Before long, so great was his speed, they could see him as a spark of fire rushing towards them and growing ever huger and more bright, and not the most foolish doubted that the prophecies had gone rather wrong ... He circled for a while high in the air above them lighting all the lake; the trees by the shores shone like copper and like blood with leaping shadows of dense black at their feet. Then down he swooped straight through the arrow-storm, reckless in his rage, taking no heed to turn his scaly sides towards his foes, seeking only to set their town ablaze.
— JRR Tolkien, THE HOBBIT
Realms of Men 2026 | A Middle-Earth Monthly Calendar
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November · Esgaroth, or Lake-Town, was a settlement of the Northmen in Wilderland, and a great trading town. It was destroyed in battle with Smaug the dragon, though it was later rebuilt.
Summary: All you and Dwalin ever manage to say to each other is hello. Every time you try to talk—at Bag End, on the road, in Rivendell, even in Lake-town—someone interrupts. It becomes almost laughable how the universe seems determined to keep the two of you from having a single proper conversation. Still, the stolen glances, the lingering touches, and the quiet moments on watch make it obvious you’re both falling for each other… just not to each other. After battles, spiders, trolls, and one very close call, it finally takes Bilbo Baggins’ meddling to trap the two of you alone long enough to finish a sentence—and the truth that comes out is worth every interruption.
Pairing: Dwalin x Male Reader
Warnings: Canon-typical violence (trolls, goblins, spiders, battle scenes), Minor gore/blood (battle wounds, including reader injury), Character injury, Near-death experience, Emotional stress/fear, General fantasy violence, Light swearing (canon-appropriate dwarf swears)
This is a work of fanfiction based on The Hobbit. I do not own The Hobbit or any related characters or settings; all original material belongs to their respective creators.
You arrived at the cozy, round green door of Bag End feeling a mix of nerves and curiosity. In your hand was a letter bearing the seal of Thorin Oakenshield, inviting you to join an “adventure to reclaim the lost Dwarven kingdom of Erebor.” As a dwarf who grew up far from your kin – raised among the Men of Bree – you weren’t exactly sure what to expect. But you knew this was your chance to reconnect with your heritage and prove yourself. With a steadying breath, you rapped on the door.
The door creaked open, and you found yourself face-to-face with a rather flustered hobbit. “Oh my – more of you, then? Um, do come in,” he said, stepping aside. You ducked through the round doorway into a warm, lamp-lit hall. The smells of baked goods and pipe-weed hung in the air.
Inside, shrugging off your travelling cloak, your eyes quickly caught sight of another guest who had arrived before you. A burly dwarf sat at the dining table, already tucking into what looked like seed cakes and bread as if he made himself at home. He was bald on top with tattoos curving along his scalp, and a long beard draped over his broad chest. His muscular arms were bare and corded with strength, and twin axes rested within easy reach at his side. You recognised him immediately from reputation: this had to be Dwalin, the famed warrior and close friend of Thorin.
Hearing your entrance, Dwalin looked up from his meal. His keen, bright eyes met yours across the cozy room. A jolt went through you – whether of surprise or something else entirely – as he gave a polite half-bow from his seat. “Dwalin, at your service,” he rumbled in a deep voice, rolling the words formally but with a hint of warmth.
Your heart beat a little faster. You hastily returned the courtesy with a short bow of your own. “And I’m (Y/N), at yours,” you managed to say, giving your name and the same formula in a voice that hopefully didn’t betray your sudden nerves. Up close, he was even more imposing, but there was a friendliness in his gaze that put you somewhat at ease.
For a moment, you and Dwalin simply looked at each other, uncertain what to say next now that introductions were done. You realised you might have been staring a bit – he was quite impressive, after all. You felt your face heat and quickly tried to think of something intelligent to ask. “How, uh… how are you finding the food?” you blurted softly, noticing the crumbs in his beard from the cakes.
Dwalin chuckled, a low pleasant sound. “It’s not bad at all. This hobbit certainly knows his baking,” he replied, casting an approving glance at the spread on the table. Then he gestured at an empty chair beside him. “Care to join me? There’s plenty to go around.”
You smiled, relieved by his friendly invitation. “Thank you,” you said, moving to take the seat. As you did, you stole another glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He was older than you by some decades at least (if the streaks of grey in his beard were any indication), and he carried himself with the easy confidence of a seasoned fighter. You’d heard tales of Dwalin, son of Fundin – his bravery in battles alongside King Thorin, his unwavering loyalty. Now here he was, offering you seed-cake. If you weren’t careful, you’d end up gawking again.
