Chapter Text
Puffy white clouds dot the sky as Thorin Oakenshield, number two in the succession to the throne of Erebor, rides with his father and a selected number of guards through a bright green field half a day’s trek outside of Rivendell. The goal of their long journey finally lies within sight; a homely house sitting in the middle of a verdant green field, lacking all defenses.
It's a hobbit house and no sane inhabitant of this part of Middle Earth would dare attack it.
The Hobbits’ Peace, as it is called, has lasted nearly four centuries now and changed everything. Not Erebor, rich in gems and precious metals is the wealthiest kingdom, nor Gondor or Rohan, each home to fierce warriors, the most powerful. No, instead the tiny, quaint Shire - which in truth is not even a kingdom at all - may lay claim to these titles.
The mission from Erebor has traveled far when they finally lay eyes on the goal of their journey. Dale gave them their best wishes – and a copy of the latest editions of Bilbo Baggins’ book on “Etiquette for Hobbits.”
Thorin shudders. They all know the book by heart, yet the many details – like knowing what the way you hold your fork may signal – are difficult for dwarves to remember. Most in Middle Earth simply prefer to avoid dealing directly with hobbits; but Erebor needs to renegotiate their trade contract.
The old ruby mines that paid for the grain, fruit, wine, beer, and meat imported from hobbit-owned lands are beginning to yield less, while the hobbits have signalled discontent regarding the quality of the stone delivered. Naturally, Thorin is aware of the claims preposterous nature as are all in Erebor. Hobbits simply lack the dwarven appreciation of gemstones; however, as owners or managers of all produce-growing land in Erebor’s vicinity they must make their trade with them.
King Thror hopes the hobbits will agree to a change in contract – and has sent his son and grandson out to negotiate the treaty.
“Sound the signal,” Thrain instructs one of their escort. “Let them know we have arrived.” His father sounds nervous, Thorin realizes, and then Thrain turns back to him and Thorin.
“Now, we all know that hobbits do not like to leave their Shire and it is a very welcoming gesture that they sent an emissary to meet us here,” Thrain says, not for the first time, and Thorin feels like rolling his eyes. If the hobbits had truly wanted to be welcoming, they wouldn’t have made Thrain and Thorin travel this far in the first place.
“So I expect you to remember your manners at all times.”
At the sounds of the trumpet some movement stirs in the house. Several elves step outside, armed to their teeth.
Elves, of course it had to be elves.
Thorin’s opinion of the hobbits sinks even lower. Not only have they successfully put all of Middle Earth into their chokehold, they also know how to profit from ancient grudges and delight causing embarrassment.
“State your business,” the leader of the elves demands harshly, drawing himself up in an attempt to tower over Thrain on his pony. However, both Thrain and Thorin are tall for dwarves, so the elf’s attempt falls flat.
“Thrain, son of Thror. We have come to renegotiate our contract with the hobbit representative,” Thrain replies calmly and holds out his hand with the ring carrying his sigil.
The elf frowns a bit, before inclining his head. “Only two of you may enter, and you must leave your weapons.”
With a sinking feeling Thorin hands his weapons over to Dwalin and then submits himself to a patdown by two rather zealous elves. After this, he and his father are lead through the house and into a small backyard. Three comfortably cushioned chairs are placed around a table, the flower-patterned table cloth fluttering in the wind. An assortment of cakes, fruits and other delicacies sits waiting underneath a large umbrella that provides shade, while a hedge with colorful flowers shields the garden from view.
“Have a seat,” the elf tells Thrain and Thorin and disappears. Reluctantly, both dwarves do.
The sweets smell delicious, but Thorin knows better than to touch one before their host has made an appearance. This is likely a trap – hobbits are known to test others – and this one Thorin will pass despite his empty stomach.
“Thank you for waiting,” a clear voice announces and Thrain and Thorin surge to their feet. Clad in a luxurious black coat with a red silk cape thrown over his shoulder, a small, curly-haired man enters the garden from another doorway. He directs a flat smile at his visitors.
“It is still a little chilly, but I thought it was sunny enough to hold our meeting outside,” the hobbit continues, and under the sunlight his hair shines gold. He’s a soft, plump creature, obviously spoiled by the luxuries he and his kin have won. Even his hands are soft and scarless – he likely has never seen a fight in his life.
