far over the misty mountains

24 // marvel/tolkien enthusiast // sometimes I write stuff

[physicalturian]

OOF

[aritany]

being a writer is just like *idea* *imposter syndrome* *fear of people reading your work* *fear of people Not reading your work* *a single aesthetic* *idea*

[aruaninotarmani]

wheres the writing part op

[citrus-circuss]

op knew what they were doing

[the-marvel-ous-hobbit]

To Slay A Dragon: Ch. 5

Summary: A short stay in Rivendell.

Word count: ~6800

A/N: Happy holidays! Thank you for all the support so far :)

part four ||

The staircase takes us on a long, winding path down into the valley. At the bottom, a stone bridge spans the gorge. It’s barely wide enough for two human-sized people to walk side by side, and a quick glance over the edge sends my stomach into panicked flips. If anyone were to ever choose to attack Rivendell, they would have an extremely difficult time.

Gandalf leads the way across the bridge with long, confident strides. The Dwarves follow more cautiously, and I take a couple of deep breaths before forcing my feet onwards. Bilbo walks close to my side, though his head whips back and forth so rapidly my heart trips over itself.

Through the intricate archways bracketing the bridge, I glimpse the elegant white buildings I saw from above nestled amongst a vast array of trees, shrubs and flowers I can’t even begin to name. It’s unlike anything I have seen before in my life—such ancient, serene beauty could never be found between the surly mountains and weary cities of Skyrim. 

With each careful step, a stillness seeps into my body through my boots, easing the vertigo-induced nausea. The warmth in my chest floods to my fingers and toes, chasing away the residual tension left from the encounter with the Orcs.

For the first time since beginning this journey, I feel almost at peace.

The bridge leads us into a large, circular courtyard. A waterfall gushes over the cliff behind it, a soothing background roar in the stillness of the evening. The Dwarves drift about the space, their heads tipped back and eyes open wide. Thorin remains still, his brow furrowed and arms crossed as his company swirls about him like a current around an anchor. Bilbo hasn’t stopped smiling since we emerged from the passage, his green eyes alight with unrestrained joy.

“Mithrandir.”

A figure dressed in dark purple robes descends a staircase across the courtyard. Gandalf turns, as though they had called him by name.

“Ah!” He beams. “Lindir.”

Lindir echoes Gandalf’s smile, extending a hand in greeting. His skin is pale and ageless, his features a contrast of sharp angles and smooth planes. A silver circlet glitters across his brow, and the tips of his pointed ears peek out beneath a sleek curtain of dark hair cascading down his back.

I pat my own short hair, wincing at how matted and filthy it feels beneath my fingers, and how ragged the ends are from being sheared with a knife. Though we may be distantly related, I could never hope to look so refined and effortlessly beautiful as this Elf. I can’t recall ever feeling self-conscious about my looks—I’ve never had the time or energy—but now the scar on my face seems to mock me. 

The Dwarves’ irritation is tangible enough to raise the hairs on my arms as Lindir speaks to Gandalf in a language I assume is Elvish. The Wizard casts a look in our direction before replying in the common tongue. 

“I must speak with Lord Elrond.” 

Lindir’s placid expression doesn’t change. “My Lord Elrond is not here.”

The air shifts again as the Dwarves shuffle and mutter. Thorin glares at Gandalf hard enough to set his robes on fire.

“Not here?” Gandalf repeats. “Where is he?”

The jarring blast of a hunting horn echoes somewhere behind us. A dozen horses thunder towards us, barely slowing as they cross the bridge.

“Close ranks!” 

Solid bodies crush close, knocking the breath from my lungs. I barely have time to draw the Blade before the horses enclose us in a rotating wall of steaming bodies. The usually comforting smell of sweat and sweet hay fills my nose.  Clattering hooves and rattling armour drown out the Dwarves’ agitated shouts.

The Elves whose faces are uncovered by helmets gaze down their perfect noses at us, unfazed by the weapons pointed in their direction. They draw to a halt as one and silence descends, broken only by the Dwarves’ heavy breathing. I lift my chin to stare at the nearest Elf. He regards me with a faintly quirked brow. I scowl harder.

“Gandalf!”

I’d almost forgotten the Wizard was there—I can barely see him past the wall of horse and metal penning us in like farm animals. Gandalf greets the rider of a beautiful black stallion with a smile that I suspect is partly amusement at our expense.

“Lord Elrond!”

The Dwarves grumble again as Gandalf steps forward to speak to Lord Elrond in Elvish. Even in Gandalf’s gruff voice, the words seem to dance in the air between them like music. Bilbo stands on his toes in a vain attempt to see over Dwalin’s head.

Lord Elrond dismounts and embraces Gandalf. He moves with a purposeful, fluid grace that holds my attention captive. He shares Lindir’s pale skin, ageless face and flowing dark hair, but his features are strong and broad where Lindir’s are fine and delicate. The circle of silver across his brow sparkles in the dying light. 