Just as you settled in, opening your mouth to ask Dwalin another question – DING-DONG! The doorbell clanged loudly, echoing through the hobbit-hole’s halls. Both you and Dwalin startled slightly.
“I’ll get it, shall I?” the hobbit, Mr Bilbo Baggins, as he’d introduced himself, exclaimed. He had been hovering nearby, eyeing the way Dwalin devoured his pantry with a mix of anxiety and forced politeness. Now he looked almost relieved for the excuse to scurry back to the door.
In the brief lull as Bilbo went to answer the door, Dwalin turned back to you. It was as if he, too, realised you’d been about to start a real conversation. He cleared his throat. “So, lad, you’re here for the adventure as well, I take it?” he asked, keeping his voice low and leaning slightly closer across the table.
You straightened, eager to finally exchange more than a greeting. “Aye. I travelled quite a way to join Thorin’s company,” you began, mustering a confident tone. “I may not have grown up among dwarves, but I won’t shirk from whatev—”
“Dwalin, my dear brother!” a jovial voice boomed from the entryway. You flinched, your words cut off as another dwarf – elderly, with a snowy white beard and a red hooded cloak – breezed into the dining room with Bilbo trailing behind nervously.
The new arrival gave a warm laugh upon seeing the two of you. “I see I’m not the first to arrive after all, am I?” he said cheerily. “Dwalin, and… a new face!”
Dwalin had already risen to greet the older dwarf. “Balin! Good to see you, you old fox.” The two brothers embraced heartily, thumping each other on the back. You pushed your chair back and stood as well, trying to be polite despite the interruption souring your mood. You had been this close to a proper talk with Dwalin.
Balin turned to you with shrewd, friendly eyes. “And who might you be, laddie?”
You introduced yourself respectfully. Balin nodded, “Ah! One of the new lads Thorin mentioned. Welcome, welcome.” He extended a hand, which you shook.
Before you could say more, however, Dwalin quickly spoke up. “My brother, have a seat. We were just enjoying some of Mr Baggins’ fine fare.” Dwalin’s tone was hospitable enough, but you noticed a flash of frustration in his eyes as he glanced at you and then away. Perhaps you imagined it. Surely he wasn’t as disappointed as you that your chat got derailed?
Bilbo, seeming to remember his duties as host, hurried to fetch more cups and plates for tea. In moments, Balin had joined the table. The conversation flowed into pleasantries and small talk among the three dwarves and the hobbit. You found yourself largely silent, nibbling a buttered scone as Dwalin and Balin caught up about their journey here, trading good-natured jibes.
Every so often, your gaze met Dwalin’s across the table. Each time, the corner of his mouth quirked as if in apology for the interruption. You gave a faint, understanding smile back. Though you tried to follow Balin’s story about an incident with a wayward pony on the road, your thoughts kept drifting. You replayed the brief moment when Dwalin had leaned in, ready to talk to you alone. You hadn’t imagined that open interest in his face, had you? No, you thought, he was just being friendly. After all, you were new to the company, and he was likely curious who you were – nothing more. Still, a part of you couldn’t help feeling a pang of regret over the lost chance to speak with him one-on-one.
As the rest of Thorin’s company trickled in one by one, any hope of a quiet chat vanished. The simple tea turned into a rollicking supper full of singing, shouting, and planning for the journey. Between greeting new arrivals and the clamour of fourteen dwarves (and one bewildered hobbit) crammed into Bag End, you and Dwalin barely managed a few polite words to each other. Every time you drifted his way, another dwarf would bump between, or some uproar would steal everyone’s attention.
By the end of the night, when Thorin called for everyone to get some rest before the early start, you and Dwalin had been kept frustratingly apart. At one point, you caught his eye across the room during the final toast to the success of the quest; he gave you a faint, apologetic smile that made your heart flip. You returned it, clearly sharing the same disappointment at a connection constantly delayed.
When Thorin announced it was time to rest, you rolled out your bedroll in Bilbo’s parlour beside Fili and Kili. Across the crowded floor, Dwalin was helping Bilbo move a few pieces of furniture to make space for all the snoring dwarves. You watched as he lifted a heavy armchair by himself with ease. In spite of your lingering frustration, you couldn’t suppress a small smile. The evening had been chaotic, yes, but you had met Dwalin – and something about the gruff warrior drew you like a moth to a lantern. We’ll have other chances to talk, you promised yourself silently, settling down for the night. It’s a long journey to the Lonely Mountain; surely we’ll get to know each other on the road.