“I believe that is a wonderful decision,” Thrain replies, and casts a short, sharp glare into Thorin’s direction. Small talk, Thorin remembers from the etiquette book. Small talk is terribly important to hobbits - and a terrible bore to most dwarves.
“Yes,” he chokes out, and the hobbit does raise an eyebrow at him.
“Thank you very much for receiving us. I am Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain, and this is my son, Thorin,” Thrain introduces them and politely inclines his head.
“A pleasure to meet you,” Thorin grits out.
The hobbit looks mildly amused. “Bilbo Baggins, at your service.”
Thrain flinches. Thorin flinches.
While the Shire may not be a kingdom and hobbit society not organised around the usual hierarchies of nobles and commoners, some Shire families are better known (richer, more powerful), than others. And the Baggins family well-known and well-positioned, being directly related to the Shire’s regent - the Thain.
If Bilbo Baggins himself made the trip, the Shire is taking these negotiations quite seriously. And Thrain and Thorin need to be twice as careful.
“Please sit,” Bilbo invites them as he moves over to primly take his seat himself. Thorin and Thrain follow suit, feeling both very strange and uncomfortable on the small, filigrane chairs. “It is quite a long journey from Erebor I believe. Did you have a chance to refresh?”
An elf comes by to bring them freshly brewed tea. The sweet aroma is unlike any blend they have in Erebor, though Thorin prefers water. Which, he finds, has also been improved by the addition of a few slices of lemon.
“We did not, but we only traveled from Rivendell today,” Thrain replies dutifully and takes a sip of his tea. “This is a lovely blend.”
Thorin wants to roll his eyes.
“Isn’t it?” Bilbo smiles, his eyes sparkling. “It’s an import from Gondor; though we usually purchase it through the elves in Rivendell. Did you enjoy their hospitality?”
Thrain’s smile grows slightly tortured. “They were most welcoming.”
Bilbo - who must know about the long and deep antipathy between elves and dwarves - has the audacity to chuckle. He probably chose this location in order to force them to stay at Rivendell!
“Well, I'm glad you enjoyed your stay, though I am certain you are missed back at home,” Bilbo comments and beckons to one of the elves standing nearby. The tray he holds, Thorin realises, has several rolls of parchment as well as writing materials. “So let us talk about the matter at hand.”
Bilbo gives his tea a last stir, before he sets cup and spoon aside, folds his hands on the table and leans forward. “I was informed,” he begins with cool smile, “that Erebor would like to change the terms of the trade contract.”
Thorin sucks in a sharp breath and steels his nerves. His father, next to him, nods politely. “We do hope the Shire is amenable to that.”
Bilbo polite smile reveals nothing. “As a matter of fact, we were thinking about a change of terms as well.”
Thrain sighs in relief. And even Thorin has to admit that he is glad they so easily overcame the first potential obstacle.
“What are the terms the Shire favours?” Thrain inquires.
Bilbo reaches for a folded document and glances at it for a short moment. “The consensus in Hobbiton is to lower the exports of meat and grain to Erebor. It is a deficitary business at the moment and Erebor’s deliveries of diamonds and jewels do not cover the cost.”
The words echo in Thorin's ear like a thunderclap. Around him birds continue to chirp and sing, a soft wind rustles through the leaves of the nearby bushes and bends the long grain stalks of the field, and when Thrain inquires about the reason Bilbo hands him the parchment, though his voice seems to come from far away.
“The value of diamonds has depreciated a good deal. And concerning the rubies, lately some doubts as to their quality have arisen.”
A faint layer of sweat beads Thrain’s forehead as he looks over - as far as Thorin can tell - a simple calculation. His own stomach twists - the value of their precious stones gone down?
“We cannot … Erebor needs those deliveries for its continued survival,” Thrain argues softly.
Bilbo’s face remains unmoved and Thorin hates him a little more.
“I understand,” says the hobbit who likely simply doesn't care about the lives of dwarves. “Which is why we need to reach an agreement.”
Thrain nods, swallows loudly. Thorin glares at Bilbo, while the hobbit leans back. “It would help if Erebor could provide us with annual updates as to its population development. We have clauses as to this in several of our trading contracts. If the population increases by a certain percentage, both food volume and payment will be adjusted accordingly.”
What a clever way of keeping appraised of everyone’s numbers and movements, Thorin thinks.