“Strange for Orcs to come so close to our borders,” Lord Elrond says in the common tongue, passing a sheathed sword to Lindir. His voice is deep and smooth, each word precisely formed. “Something or someone has drawn them near.”

“Ah, that may have been us.”

At Gandalf’s gesture, the Elf-lord turns to survey us. His gaze snags briefly on me, sending a jolt down my spine, before coming to rest on Thorin. Thorin takes a few steps forward, followed closely by Dwalin. The others surge to fill the gaps, flanking them on every side. 

Elrond inclines his head slightly. “Welcome Thorin, son of Thrain.”

Thorin lifts his chin. “I do not believe we have met.”

“You have your Grandfather’s bearing,” Lord Elrond says, and it almost sounds like a compliment. “I knew Thror when he ruled under the mountain.”

“Indeed? He made no mention of you.”

I gaze up at the pale pink sky, inhaling deeply through my nose. If Thorin ruins my hopes of a bath, I’m going to murder him. Treasure be damned.

Elrond keeps his dark, steady gaze on Thorin’s face as he says something in Elvish. The words are like the whisper of a breeze through the boughs of an ancient oak, and though I don’t understand them, something within me responds. The dragon lays its head down and listens.

“What is he saying? Does he offer us insult?”

A ruckus breaks out, shattering my brief moment of calm. Gandalf cuts in quickly before the Dwarves can actually start a brawl right there in the courtyard.

“No Master Gloin, he’s offering you food.”

Whilst the Dwarves huddle together to discuss the implications of accepting the offer, Bilbo glances at me with an expression that perfectly mirrors my earlier thoughts of homicide. I don’t see what possible need there is to talk about it—if I don’t eat something soon I won’t be responsible for my actions.

Luckily, the Dwarves don’t take long to reach a decision.

“In that case, lead on.”

*

To my immense gratitude, we are escorted to a large, open-air pavilion with a perfect view of the sunset. Three tables occupy the centre of the mosaic-tiled floor—a circular one at Elf height, and two at a more comfortable level for Dwarves and Hobbits, separated by a small walkway with an empty pedestal in the middle. Elves dressed in flowing white float around the space like dandelion seeds carrying trays and covered platters. Along the open edge overlooking a vertical drop into the valley, a string orchestra plays a gentle, soothing tune.

The company—minus Thorin, who has disappeared somewhere with Gandalf and Lord Elrond—crowd around the two low tables. I fold myself onto the cushions beside Bilbo and inspect the spread, which consists of bowls brimming with salad, platters of colourful vegetables and mountains of fruit arranged like works of art. Crystal jugs brim with rich plum wine—the smell alone is enough to make me giddy.

I resist the temptation to fill my glass only when Fili flops down beside me, close enough to jostle my elbow. He grins and winks at me, but barely breaks the animated conversation he’s having with Dori, who sits down beside his youngest brother.

Ori’s picks up a lettuce leaf, wrinkling his nose at it, and Dori instantly turns into a mother hen.

“Try it,” he urges. “Just a mouthful.”

Ori looks at the lettuce as though it has personally insulted him. “I don’t like green food.”

The air fills with grumbling as I reach for the nearest plate of vegetables. I’m in no position to deny a free meal. I catch Fili’s raised eyebrow and shove the platter at him a bit too quickly. He grins again, his rough fingers brushing mine as he takes it. 

What is it about this fair-haired Dwarf prince that gets me so rattled?

Movement beyond the tables and circling Elves distracts me from the unbearable proximity of Fili’s knee to my thigh: Gandalf and Lord Elrond weave through the orchestra towards the high table, their profiles outlined in gold and pink from the west. Our host has changed out of his armour into a flowing robe of gold satin that shimmers in the soft light. Beside him, Gandalf looks every bit the vagabond he was mistaken for on the night we first met.

“Kind of you to invite us,” Gandalf says as they pass between our tables. “I’m not really dressed for dinner.”

“You never are,” our host replies with a smile.

Thorin follows several paces behind wearing his usual scowl—I think I would be alarmed if he smiled. His passage doesn’t go unnoticed—the Dwarves all but stop what they’re doing to watch him pass. His eyes flit between them all, quite obviously skipping over me and Bilbo, and he gives a slight nod before trudging after Gandalf and Elrond to the high table. I squash down the prickle of annoyance at the blatant shun and concentrate on my food, keeping my eyes on my plate in case my expression gives anything away.

After several weeks of travelling with them, the Dwarves’ attitude towards me seems to be shifting. I wasn’t sure of it before, since I always made an effort to keep my distance whilst we were on the road, but now that we’re all in close proximity it’s clear that some of their suspicion has been replaced by obvious curiosity. Some of them still take great pains to ignore me—namely Dwalin and the older ones—but the itch of probing eyes on my skin is incredibly distracting.

I look up once during the meal to find Ori openly staring at me. Dori’s elbow shatters the beat of discomfort before I can decide whether to try for a smile. He gives me a look that douses my insides with cold water, and I drop my gaze back to my plate.