Little did you know just how many interruptions lay ahead on that journey – and how determined fate (and a certain hobbit conspirator) would have to be to finally let you and Dwalin have a heart-to-heart.
Trolls and Trouble
A couple of days into the journey, you finally found a chance to breathe and gather your wits. The Company had left Hobbiton behind and ventured into the wilds. One evening, after a long day of trekking through rolling hills and thickening woods, Thorin ordered camp. The dwarves spread out to rest under the stars, lighting a small fire and sharing supper. You chewed a piece of dried meat and watched as Dwalin helped tether the ponies. You hoped perhaps tonight, with everyone settling down, you might get a moment to speak with him.
When volunteers were requested to take the first watch of the night, you quickly offered, and Dwalin did as well. Perfect, you thought, heart fluttering at the prospect of a quiet hour alongside him while the others slept. The two of you took up positions at the edge of camp beneath an old oak tree, the forest beyond disappearing into darkness.
For a while, silence reigned except for the crackle of the fire and soft snores of dozing dwarves. Dwalin stood guard a few paces from you, his silhouette solid and reassuring against the flicker of starlight. Summoning some courage, you decided to break the silence. “You handled that hillside troll pretty handily this morning,” you whispered, referring to a small skirmish the group had with a stray troll earlier in the day. Dwalin had leapt forward without hesitation to protect Bombur from the creature’s club.
Dwalin glanced at you and gave a modest grunt. “Could’ve been quicker. Nearly singed my beard when Gandalf blasted the brute.” A wry smile tugged at his lips.
You chuckled softly. “Still, I was impressed. I’ve not travelled with warriors like you before… It’s an honour to learn from you.” The admission slipped out before you could second-guess it.
He raised his brows in surprise, then looked faintly pleased. “You’ve got heart, lad, and good instincts in a fight,” he replied quietly. “Back in that skirmish, I saw you didn’t hesitate to pull Fili out of harm’s way. Quick thinking.”
Your face warmed at the unexpected praise. You hadn’t realized Dwalin had noticed that. Encouraged, you pressed on, voice low, “To be honest, I was afraid I’d be more a burden than a help on this journey. I don’t have the same experience… I grew up away from dwarf-kind, so I’m still finding my place.”
Dwalin shifted, turning to face you more fully. His expression softened in the dim light. “You’re holding your own just fine. Don’t doubt that.” He paused, then added in a slightly gruffer tone as if shy, “If you ever have questions about our ways or need guidance, you can ask me. I know you’re… different, having grown up among Men. Must not be easy joining a bunch of stubborn dwarves on a quest like this.”
Your chest tightened at his understanding. “Thank you. That means a lot, truly.” You met his gaze earnestly. In the quiet night, with the others oblivious, it felt like a small world of two had formed under that oak tree. You could see the orange glow of the campfire reflected in Dwalin’s eyes as he held your gaze. There was something comforting there – a steadiness that made you feel safe enough to open up a little more. “I’ve wanted to ask you… about your life in Ered Luin, serving under King Thorin and fighting in battles. I—I’d love to hear your stories sometime.”
Dwalin actually chuckled, scratching his beard. “My stories? They’re not so interesting. But sure, I could tell a tale or two.” He leaned one shoulder against the tree, seemingly relaxing. “Perhaps tomorrow, while we ride, I’ll regale you with the time me and Balin defended a village from goblins. Now that was a messy affair—”
A sudden noise cut him off. A metallic snap, followed by the startled whinny of a pony. Both of you tensed, instincts on alert. From the shadowy woods came a gruff voice: “Gotcha, ye pesky nag!”
Your eyes widened. That was no dwarf voice – it was far too large and coarse. Dwalin shot you a quick, urgent look and murmured, “Stay here.” Before you could protest, he was creeping toward the pens where the ponies were tied.
Of course, you did not stay put. You silently unsheathed your weapon (a stout hunting sword Balin had given you back in Bag End) and trailed Dwalin. Ahead, in the gloom, you could make out huge shapes lumbering near the ponies. Three trolls – ugly, grey-skinned brutes – were attempting to steal the animals. One troll was cursing and rubbing its backside; it looked like one of the ponies had kicked him.