“Maybe…” Thrain begins.
“The King will never agree to that,” Thorin argues, because the hobbits will not gain that knowledge.
Thrain bows his head. “No,” he agrees, “I expect he won't.”
“Well, I would encourage you to suggest it to him anyway,” Bilbo says lightly. “Else we may have to renegotiate sooner rather than later again.”
Avoiding that would be pleasant. Still, Thorin will not allow the hobbits to gain even more control over Erebor than they already have.
“What type of contract does Ered Luin have?” Thrain diplomatically inquires.
“Their general trading contract is based on such a percentage system,” Bilbo says evenly and takes a sip of his tea. “It has since matured quite a bit.”
Thorin wonders if their kin in Ered Luin would agree with that assessment. Especially since the Blue Mountains have never been particularly wealthy regarding precious stones.
“If I may ask, what do they trade?” Thrain asks. “Because while Erebor may be rich, paying more for the same amount of food is a hard deal to sell.”
Bilbo's lips quirk at that. “I'm perfectly aware of that,” he states. “Ered Luin renders various services to the Shire from simple home repairs, jewellery crafting, to military support. They mainly export iron and copper wares, but the majority of that is not sold to the Shire - the Shire isn't a very large market after all.”
“Erebor could deliver finished jewellery in place of raw diamonds to the Shire,” Thrain offers. Thorin frowns - the jewellers of Erebor will not like that. Already they, like most, resent having to send so much to the Shire.
Bilbo heaves a put-upon sigh, and Thorin’s fingers clench in the fabric of his trousers. “This is a potential venue but I'm well aware those finance Erebor’s trade with Gondor to a large degree. Do you have such a surplus in jewellery production?”
Thrain gulps. Thorin looks at the hobbit darkly. How easy it would be to lunge over the table - he doesn't even need a sword. That slender neck - one twist and it'd be done. Too quick for even the watching elven guards to intervene.
Bilbo folds his fingers on the table before him, daintily avoiding brushing his sleeve against the delicate plate. “Since I believe the trade in jewels is currently benefitting neither party, I wonder if there are other materials you may want to trade in.”
Thrain exhales loudly. “Mithril?”
And Thorin just snaps. Defeat is written in his father’s posture, and he refuses to allow that! They have cowered before those diminutive creatures for so long, and their demands have only grown bolder. But the dwarves of Erebor are slaves to no one. Not while Thorin lives.
“How dare you!” he shouts and surges to his feet. “Have you no scruples? No conscience stopping you? Will you ask for our lives next?”
His heart beats wildly. “Your demands are absurd, and for what? Little grain and a bit of meat for our greatest treasures? You may have pulled wool over the eyes of the rest of the world, but Erebor will not stand for this!”
The moment he stops, Thorin realises he has just ruined everything. A cold elven blade is pressed against his throat; three archers have taken aim. He's as good as dead.
His teacup and cake plate lie in shambles on the ground, Bilbo eyes him with a pinched expression, and his father’s face is stark white. In the corner of his eyes he can see two elves forcing a struggling Dwalin to the ground.
Bilbo says nothing. Then he takes a slow sip of his tea, while his eyes never leave Thorin’s. Cold and cruel they are, studying every twitch of his muscle. Probably contemplating what terrible end to sentence Thorin to.
Good. He’ll die a martyr then.
“Master Baggins, please, I understand, but he's my son, I beg you - “ Thrain starts.
Bilbo does not even look at him. “So,” he says, cutting easily through Thrain’s words and yet sounding as if idly discussing the weather. “You disagree?”
Thorin rises his head. If he is to die he’ll die proudly.
“I do!” Thorin proudly proclaims. “You hobbits hold everyone in the thrall of your terrible power! You pretend to be fair, yet you rule with cruelty and harshness! Why else would all of the world bow to you treacherous creatures!”
“I always thought starvation was cruel,” Bilbo mildly comments, not even noticing how everybody, elves and dwarves, flinch at the casual mention of their supplies. “Not supplying others with produce.”
His eyes - clever and calculating and stunning - bore into Thorin's.
“Master Baggins,” the leader of the elves speaks up. “You must set an example! Execute him on the spot and put his head on a spike!”
“I’d rather not spill blood on the begonias,” and now Bilbo looks away to gaze at the flowers. “They've only just taken root in these grounds.”