Suspicion has been my shadow ever since I can remember, but its constant company is no easier to bear. Even if I have no intention of forming relationships with these Dwarves, it might be nice to actually have a conversation with one of them.

How soft I’m getting in my old age.

A flash of light draws my attention to the high table. Lord Elrond has a sword balanced across his palms and is inspecting the blade with great interest. With some effort, I tune out the music and the Dwarves’ noise—apparently Kili has just said something uproariously funny—and focus on his voice.

“This is Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver,” he says with a note of fascination as he holds the sword up towards the sun. “A famous blade, forged by the High Elves of the West. My kin.” He passes the sword to Thorin with a slight nod. “May it serve you well.”

Thorin sits ramrod straight in his chair, feet dangling absurdly above the ground and shoulders like granite beneath his mane of dark hair. He’s poised for a fight, as though he expects Elrond to launch across the table and throttle him at any second. It must be hard for him to be surrounded by the people who abandoned him in his hour of need—that’s the sort of betrayal you don’t just get over.

Elrond turns his attention to Gandalf, and I stomp down on that sympathetic thought process before it can go any further.

“And this is Glamdring, the Foe-hammer,” Elrond says as Gandalf offers up his blade for evaluation. “Sword of the King of Gondolin. These swords were made for the Goblin wars of the First Age.”

Bilbo shifts beside me, pulling my attention away from Elrond’s explanation of the Goblin wars. He draws his dagger partially from its sheath, inspecting it beneath the table. Something tightens in my abdomen—I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable seeing a blade in Bilbo’s hand.

“I wouldn’t bother, laddie,” Balin says from Bilbo’s other side, “Swords are named for their great deeds they do in war.”

“What are you saying?” Bilbo asks. “My sword hasn’t seen battle?”

Bushy white brows draw together over a red nose. “I’m not actually sure it is a sword,” Balin tells him. “More of a letter-opener, really.”

Bilbo hurriedly sheathes the dagger. Despite myself, I frown at Balin over Bilbo’s head. Though  it’s a little concerning that Bilbo seems to be growing more interested in the dagger, I still hate the disappointment he’s trying so hard to keep off his face. I think about patting his arm, nudging his shoulder, anything to bridge the distance and bring him some semblance of comfort. But my hands remain in my lap, and the moment passes.

“How did you come by these?” Elrond asks, passing Glamdring back to Gandalf.

“We found them in a Troll-hoard on the Great East road,” Gandalf tells him with a mouth full of bread, waving the goblet held precariously in his right hand. “Shortly before we were ambushed by Orcs.”

“And what were you doing on the Great East road?”

Thorin’s chair scrapes back as Gandalf snaps his fat mouth shut. All eyes follow him as he strides past us. A few of the Dwarves exchange glances, but Thorin’s unpredictable moods aren’t enough to distract them from their food.

Elrond watches us across the courtyard. “Thirteen Dwarves, an Elf and a Halfling.” He catches my eye and I freeze under the weight of his gaze. He regards me with faint curiosity, his head tipped slightly to one side as though I’m another artefact to inspect. “Strange travelling companions, Gandalf.”

“These are descendants of the house of Durin.” Gandalf gestures at the Dwarves, defending them more readily than I would have guessed given the events of the past few days alone. “They’re noble, decent folk—“

Nori stashes something inside his jacket that looks suspiciously like a salt cellar.

“And they’re surprisingly cultured—“

Bombur shoves a handful of lettuce into his mouth and chews with his mouth open.

“They’ve got a deep love of the arts—”

“Change the tune, why don’t you?” Nori complains at the nearest harpist. “I feel like I’m at a funeral!”

“Did somebody die?” Oin squints at his ear trumpet.

Bofur slams his hands on the table, upsetting the nearby crockery. “Alright, lads!” He turns to me and tips his hat. “And lass, of course. There’s only one thing for it!”

Bilbo flinches beside me as Bofur climbs onto the pedestal between the tables and launches  into a rousing tune. The Dwarves immediately join in, prompting a bewildered stare from our host and a resigned eye-roll from Gandalf. I snatch my plate and goblet from the line of fire and settle back to watch the carnage.

Food flies around the courtyard, splattering against spotless white pillars and statues like paint. The expression on Lindir’s face makes me choke on a mouthful of apple—clearly this is his first experience of Dwarven table manners. I settle back on the cushions, cheered by the song and Lindir’s wrinkled nose. Gandalf takes another swig of wine.

*

After dinner, the Dwarves settle in for the night in a modest but cosy set of rooms with an open balcony that overlooks the lower portion of the valley. I choose a corner and tuck myself into it, aching and exhausted. The Dwarves still seem full of energy, laughing and throwing things at one another in their usual boisterous way. I take out the Blade and a cloth, tucking my legs close and bending over my work, trying in vain to block out their noise.