Dwalin wasted no time. With a fierce battle cry, he burst from cover and swung one of his axes at the nearest troll’s leg. The creature howled as the blade bit into its calf. Immediately, the trolls dropped their attempted theft and turned to attack. “Dwarveses!” one roared.
You leapt out beside Dwalin, heart hammering but determination guiding your arm. Together, you engaged the trolls in the darkened glade. It was a chaotic, frenzied fight – the trolls were strong but clumsy, swiping tree-trunk arms while you dodged and tried to strike at vulnerable spots. Any reply Dwalin might have made to your disobedience was lost as a troll suddenly grabbed him by the arm and lifted him off the ground. He let out a snarl of pain, dropping one axe. Without thinking, you sprang forward and slashed at the troll’s wrist. The creature bellowed, loosening its grip, and Dwalin twisted free, landing hard on the ground. He was on his feet in an instant, retrieving his fallen weapon.
Before either of you could press an advantage, the rest of the Company – awakened by the commotion – charged in with weapons drawn, joining the fray. In the confusion, someone (you would later learn it was Gandalf and Bilbo working together) managed to stall the trolls until the approaching dawn’s light turned all three of the brutes to stone.
You stood gasping for breath amid the sudden stillness, surrounded by hulking stone troll-statues. The sun’s first rays filtered through the trees as everyone gathered themselves. “Everyone alright?” Balin panted, looking around at the group. Murmurs of affirmation sounded as the dwarves patted each other down for injuries. You saw Dwalin nearby, bracing his hands on his knees to catch his breath. A bruise was already darkening on his forearm where the troll had grabbed him. Concern flooded you, and you stepped toward him.
“Dwalin, you’re hurt,” you said, reaching out. You wanted to make sure he was truly alright – the sight of him being snatched up had terrified you more than you’d admit.
He straightened and waved off your worry, although not unkindly. “It’ll take more than a hungry troll to break me,” he assured. His eyes flickered over you quickly, as if checking for any hurts of your own. “And you? That was some quick thinking back there… you saved my hide.” His voice was gruff, but there was deep gratitude in it that made your chest flutter.
Before you could get another word out, a triumphant shout went up – someone had discovered the trolls’ cave of plunder nearby, instantly drawing everyone’s attention away. In the flurry that followed, Dwalin clapped you once on the shoulder (a touch that sent warmth through you) and gave you a proud nod. Then he moved off with the others to investigate the hoard of weapons and supplies the trolls had left behind.
You stood there in the dawn light, letting out a long breath. Yet again, just when you’d been on the verge of a meaningful exchange – this time to express your relief and maybe even how much you’d feared for him – fate had other plans. As the Company excitedly rifled through the troll treasure, you found yourself lingering at the edge, rubbing absently at an ache in your shoulder. Dwalin caught your eye through the crowd and gave you a small, crooked smile, as if to say “We made it.” You returned it with a grin of your own. The moment was brief, but it helped soothe the frustration. Still, as you all packed up to continue the journey – new blades in hand and a story to tell – you couldn’t help but sigh. One of these days, you thought, one of these days we’ll finish a conversation without the whole world barging in.
Rivendell: A Quiet Moment
After surviving trolls and more weary miles, the Company found welcome refuge in the Elven sanctuary of Rivendell. The hidden valley was a place of breathtaking beauty – elegant waterfalls, terraces of starlit gardens, and soft music in the air. While Thorin and some of the others were reluctant guests (dwarves and elves weren’t exactly fond of each other), the respite was much needed.
On the second night of your stay, you wandered away from the noisy feast the Elves had laid out. The laughter and singing of both Elves and a few merrier dwarves drifted behind you as you stepped onto a quiet balcony overlooking the moonlit gorge. You leaned on the carved railing, admiring the moon’s reflection on the river far below. A gentle peace settled over you.
“Not enjoying the Elven song?” came a familiar low voice. You turned to see Dwalin approaching. He must have slipped away from the banquet as well. He looked slightly uncomfortable in the elegant surroundings – his posture stiff, one hand resting near where his axe would normally hang (Elrond had asked the dwarves to set aside their weapons while in the house).
You smiled. “It’s a bit… graceful for my taste,” you admitted. In truth, you didn’t mind the music, but you’d felt out of place amid such refined company. It seemed Dwalin might feel the same.
He grunted in agreement, coming to stand beside you at the railing. “Aye. I prefer a good dwarf drinking song. These elves, their voices are fair, but I can’t understand half of what they’re singing about.”