“Take me!” Thrain leaves his seat to fall to his knees before the hobbit. “Please, my son is young and foolish. Give him a chance, he will see reason. If a price must be paid, I will gladly pay it.”
“Execute them both!” another elf yells. “They spoke treason! Erebor needs sanctioning! They've obviously grown too proud in their mountain!”
Bilbo, still looking at the flowers, grimaces.
“Is there no other option?” Thrain pleads while Thorin stands his ground. He's shaken on the inside, though - forfeiting his own life for the cause he will gladly do. But risking Erebor’s food supply - the survival of thousands of dwarves - was not what he expected to gamble with.
Bilbo exhales slowly. “Due to your station and the heretofore friendly relations between Erebor and the Shire I will not see any blood spilled here. Instead, you must come with me to the Shire so the Thain may decide your fate.”
Thorin's heart sinks. The Shire is even further from Erebor - he'd rather die - but his father is bowing his head, thanking a hobbit who stares at the horizon instead and Thorin wants to scream.
Instead, the elves force him away.
They leave late the next morning. Thorin frowns while Bilbo indulges a hearty breakfast and has the audacity to invite them to do the same. They are his prisoners, and now he is fattening them up like pigs.
Perhaps, Thorin thinks darkly as Bilbo reaches for a beautifully red tomato, this is the hobbits’ secret. They sow the ground with the bodies of their enemies. It does fit the pattern of unexplained disappearances surrounding the Shire.
Thorin, Thrain, and Dwalin have their hands bound together. Their ponies are led by the elven guards riding with them - the rest of their escort is sent back to Erebor in a gesture of mercy.
Bilbo - as befitting of the cowardly nature of hobbits - does not lead their small company. Instead his tiny figure is framed by four elves who Thorin knows will lay down their lives for him.
He has little love for elves. But in this he wonders if they may not share an interest in shaking off the yoke of the hobbits.
“Say, Master Thorin,” an unwelcome voice cuts through Thorin’s darkening thoughts on their second day of travel. “What has my kind done to earn your hatred?”
Bilbo nudges his pony to ride alongside Thorin’s, and he wishes he could reach over and wrap his hands around that neck. But his hands are tied to the saddle.
“The depth of your grudge has me surprised, I admit. I am used to an amount of envy, distrust, or misgivings, though those can usually be worked out over the course of negotiations,” Bilbo idly chatters. “You, however - I wonder, did you have a bad experience with a hobbit?” He seems more amused than anything.
Thorin finds he can't keep his silence. “You!” he explodes sharply enough to make his pony dance nervously. “You treat everything so lightly! My people pay you in the most precious of metals the earth holds - we give you beautiful gems and the most stunning Jewel works, and yet all we receive in return is a little food. Some wine, some bread. But always we must work harder!”
Bilbo tilts his head. “You believe the pricing is off?”
When Thorin remains fuming in silence, he continues. “Well, I do not know how much effort it takes Erebor to produce these gems, so the pricing may indeed be off. This, however, is on your end entirely, and I cannot help you. The amount of produce you receive in return, that I can tell you, is actually fairly generous. We have to supply others too, and we can't eat precious stones.”
He grimaces for a moment, and then golden eyes come to rest on Thorin. “In all honesty, Master Thorin,” this tiny figure in his black coat and red silk cape comments, “we have very little use for your precious gems.”
Thorin's blood runs cold. Their most precious works - all disregarded? The effort and sweat of his kin worth nothing in the end?
“I see I have offended you again,” Bilbo comments, serious now. “I did not mean to, in that I am honest. Dwarves treasure precious stones. But to us hobbits food is far more important. I ask you to consider.”
With that he nudges his pony forward again. And Thorin, against his will realises he has just been lectured by a hobbit. A soft creature with smooth hands that have never seen battle. What right has he -
Though then, a small voice in the back of his mind wonders, what do the hobbits then do with all the precious metals and stones sent from Erebor as payment for grain and produce?
Maybe, and here Thorin's mood darkens once again, he lied.
The fits. Bilbo Baggins, he observes over the following weeks, is a sly creature. Underneath his polite smiles lurk cunning and callous calculation. Even the elves don't seem to realise it.