Over the laughter and shouts, a murmured conversation pulls my attention away from the Blade. Gandalf, Balin and Bilbo stand in a small cluster away from the group. After a brief discussion, the three of them set off into the still night. I wait a few seconds, then tuck the Blade back into my belt and follow.

Along the path, which winds gently uphill from the guest house, a figure awaits the trio in the semi-darkness. Thorin’s eyes glitter in the silver light of the lanterns illuminating the walkways. He glances briefly at Bilbo, but the darkness and distance disguise his expression. Ultimately he says nothing, and joins the others as they continue along the path.

None of them speak as they walk, impeding my progress as I struggle to keep my footsteps silent. Sneaking around has never been my forte, despite Brynjolf’s efforts to teach me the skills coveted by the Thieves Guild. Eventually he was forced to admit that stealth just isn’t something I’m capable of, and I’m much better suited to charging at things head-on.

By some miracle, Gandalf and the others remain unaware of my pursuit until they reach their destination: a large, dome-shaped building atop the hill which, upon entering, reveals itself to be some kind of museum. Elrond’s extensive knowledge of those swords suddenly makes sense—there are artefacts of all kinds on display, from paintings to full suits of armour. Though many of them bear signs of age, every single one is polished and free from any dust. The room is open and airy, free of the must and damp synonymous with old things.

Intrigued as I am by the collection, I almost don’t notice when Gandalf and the others come to a halt in the centre of a room with a large, circular hole in the ceiling. Shafts of moonlight spill into the room, providing ample light to see by and illuminating the regal figure of Lord Elrond. His dark eyes examine each of them in his quiet, probing way. I quickly duck behind a wall and a conveniently-placed and probably ancient vase, only daring to peek my head out once Elrond clears his throat to speak.

“I am pleased you have come,” he says. “How may I be of assistance?”    

Thorin doesn’t miss a beat. “Our business is no concern of Elves.”

Gandalf’s robes rustle, his staff scraping the floor as though sharing his annoyance. “For goodness sake, Thorin. Show him the map!”

Thorin folds his hands before him, shoulder’s straight and eyes fixed on Lord Elrond whilst Balin paces back and forth at his side. “It is the legacy of my people. It’s mine to protect. As are its secrets.”

Elrond watches Thorin with the endless patience granted by immortality. I’m reminded suddenly of the Greybeards—Lord Elrond exudes the same quiet power, the same level and faintly unnerving stare and soft, resonant speech. Though he has done nothing to even hint at a desire to harm us, I can’t help the uneasy feeling in my stomach that insists he would be more than capable.

“Save me from the stubbornness of Dwarves,” Gandalf mutters. He gestures at Thorin with his staff. “Your pride will be your downfall. You stand in the presence of one of the few in Middle-earth who can read that map. Show it to Lord Elrond!”

Thorin’s eyes glow piercing blue in the moonlight. For a moment he seems about to refuse again, but instead he reaches slowly into his doublet and pulls out the map.

“Thorin, no!” Balin grips his arm, but Thorin doesn’t take his gaze off Elrond as he steps forward to hand over his precious map.

Elrond unfolds it, handling the parchment with careful precision. “Erebor.” His brows meet at a sharp angle over his nose as he looks at Thorin. “What is your interest in this map?”

Before Thorin can open his mouth, Gandalf steps in. “It’s mainly academic. As you know, this sort of artefact sometimes contains hidden text.”

I’m not sure who he thinks he’s fooling, but Elrond is already moving away towards the back of the room and a large stained glass window. Thorin shoots Gandalf a grateful look.

“You still read ancient Dwarvish, do you not?” Gandalf asks as Elrond angles the map inside the cascade of moonlight.

“Cirth ithil,” he murmurs.

“Moon runes? Of course.” Gandalf glances at Bilbo. “An easy thing to miss.”

“Well in this case, that is true,” Elrond says. “Moon runes can only be read by the light of the moon of the same shape and season as the day on which they were written.”

That sounds unnecessarily complicated.

“Can you read them?” Thorin’s voice is unusually soft, a deep rumble that sends vibrations through the stone under my feet. 

Gesturing for them to follow, Elrond leads the way through the back of the hall to a narrow, rough-hewn passage in the rock. Water thunders in the distance, covering the sound of my boots on the tile as I creep after them.

Bilbo lags behind the others, pausing occasionally to take in some of the items in Elrond’s collection. He’s so close I could reach out and touch him. 

My toe catches on something solid, sending a stab of pain through my foot. I yelp, and Bilbo whirls, catching me before I can dive around a corner. His eyes and mouth open wide, and he glances over his shoulder towards the passage.

“What are you doing?” he hisses.

I shake my head, clutching my throbbing foot. “Nothing. I was just curious, that’s all.”

Gandalf’s voice echoes off the walls. “Bilbo?”

“Coming!” He offers me a hand and hoists me back into a crouch. A small smile eases the tension in my jaw as he releases my hand. “I won’t tell,” he says.