You chuckled. Together, you both gazed out at the valley, a comfortable silence stretching between you. The night air was cool, scented with night-blooming flowers. After a moment, Dwalin spoke more softly, “How are you holding up? This journey… it’s been eventful already.”
You glanced at him, pleasantly surprised by the open-ended question. “I’m alright,” you said. “A little footsore, perhaps. But Rivendell’s healed much of that.” You paused, then added earnestly, “It’s been incredible so far. Dangerous, yes – more than I expected – but I wouldn’t trade it. I feel… alive.” You hesitated, then continued in a more uncertain tone, “Though sometimes I worry I’m out of my depth, among such legendary warriors.”
Dwalin turned his head to look at you fully. In the silver light, his usually stern face appeared gentler. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” he said firmly. “You earned your place in this Company. I’ve seen you fight, and I’ve seen you keep your wits about you under pressure. That’s more than can be said for some,” he added with a wry smirk (likely thinking of the chaotic way some of the younger dwarves behaved).
His praise warmed you. You lowered your gaze briefly, trying to suppress the delighted grin threatening to show. “Coming from you, that means a lot,” you murmured. “I… I respect you greatly, Dwalin. Your strength, your loyalty. Ever since Bag End, I’ve been hoping to learn more from you.”
Dwalin rubbed the back of his neck, almost bashful. “I’m just doing my duty,” he said gruffly. But then his tone softened. “Still, if there’s anything you want to know, I’ll do my best to teach. You remind me a bit of my younger self, eager to prove and with a good heart. Balin sees it too.”
You felt a flutter in your chest at those words. Good heart. There was an affectionate timbre in his voice that made you dare to edge a bit closer. “Thank you,” you replied quietly. “Honestly, I’ve been meaning to ask you… about dwarf customs, even language. I never had proper teaching growing up away from our people. It’s embarrassing, but there’s much I don’t know.”
Dwalin shook his head. “No need to be embarrassed. We all start somewhere. Ask away – I could teach you a phrase or two of Khuzdul right now, if you like.” His eyes crinkled with an encouraging smile.
Your breath caught slightly; standing this close, you noticed the way the moonlight highlighted the strong angles of his face, the glint of a silver tattoo on his scalp. You realised with a sudden clarity that it wasn’t just admiration you felt – you genuinely liked him, perhaps far more than was sensible. The thought sent both excitement and trepidation through you. You fought the urge to stare and instead focused on his offer. “Alright,” you said eagerly.
In response, Dwalin even attempted to teach you a simple Khuzdul toast, guiding your pronunciation with a warm, callused hand on your shoulder. The closeness made your heart skip, and you stumbled over the harsh dwarven words just to hear him chuckle and gently correct you. The two of you were so engrossed in this private little lesson and the thrill of each other’s company that you nearly forgot the rest of the world.
Footfalls echoed in the corridor leading to the balcony. You and Dwalin instinctively shuffled apart just as a tall figure in grey robes appeared. Gandalf. Of course it was Gandalf.
The wizard gave a polite cough. “Ah, here you two are. Forgive the interruption.” He sounded genuinely apologetic, which was some consolation at least. “Dwalin, Thorin has need of you in Lord Elrond’s library. It’s about the map and the moon-runes. They require a few of his closest advisors.”
Dwalin blew out a silent breath – was it frustration? He nodded. “Understood.” Casting you a regretful glance, he said softly, “We’ll continue this later.”
You mustered a smile despite your disappointment. “I’ll hold you to that,” you replied.
He gave your arm a gentle squeeze as he passed by, following Gandalf out. The touch sent a little tingle up your spine. And then he was gone, boots thudding down the hall until the sound faded.
Left alone on the moonlit balcony, you exhaled and leaned back on the railing. So close. You replayed the past minutes: the shared laughter, how he had stepped nearer than ever before, the weight of his hand on your shoulder. Your pulse was still quick from it all. If Gandalf had not arrived… you weren’t sure what might have happened. Would you have confessed how much you enjoyed being with him? Would he have told you more about how he saw you? The possibilities made your head spin happily and anxiously at once.
Eventually, you pushed off the railing and made your way back to your quarters in Rivendell. The halls were quiet now. Inside, the other dwarves were already snoring or resting. You settled onto your bedroll. Across the room, Dwalin’s spot was empty – he was likely still with Thorin and Elrond discussing whatever ancient secret the map held. You closed your eyes, hoping he’d return soon and perhaps say good night.