And his father engages in polite conversation with the hobbit nearly everyday. He's too soft, Thorin thinks, his father will never be able to drive a hard bargain. Thror should have known…
Travel proceeds much smoother with a hobbit in their group. The one group of orcs they come across abandon their attack the moment they see Bilbo, and the bandits end up hiding from them.
“They're afraid for their villages,” Thorin overhears Bilbo tell Thrain. “They probably still have families there.”
Then why, Thorin wants to yell, do the hobbits not send enough food to make sure those men do not need to turn to a life of crime in order to survive.
Around them the land turns into fields and paddocks. Small, cozy houses sit atop green, rolling hills and overhead fluffy white clouds chase across a deep blue sky on a warm summer’s breeze.
It's disgustingly picturesque.
Evil, Thorin remembers, often takes the form of beauty. This then, must show terrible evil.
The people working the fields in the distance are men, not hobbits, he realises. His father also takes note of them.
“Men?” he asks of Bilbo. “I thought only hobbits could make things grow?”
“They help,” Bilbo replies. “We … could not supply all of Arda if we only relied on the work of our hands, could we?” He chuckles.
But a good part of the question remains unanswered. And Thrain, unlike Thorin, has the good sense to leave it at that.
They make station in a small town called Bree that night. For its fame - gateway to the hobbits’ domain, central place for negotiations, it's surprisingly quaint. Most houses are built from wood, people dress in cloth of quality but not splendor. Dale, Thorin thinks, is far more impressive than this tiny village is.
At the following morning they actually set out early in order to make the rest of the trip within a day. Thick fog encompasses them the moment they leave the village - and now Bilbo does take the lead.
“This part is tricky,” he comments toward the elves who are reluctant to allow him to the front. “Once you know the road it's easy to find, but more than one person has gotten lost in the downs or the forest trying. It's tricky like that.”
He laughs, and his black outline in the white fog appears eerie, otherworldly. There must be magic here, Thoron thinks with a shudder. Evil magic protecting the hobbits’ realm - even his pony is nervous.
As they make their way forward, he thinks he sees shapes moving in the fog. Hears voices calling - but when he turns to look, they have vanished.
Only later, as the sun begins to rise higher, the shapes clear into the form of old, gnarled trees. Their leaves seem nearly black, their trunks broad and twisted. No forest near Erebor looks this ancient - another trace of the hobbits’ magic, then.
When they emerge, many hours later, it is to find a broad gurgling river crossed by a broad stone bridge. A mill sits a few miles downstream, and once they have crossed the water, they have entered the Shire.
Something cold runs down Thorin’s spine. It's as if the road just closed behind him and all hopes for a sudden turn of events now have failed.
It's forfeit then. Whatever happens to his father, to Dwalin, to him - to Erebor - is now all up to these hobbits.
They see very few of them as they make their way onwards. Some look up from comfortable rocking chairs in their gardens, dressed fancily and smoking pipes. What a luxury this leisure must be, Thorin thinks and anger coils in his stomach once again.
Once they come across a child. A young girl who is dragged toward their home by her mother who is deaf - coldly deaf - to the child's pleas to leave her be.
Of course, Thorin thinks with ice in his veins, few beings are born evil. Hobbits must teach their children from early on. And from the looks of it, they treat their progeny as callously as they treat their trading partners.
“Hello Bilbo, my boy,” an elderly lady greets them as they finally come to a stop before another of those houses melded into a hill. “Gerontius waits for you in his study, but I think you should all have a bite first! Look at you, you've grown thin!”
“Grandmother,” Bilbo greets warmly and enfolds her in a hearty embrace. Thorin, Thrain, Dwalin, and their elven entourage remain respectfully in the background until the hobbits disentangle themselves.
“We must speak with grandfather immediately, but I’m certain our companions will enjoy some refreshments in the meantime,” Bilbo replies apologetically and the lady’s face grows solemn.
“Very well,” she agrees. And with a few decisive words the group is split. The elves are lead away to waiting refreshments, while Thorin, his father, Dwalin, Bilbo and his grandmother all proceed into the smial. Thorin studies the gold and diamond-studded doorknobs with growing displeasure. Exquisite carpets line the ground, and his stomach drops further when he realizes the chandelier is made of mithril.
Trust hobbits not to treat this precious metal with the respect it deserves. Savages, Thorin thinks, barbarians.