He turns to head through the hall. I steal after him, ducking behind a rocky protrusion as we emerge onto a wide ledge beneath a roaring waterfall. Bilbo angles himself in a way that conceals me from the others, but still allows me to see Elrond peering at the map.

“These runes were written on a mid-summer’s eve by the light of a crescent moon nearly two hundred years ago. It would seem you were meant to come to Rivendell.” Elrond lays the map gently on a stone slab near the water. “Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield. The same moon shines upon us tonight.”

As if on cue, the crescent moon emerges from behind a cloud, its light spilling onto the ledge and across the map. Thorin sidles closer to the map, still keeping a healthy distance between himself and Elrond. Bilbo tries to lean around Gandalf, and I shift position as much as I dare. A faint blue glow emanates from the parchment that definitely wasn’t there before.

“‘Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks,” Elrond reads, following the words with a finger, “and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the keyhole.’”

Bilbo looks at Balin. “Durin’s Day?”

“It is the start of the Dwarves’ new year,” Gandalf says. “When the last moon of Autumn and the first sun of Winter appear in the sky together.”

“This is ill news.” Thorin looks up at Balin, his troubled expression etched in silver. “Summer is passing, Durin’s Day will soon be upon us.”

Balin holds up a pacifying hand. “We still have time.”

“Time? For what?” Bilbo asks.

“To find the entrance,” Balin says. “We have to be standing at exactly the right spot at exactly the right time. Then, and only then, can the door be opened.”

I grimace as Elrond looks between Thorin and Balin. “So this is your purpose, to enter the mountain?” 

“What of it?” Thorin growls.

“There are some who would not deem it wise.” He holds out the map. Thorin snatches it from him, tucking it safely away.

“What do you mean?” Gandalf asks.

“You are not the only guardian to stand watch over Middle-earth.” Elrond gives Gandalf a long look before departing, leaving the four of us to stare at Gandalf in bewilderment.

*

The next day, after waking early to the gentle sounds of birdsong, trickling water and thirteen snoring Dwarves, Bilbo and I break away from the others to wander through Rivendell’s halls and gardens. Bilbo seems determined to absorb as much of the Hidden Valley as possible before we move on, and I’m content to accompany him because it means spending less time around Thorin. We don’t talk much, both content to walk in amiable silence and occasionally point something out—an interesting painting or a flower Bilbo has never encountered before. I don’t know much about flowers and even less about paintings, but it cheers me a little to listen to Bilbo talk about his garden and modest art collection at Bag End. 

After returning from last night’s meeting under the pretence of a nighttime stroll, I overheard Thorin explaining our new time constraints to the others. He said very little beyond that, and spent the rest of the night in a moody silence, puffing away at a pipe. I expected him to declare we were to leave Rivendell immediately and continue on, but so far he has said nothing of the sort. It’s unclear how the Dwarves will spend their time here, but I’m willing to bet they’ll find a way to disrupt the peace.

Time passes oddly in the Last Homely House—days feel like weeks, and a few hours is no time at all. I lose track of how long we’ve been in the valley by the second or third day, when Bilbo and I take our exploration to the cluster of grand halls higher up the cliff that house Lord Elrond’s extensive collection of relics.

Upon entering the first building, something immediately catches my eye. Golden light—the light is always golden here, no matter the time of day—streams through an intricate window that resembles the roots of a tree and spills across a sword. The sharp edges glitter so bright I’m tempted to shield my eyes. Something about the way the light catches the blade doesn’t seem right. I step closer to the sword, and my breath catches.

The blade is splintered into six fragments, each a jagged shard of broken metal. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen, and doesn’t seem like it should be possible. My hand hovers above the shard still attached to the sword’s hilt, pulled by some invisible force that seems beyond my control. 

A jolt shoots up my arm and I snatch my hand back. This broken blade has been touched by evil. The chill in my veins is one I have experienced too many times before in the presence of Daedric princes, and there’s no mistaking it. A cold lump settles in my stomach at the thought that the same evil could exist here.

I look around for Bilbo and find him examining a painting across the room. It depicts a soldier—human, from the looks of him—brandishing a glowing sword against a huge, faceless figure shrouded in darkness. The sword is broken, with just the hilt and a jagged portion of the blade remaining.

Shuddering, I turn away from the sword and the painting. Bilbo remains transfixed, staring at the painting.

“Bilbo?”

He doesn’t move, and I follow his gaze to a band of gold around the shadow figure’s forefinger. It’s such a small detail that I didn’t notice it. I touch his shoulder and he jumps as though he had forgotten I was there at all.

“Are you alright?” I ask. His eyes are wide and he’s blinking rapidly, as though breaking free of a nightmare.

“I—yes. Yes, fine.” He offers me a smile that’s almost convincing, and we continue on our way, following the hallway out onto a balcony bathed in the golden afternoon.

The whole valley spreads out below us, serene and perfect. Bilbo sighs happily as a light breeze ruffles my hair and sends up a fresh burst of perfume from the flowers. I lean my elbows on the railing and take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the sweet air.