But by the time Dwalin did come back, you were already asleep, a small smile on your lips even in dreams. Despite yet another untimely interruption, the night had felt wholesome and good. Your heart was undeniably warming to the gruff warrior, and you dared to believe that maybe – just maybe – he felt the same.
Perils on the Road
From the moment the Company departed Rivendell, it seemed fate was determined to keep you and Dwalin too busy for heartfelt conversations. The journey to the Lonely Mountain became a gauntlet of one peril after another, leaving little room for anything beyond survival.
First came an ambush by goblins under the Misty Mountains. One minute you were crossing a high pass in a thunderstorm, the next you were dumped into darkness and surrounded by shrieking goblins. You and Dwalin fought side by side as best you could, and Gandalf’s timely intervention helped the Company escape. But by the time you all burst out into sunlight again – battered, bruised, and breathless – there had been no chance for more than shouts of warning and relief. You managed a fleeting, exhausted smile at Dwalin, which he returned with a nod that spoke volumes, but then new danger pounced immediately. A pack of orcs and wargs, led by a pale Orc hunting Thorin, chased your Company through the forest. There was no time to exchange a single word with Dwalin, only frantic running until a dramatic rescue by the Great Eagles whisked you all to safety.
Soon, the Company entered the dark gloom of Mirkwood, where silence and caution were paramount. You often walked behind Dwalin on the winding forest path, drawing comfort from his steady presence. At one point, trying to lighten the oppressive mood, you whispered a small jest to him about Bombur’s endless grumbling for food. Dwalin’s eyes actually twinkled as he suppressed a chuckle and murmured a wry reply. But just as you felt the warmth of shared humour, a sudden alarm rang out – flickering lights in the woods lured some of your companions off-path. In the ensuing chaos, you and Dwalin were separated in the murk, and that was precisely when giant spiders chose to attack.
The battle with the spiders was frantic. You slashed through sticky webs while Dwalin’s roar echoed somewhere to your left. The two of you fought fiercely, trying to reach each other amidst the skittering monsters. Finally, the spiders were driven off (thanks in part to Bilbo’s stealth with a glowing Elven blade), but there was no time for relief. A host of Wood-elves emerged from the trees, arrows drawn, taking the weary dwarves prisoner.
Thrown into the Elvenking’s dungeons for what Thorin called “unjust imprisonment,” you and Dwalin ended up in separate cells opposite each other. Oddly enough, it was in these quiet, miserable confines that you nearly managed a true heart-to-heart. Late one night, when the halls were still, you called softly across the corridor, and Dwalin answered. In hushed voices, you exchanged a few sincere words – admitting how you’d each been worried for the other through all the dangers. Hearing Dwalin confess that he’d been thinking of you even when surrounded by darkness made your heart swell in the shadows. You edged closer to the bars, hanging onto his every low-spoken word.
“You make me want to…” he began, voice unusually gentle before trailing off.
“What?” you whispered, fingers curling around the cool iron bars, your pulse quickening. “Dwalin, what is it?”
However, fate interceded once more. Footsteps of an approaching elf guard forced you both into silence. You barely had time to exchange a frustrated, longing look through the cell doors before the patrol passed by, barking at the “chattering dwarves.” When the danger had passed, Dwalin let out a quiet sigh. Whatever he had meant to say hung in the air, tantalizingly unfinished. Neither of you could risk continuing with guards nearby.
Moments later, a commotion began elsewhere in the palace – your burglar Bilbo had set an escape plan in motion. In a whirlwind of chaos, Bilbo freed you all and bundled the Company into empty wine barrels to float downriver. The escape was wet, wild, and left no room for conversation; you and Dwalin could only share a breathless laugh as you bobbed along in your barrels, colliding occasionally in the rushing current. By the time you staggered onto the riverbank near Lake-town, dripping and half-frozen, that laugh and the relieved grin you traded were the only acknowledgments of everything you’d just survived together.
Then came Lake-town, where hopes of an uninterrupted talk were dashed yet again by circumstances. Esgaroth’s residents welcomed Thorin’s company with feasting and cheer. In the crowded market square, you kept trying to catch Dwalin’s eye or elbow through the throng to reach him. You caught glimpses of him hoisting mugs of ale with a rare smile as townsfolk celebrated the arrival of the King Under the Mountain’s heir. Every time you nearly got close, someone would clap you on the back or pull you into a dance, sweeping you away in the jubilant chaos.