Because as rich and finely made everything in the smial is, it feels like an afterthought. As if those beautiful sapphires and emeralds don’t matter and had only been used due to the lack of an alternative. It makes Thorin’s blood boil.
Eventually they find themselves in a cozy sitting room with. The armchairs have fantastically welded golden legs with rubies, are decked out with exquisite silk pillows, and the tea comes in fine china cups. The Thain - Bilbo’s grandfather - listens attentively to Bilbo retell the tale. His eyes, surrounded by many wrinkles but clever and quick, watch the dwarves shift uneasily.
Even Thorin has to cringe when he is reminded of his outburst. A part of him is angry at himself. Another part holds more anger at the hobbits for forcing him into this situation. If he is to die, then he will die for a noble cause, so that perhaps one day his kin may be able to cut ties entirely.
“This is a most unfortunate development,” the Thain laments, eyes wandering from Bilbo to Thrain, to Thorin, and then back to Thrain. “While this could be solved by punishing the sole culprit alone, I do understand your feelings on the matter. Indeed, I do not think an execution proper at this point.”
Thrain nods emphatically, shoulders already sinking with relief. Thorin waits for the other shoe to drop.
“However, with the rules being what they are, and the situation to the east being what it is, word by now will have spread. Outside of the Shire your son won’t be safe.”
Thrain pales. And Thorin abruptly realizes that he landed himself in far deeper trouble than he expected. With the strength of the hobbits’ magic unknown and the great reliance on their produce of every village, kingdom, and single individual in all of Arda - they will vie with each other to be the first to present the Thain with Thorin’s head.
The fact that he is heir to the throne of Erebor barely even matters.
“But no outsiders are allowed to stay in the Shire,” Thrain weakly protests.
Bilbo, with a death grip on his teacup now, nods. His expression is strangely concerned, and now dread blossoms in Thorin’s stomach.
The Thain hums, looks at Thorin appraisingly. “There is … an alternative that would negate the need for any punishment at all.”
“Oh,” the Thain’s wife, comments, eyes widening. “Of course.”
“No!” Bilbo protests abruptly. “Who would even -”
“Only the offended party, I believe,” the Thain replies evenly.
“I refuse!” Bilbo shouts, and this is the first time Thorin has seen him lose his temper. It’s not nearly as spectacular as Thorin’s own outburst - instead of throwing it, Bilbo sets his teacup firmly down and remains seated despite the two red spots of color now on his cheek. “Grandfather, you can’t make me -”
“Do you want to see him dead?” his grandmother asks sharply. “You know it is the only alternative. And I think your tempers might be quite well-matched.” Bilbo stiffens under her glare and looks away, lips glued firmly together.
Somewhere outside, a bell rings, high and clear.
“It would be a fortunate, too,” the Thain adds tentatively. “We have … neglected to tie ourselves closer to the people we are dealing with. The rumors told about us hobbits are outrageous, and I would rather know before those rumors result in somebody starving.”
"I understand," Bilbo hisses and crosses his arms over his chest. A shadow passes over the Thain's face and for a moment he seems about to reach out, but then thinks better of it.
"It is appreciated," he says to Bilbo, before returning his attentive gaze to Thrain and Thorin. He claps his hand together, gives them a pale smile, and asks: "Would you be agreeable?"
Thorin blinks in utter confusion, and his father looks similarly mystified. “Excuse me,” Thrain meekly stammers. “But what is this solution?”
For a moment only the faint echo of bells, bird song and rustling leaves from the outside fill the cozy sitting room.
“Marriage,” the Thain says and looks to Thrain with a gentle, comforting smile that turns Thorin’s stomach. “Your son would have to marry my grandson, which would make his tantrum legitimate, and negate the need for any punishment in consequence.”
Dizziness rises in Thorin’s chest; the room blurs. Marriage?
“It would also, I believe, aid the connection between Erebor and the Shire,” the Thain is saying as Thorin’s fingers first in the fabric of his trousers.
Thrain, pale still, nods in contemplation and Thorin wants to scream. He can’t mean to agree - he can’t! Thorin needs to be King of Erebor one day! He can’t live in the Shire!
(But he does have a sister and a brother who could rule Erebor as well, if not better, once the day comes, a treacherous voice in the back of his mind whispers).
“If that is the only option,” Thrain says hesitantly, his head already bowed.
The Thain grimaces. “That or regardless of what we decide today, your son will die.”