Aside from the brief moment of unease just now, my mind has never been so still. I didn’t even think I was capable of being so completely at peace with myself and my surroundings—the magic that blankets this valley is powerful indeed. Even with the distant, looming threat of the Durin’s Day deadline and whatever awaits us inside the mountain, it’s difficult to feel anything but calm.

Perhaps that’s why Thorin has been unusually subdued of late, and it’s been days since I daydreamed about his demise. 

In the midst of my contemplation, Lord Elrond steps out onto the balcony through the doorway behind us. His approach was so silent that it completely escaped my notice, or else I was too consumed by my own musings. For once, though, my initial instinct isn’t to reach for the Blade. Aside from its nightly cleaning, I haven’t even thought about it since we arrived.

Elrond stops on Bilbo’s other side, looking between us with his usual air of light curiosity. “Not with your companions?”

Bilbo looks up at me, then smiles ruefully at our host. “I shan’t be missed.”

“They’re probably glad to be rid of me.” The bitterness in my own voice makes me cringe. Bilbo sends me a pitying glance, and I clamp my back teeth together.

“The truth is that most of them don’t think I should even be on this journey,” Bilbo tells Elrond.

Doubly so for me. I don’t say the words, but somehow I sense the Elf-lord hears them anyway. I won’t be at all surprised if he can read minds. The urge to cower from him and his ancient, fathomless eyes seizes me by the shoulders, practically yelling in my face to hide. 

Bilbo’s shoulder presses against to my arm as Elrond looks down at him. “Indeed? I’ve heard that Hobbits are very resilient.”

A chuckle, but Elrond’s expression is perfectly serious. “Really?”

Elrond nods. The sun catches in the silver band across his forehead, and the delicate engravings etched into its surface. “I have also heard they are fond of the comforts of home.”

“I’ve heard that it is unwise to seek the counsel of Elves, for they will answer both ‘yes’ and ’no’.”

A second after speaking, Bilbo’s body goes very still against my arm. Elrond says nothing for a long moment, and Bilbo trembles ever so slightly under his gaze. Then, the Elf-lord smiles.

“You are more than welcome to stay here, if that is your wish.” He lays a gentle hand on Bilbo’s shoulder. Bilbo manages to nod, and Elrond’s gaze finds mine. “You are unlike any Elf I have encountered in all my years. I sense the immense power in you. It is ancient, and beyond my understanding, but all magic can be used to accomplish great things.” 

The dragon within me stirs, raising its head to regard the Elf. The air between us shifts as something akin to an understanding forms between two eternal beings. Elrond’s head tilts, as though he also felt it.

“Seek to understand yourself, and your path will become clear. Though your homeland lies far from Middle-earth, we are still kin. You have a place here, should you choose it.” A strange light enters his eyes. “Though I sense your heart lies elsewhere.”    

I’ve forgotten how to breathe. My throat is so dry I can barely swallow. I feel as exposed as if I were standing atop the Throat of the World, my body and soul laid bare to the fierce wind.

Before I can drag up any kind of reply, Elrond walks away, leaving Bilbo and I to contemplate our futures.

*

Though we spend the rest of the day together, actively avoiding the Dwarves save for mealtimes, Bilbo and I exchange very few words. Around sunset, we stop to rest beside a still pond. Pink water lilies drift across the surface, and beneath them countless fish dart in and out of the shadows, iridescent scales flashing like tiny gemstones in the sun. I sit on a stone bench near the water’s edge to watch them. Bilbo wanders to a flowerbed along the border of the small garden and bends to examine the riot of coloured petals. The dreamy expression on his face hasn’t budged since Elrond extended the invitation for him to live in Rivendell.

It doesn’t take a genius to realise he’ll be happy staying here—certainly much happier than he could ever be in Thorin’s company. I almost wish he would accept the offer, even if that means continuing on without his steady companionship for the remainder of the journey to Erebor. At least here he’ll be safe, and he’ll feel like he belongs. I couldn’t wish for anything more for him.

As I watch the fish, Elrond’s words swirl around my head like a dog chasing its tail. What had he meant by saying my magic could accomplish great things? Aside from the inevitable encounter with the dragon waiting for us at the end of this journey, I plan never to use my magic again. That part of my life ended with Alduin. The only reason I agreed to go on this quest is the huge reward waiting in the vaults of Erebor.

It’s also the only reason Thorin Oakenshield still lives.

A shiver skitters across my shoulders. That moment of weakness in the Prancing Pony, when I decided not to end Thorin’s life as my contract demanded… Had Elrond somehow sensed all of that? Did he also notice the brewing regret and the thoughts of betrayal I’ve tried so hard to keep buried? If so, did he mean what he said as a warning?

I press my palms against my eyes, pushing out the brewing headache. The questions are never-ending, and the time I spend fretting over the answers is time wasted when I could be enjoying the evening’s peace.

Though no one has expressed the thought aloud, I could sense the restless energy amongst the Dwarves at dinner. They seem fully rested and ready to move on—perhaps as early as tomorrow. To spend these last few hours in Rivendell caught in my own turmoil would be a tremendous waste.