Finally, overwhelmed by the festivities, you slipped away to a quiet wooden dock on the lake’s edge to breathe. Moonlight danced on the water as you leaned against a railing, enjoying the muffled sounds of merriment from afar. Before long, heavy familiar footsteps approached. Dwalin emerged from the shadows, also escaping the crowd. The relief and happiness at finding each other alone made you both grin.
“Not one for crowds either, I see,” you said softly, your voice carrying easily in the still night.
Dwalin shook his head, coming to stand beside you. “I’ve had enough cheering and tankards thrust at me for one evening.” His tone was light, but his eyes were warm on you. For a moment, you simply stood together, shoulder to shoulder, gazing over the starlit lake. The cool air was filled with possibilities – perhaps now, at last, you could finish one of those conversations.
Dwalin cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he began quietly. “Seems we’re always cut off mid-sentence.”
Your heart thumped. “I know. I—I’ve felt it too.” You turned to face him more fully. In the gentle glow of Lake-town’s distant lanterns, his strong features were softened. It struck you how fond you’d grown of seeing that face beside you every day. “What did you want to say?” you prompted gently.
He opened his mouth, hesitation flickering. Then, steeling himself, he started, “Lad, during this journey I’ve come to—”
“Master Dwalin! Master (Y/N)!” a voice hollered from behind you, accompanied by the clatter of boots on the dock. The two of you jumped apart, both instantly wearing identical expressions of exasperation. A panting Lake-town guard skidded to a stop. “Beg pardon, but the Master of the town requests the presence of all Thorin Oakenshield’s company. Plans must be made for your departure to the Mountain at first light.”
Dwalin drew a deep breath, likely quelling a few choice curses. With a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes, he nodded to the guard. “We’ll be there straight away.”
The guard bobbed respectfully and rushed off. You and Dwalin were left standing there, the fragile intimacy of the moment shattered once more. He let out a low, bitter chuckle. “Of course. Of course, something would interrupt us now.”
Your shoulders slumped. It was almost comical at this point. You met his gaze ruefully. “We can’t catch a break, can we?”
Apparently deciding he was thoroughly fed up, Dwalin reached out and briefly squeezed your shoulder – a bold gesture of reassurance in plain view. “This isn’t over,” he said firmly, his deep voice turning that simple phrase into a vow. The warmth of his hand lingered even after he released you. “Come on, then. Duty calls.”
Heart swelling with determination, you followed him back toward the glow of the town. One way or another, you would have that talk with Dwalin – and soon. Fate could only throw so many obstacles in your way.
The Battle of Five Armies
The Lonely Mountain was finally within reach – and with it came the greatest trial of all. No sooner had Thorin’s company reclaimed Erebor than forces converged: armies of Elves and Men seeking recompense, and worse still, legions of goblins and wargs bent on destruction. The dwarves found themselves swept up in the epic Battle of Five Armies before they could truly draw breath.
In the din of war on the plains before the Mountain, you fought close to Dwalin whenever fate allowed. The clash of swords, the screech of orcs, the thunder of battle cries – it was chaos. Yet amid that chaos, all you cared about was keeping Dwalin in sight and safe. He seemed to mirror the sentiment; whenever an enemy came near you, Dwalin’s axes were swift to intercept.
At one critical moment, you became separated in the melee. An enormous orc bore down on you with a spiked mace. You parried desperately, arms burning with effort. Just as the mace swung for your head, Dwalin crashed into the brute from the side with an enraged shout. They toppled to the ground, Dwalin grappling fiercely. You dispatched a smaller goblin and rushed to help – only to see the orc snatch one of Dwalin’s dropped axes and lunge at his exposed back.
Without hesitating, you threw yourself between the orc and Dwalin. The axe meant for him bit into your side instead. Pain blazed hot and red, but you drove your own sword forward and struck the orc down before collapsing to your knees.
“NO!” Dwalin roared. He was at your side in an instant, catching you under the arms before you could topple fully. Around you, the battle still raged, but Dwalin’s focus was entirely on you. “Why’d you do that, you fool of a dwarf?!” he bellowed, voice cracking with panic as he pressed a hand to your bleeding side.
You managed a strained grin despite the agony. “Couldn’t let him… hurt you,” you gasped.
