bring joy back into his life once more.
The people of Erebor adored thier king. Each time a new heir would take up the heavy burden that came along with the crown, they gave thier support and thier love. For such a job wore apon the soul of a person, the many woes of the lost people dragging at the many kings sanity and happiness. Yet not once had a king of Erebor shirked thier duty or tried to pass the crown to anouther before they could handle no more. Each time the line of Durin stepped forward to claim thier crown and take up the task of escorting the dead to thier rightfull place. Such was the curse of the mountain.
As much as his own people could show thier support and thier loyalty, not everyone in the world of Middle earth held such views on the king of death. As such when a young prince named Thorin just barely of age took the crown from his ailing father, he was made aware of just how feared his position was to peoples outside of Erebor, how loathed and terrifying he became as the king of death. As much as his kin and friends tried to sheild it from him, every time he dared to wander outside of the mountain he saw the fear, and the hatred. For he was the one that came to take thier family away when they passed, and for that crime he was forever guilty and to be shunned.
So king Thorin stopped leaving the mountain, he slowly lost the gleam of Life in his eyes as the years of his service wore on. His hair was streaked with silver and his face was lined with an age he did not own; there was no joy in the king under the mountain, for he had no one to share the burden and no one willing to comfort him in the way only the one closest to his heart could. Thorin had given up finding his one when he took the crown, for who would want the king of death as a life mate?
So his heart grew heavier and heavier in his chest with each passing day, and his vitality began to drain away. He was holding on, but his people could see his suffering, and knew he had not long to last. So they began to search for something to help thier king that they so loved, something or someone to bring joy back into his life once more.