So I rise from the bench and cross over to Bilbo, crouching beside him on the springy grass. The perfume of the flowers is strong enough to make me dizzy, but I do my best to listen as Bilbo points out various clusters of plants with vibrant blue, orange and purple petals. When he’s finished, I straighten and offer him my elbow. It feels strange and silly, but my self-consciousness vanishes as Bilbo smiles and takes my arm.

 We continue our walk well into the night. Golden sunlight fades and gives way to brilliant silver moonlight. The air turns pleasantly cool, and the birds hand over the evening chorus to cicadas and crickets.

Soft glowing lanterns light our path, and we meander along the walkways and up and down staircases that I have come to know by heart. We pass the balcony where the Dwarves are gathered, and the air fills with their discordant laughter. Though it clashes horribly with the serenity of the night, I can’t help but feel a certain fondness for their noise beneath the urge to cringe.   

As we crest a staircase, Bilbo pauses to admire the moon. I lean against the wall beside him, tracing the convex outline with my eyes. The moon never fails to bring me peace—she is one of the few constants in my life, and has stuck by me through every ordeal. Part of me insists it’s silly to feel such a connection with something like the moon, but lonely nights spent camping out in the wilderness with unknown dangers lurking just out of sight are always made slightly more bearable by her comforting presence.

“Bryn always loved the moon.”

I sense Bilbo shift to look at me. “Bryn?” he asks.

“Someone I knew. A long time ago.” The words spill out of me from some deep recess inside me, and I can’t look at Bilbo as I say them. I keep my eyes on the moon, and breathe through the bittersweet ache in my chest. “We used to sit for hours and just watch her together. Being with him like that…it was like a rare moment of stillness when the rest of the world was in chaos.” I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with the sweet night air. “Being here in Rivendell reminds me of that feeling.”

Bilbo doesn’t move closer or attempt to comfort me, but stands quietly beside me, his head tipped back as moonlight spills over us. 

 “Of course I was going to tell you. I was waiting for this very chance. And really, I think you can trust that I know what I’m doing.”

Bilbo shifts, turning to follow the direction of the familiar voice. A long stone bridge spans a large pond to the left of us, far enough away that the shadows obscure us from view. Gandalf and Elrond stride side by side across the bridge, deep in conversation.

“Do you?” Elrond’s tone is almost scolding. “That dragon has slept for sixty years. What will happen if your plan should fail? If you wake that beast?”

“What if we succeed?” Gandalf asks. “If the Dwarves take back the mountain our defences in the east will be strengthened.”

Defences? Against what? I glance at Bilbo, and the shadowy figure from the painting flashes in my mind. 

“It is a dangerous move, Gandalf.”

“It is also dangerous to do nothing! The throne of Erebor is Thorin’s birthright.”

During this exchange, another presence enters my awareness. The commanding aura it gives off is unmistakeable, and immediately sets my teeth on edge.

The culprit lurks behind us in the shadows, the moonlight catching the silver in his hair. Thorin doesn’t look at me or Bilbo, but keeps his gaze fixed on Gandalf and Elrond as they continue across the bridge. 

“Have you forgotten?” Elrond turns to face Gandalf, lowering his voice. “A strain of madness runs deep in that family. His grandfather lost his mind. His father succumbed to the same sickness. Can you swear Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?”

I peer at Thorin over my shoulder. Though nothing in his expression betrays his feelings, he raises his chin just a fraction, and cold fingers crawl across the back of my neck. 

“Gandalf, these decisions do not rest with us alone,” Elrond continues as they begin walking again, heading towards a set of spiralling stairs that will take them out of our eyeline. “It is not up to you or me to redraw the map of Middle-earth.”

“With or without our help, these Dwarves will march on the mountain,” Gandalf says. “They’re determined to reclaim their homeland. I do not believe Thorin Oakenshield feels that he is answerable to anyone.”

Their voices fade into silence as they vanish around a corner. Thorin remains still for a heartbeat, then turns and marches down the steps without acknowledging my or Bilbo’s presence. Without a word, he draws us after him like ripples in the wake of a ship.

We arrive to find the others already packed. They move quietly around the space, rolling up blankets and rechecking their bags. Balin gestures for us to do the same, urging us to hurry without uttering a word.

“What about Gandalf?” Bilbo asks in a hushed whisper as he knots the strings on his pack. “Isn’t he coming with us?”

Thorin speaks from the doorway. “He will meet us in the mountains when his business is done.” He looks around at his company, now on their feet and awaiting his orders. His eyes find me for a brief moment, and Elrond’s words replay in my mind: A strain of madness runs deep in that family.

Thorin’s gaze flits away, but the chill in my blood remains.

*

@bluelinkmp ; @moloko-tyan ; @inumorph ; @psychomanias

[modernincorrectlotrhobbit]

Bilbo: Why would you give a knife to Kili?