Dwalin’s eyes were wild, torn between fury and fear. “I’m not worth you getting yourself killed!” he growled, cradling you against him even as the fight churned on mere yards away.
Your vision swam, but you clutched weakly at his tunic. “Worth it… to me,” you whispered, each word costing effort. In that moment, you no longer cared who heard or what anyone thought. The tears in Dwalin’s eyes told you he understood.
Before either of you could say more, a fresh wave of allies – the Great Eagles swooping from the sky, and Beorn in mighty bear-form – crashed into the fray, routing the remaining enemies. The battle was won shortly thereafter, though at great cost.
At Last, A Conversation
The day after the victory, Erebor’s halls rang with both the sorrow of losses and the relief of survival. Under the care of healing hands, your wound was tended and bound. It hurt like the devil, but you were alive – and Dwalin scarcely left your side throughout the night you spent recovering. By morning, you could walk with just a twinge of pain.
Bilbo Baggins, sharp as ever despite his own bruises, had observed the scene on the battlefield when you were injured. He had watched the usually unflappable Dwalin shout your name and weep openly as he hauled you out of harm’s way. Bilbo had also seen the way you reached for Dwalin even while barely conscious, clearly more concerned for him than yourself. Enough was enough – if ever two stubborn souls needed a push, it was you and Dwalin, and Mr Baggins was just the one to give it.
By afternoon, with the mountain fortress being put back in order, Bilbo deftly arranged for you and Dwalin to be sent on an errand together, ensuring you ended up alone in a quiet storage chamber off one of Erebor’s lesser-used halls. Realising Bilbo’s ruse, you both chuckled, nerves fluttering as you faced one another at last with no distractions.
Dwalin cleared his throat. “How’s your wound?” he asked gently, eyes full of concern.
“I’ll live,” you said with a small smile. “Thanks to you.”
He stepped closer, the ghost of fear still lingering on his face. “When that orc struck you… I thought I’d lost you.” His voice shook slightly. “I’ve faced countless dangers, but nothing ever scared me like that.”
Moved by his honesty, you reached for his callused hand. “I’m right here, Dwalin. I’m not going anywhere.” Your heart pounded. It was time to lay everything bare. “I need to tell you—I care for you. Deeply. More than a brother-in-arms, more than a friend.” You took a breath. “Truth is, I’ve fallen in love with you.”
Dwalin’s eyes widened, then softened with immense tenderness. “And here I was, trying to find the courage to say the same to you,” he murmured. A slow smile curved his lips. “I love you, lad. I have for a while now, if I’m honest.”
Relief and joy flooded through you. All the interruptions, the unsaid words – none of it mattered now that you finally knew each other’s hearts. Still, a tiny doubt lingered. “I wasn’t sure if… if this was allowed,” you admitted softly. “I wasn’t raised among dwarves, and I worried—”
Dwalin shook his head and actually laughed. “Allowed? Lass or lad, dwarf or not – what matters is the love. Our people won’t mind a whit.”
Before you could respond, he cupped your cheek in one broad hand, eyes shining. “If you’ll have me, I intend to spend my life proving how much you mean to me.”
Your answer was to bridge the remaining distance and press your lips to his. The kiss was gentle and sweet, the culmination of all those pent-up feelings. Dwalin let out a content rumble as he wrapped his arms around you, holding you as if you were something precious – which, to him, you were.
A cheerful voice abruptly piped up from the doorway: “Well, it’s about time!” Startled, you both turned to find Bilbo peering in with a grin. With a chuckle, the hobbit disappeared again, humming happily to himself.
You and Dwalin broke into laughter, the last tension of uncertainty melting away. He pressed his forehead to yours in a fond dwarven gesture.
“Without him, we might never have gotten out more than hello,” you smiled, lacing your fingers through Dwalin’s.
Hand in hand, you left the chamber to rejoin your companions. No matter what came next – journeys back to the Shire or adventures unforeseen – you knew you would face it together. The long road to this moment had been perilous, which made your happy ending all the sweeter. You and Dwalin had found the words and the love you had been yearning for, and nothing would interrupt you again.
The tenth of eleven new watercolours depicting places in Middle-earth (and Númenor) for an upcoming book. All eleven artworks are available as A4 prints at my shop now, either as single prints or as a set:
Some more page illustrations! I chose to imagine the forest elves physically different from high elves since they seemed to be described as almost a different sort of people. So I gave them tails, cus I really wanted to :D
Please click images for better quality, scene description in ALT text!