Fili: He felt unsafe.

Bilbo: Well, now I feel unsafe!

Fili:

Bilbo:

Fili, opening his jacket: Do you want a knife?

[the-marvel-ous-hobbit]

To Slay a Dragon: Ch. 4

Summary: Radagast and Wargs.

Word Count: ~5300

part three || part five

Morning sunlight aggravates the pounding behind my eyes as I stare at the leafy canopy above the trolls’ campsite. The glare holds me captive as effectively as the burlap encasing my body. Each breath draws the smell of rich, damp earth into my nose. Garbled voices drift past my head, mingling with the birdsong. It might almost be peaceful, if it weren’t for the agony radiating from my shattered ribs.

I still can’t believe we made it through the night unscathed, broken ribs aside. I should be grateful the trolls in this land are as stupid as they are ugly. If it had been three of Skyrim’s trolls, we wouldn’t have been so lucky—especially with Kili throwing himself blade-first into a fight without a second’s thought. Idiot. I should be angry with him—the fire devouring my chest is basically his fault—but the relief at seeing the sun rise drowns out any sense of ill-will.

A vision of wide green eyes flashes in my mind, reminding me of the reason I jumped into that troll’s path. I’ve never reacted like that to save anyone before—instinctively, without a shred of rational thought. A sure-fire way to get yourself killed—or, in my case, seriously injured. But if I hadn’t, if Bilbo had been on the receiving end of the blow that knocked me flat, would we have survived the night at all?

I let out a slow breath through my nose, wincing and struggling to believe I just watched the same Hobbit who was scared to leave his armchair stand up to three fully grown trolls with barely a quiver. He saved my life.

Maybe Gandalf is onto something after all. Perhaps there’s no need for me to leap to Bilbo’s rescue. But something within me seems determined to protect him. If I were to give any thought to it, I might say it’s because I’m trying to make up for something.

I cram that thought back into its box and firmly jam on the lid. Not today.

“Hello?” A curly-haired silhouette blocks the glare from the sun. I blink, forcing my vision to focus. “Are you alright?”

Bilbo’s question fans the fire in my chest. Metallic warmth floods my mouth as I clamp my teeth down on a whimper. I have to get something to fix my ribs before I pass out. I squint at Bilbo, at his mussed hair and concerned eyes, teeth gritted against the pain. There’s no way I can even stand in my condition, let alone walk to get my pack. But the thought of someone else touching my possessions feels like a hand squeezing my insides.

Don’t be so stubborn.

The voice is as familiar as my own, and my heart aches to hear it, even if it’s inside my own mind. I can picture the exact expression on his face as he says it—the long-suffering exasperation on his hardened features contradicting the endless patience in his soft eyes. I swallow thickly and force myself to speak.  

“I need—can you bring my bag?” The words climb up my throat, emerging in a hoarse whisper.

Bilbo’s brows knit, then he nods and disappears from view. I let my head drop back amongst the leaves and close my eyes, praying Bilbo doesn’t possess any tendencies to snoop. I doubt he would understand half of the things I carry with me, but they’re all I have in the world, and I’m not very good at sharing.

Snatches of conversation reach my ears across the campsite—the Dwarves discuss the night’s events in breathless, excited tones punctuated with bursts of raucous laughter. Their familiar noise is a welcome distraction from my laboured breathing and the bile rising in my throat.

Bilbo reappears, clutching my pack between his small hands. It’s half as tall as he is, and the breath whooshes out of him as he sets it on the ground beside me. Before I can fully register the next problem, he ducks his head and reaches to untie the sack. Even after weeks on the road, he still smells vaguely of lavender and sweet tea underneath the dirt and sweat. He fumbles a little with the knots, tongue poking between his teeth. His breath is warm on my neck, chasing spiders down my back. My fingers curl around an invisible blade.

I close my eyes and force my breaths to slow. This is Bilbo—he’s half my size and unarmed. Never mind that, he saved my life not an hour ago. Why would he go to the trouble only to pull a blade on me? The idea of him wielding a blade is almost laughable—this sweet, innocent creature doesn’t have a violent bone in his body.

But he’s not innocent. No one is.

A twig snaps. Opening my eyes, I see Bilbo standing several feet away, hands folded behind his back. He doesn’t meet my eyes, gazing off towards where a few of the Dwarves are wrestling in the dirt. The vice around my chest eases, but only slightly.

I struggle to sit up, my ribs barking their protest. I could just ask him to get what I need from my bag, but I’ve already defied my instincts one too many times today. A face flashes before my eyes—a certain red-headed Nord who would repeatedly test my skill and patience by seeing how easily he could filch my possessions, and grin widely at my frustration when I failed to conceal them properly.

The lump in my throat returns, thick enough to choke on.

After a bit of fumbling, and with my teeth clenched hard enough to hurt, I manage to retrieve my prize. The glass vial is about the size of my pinky and contains a deep red liquid. I yank out the cork and drain the liquid in one swallow. The potion burns down my parched throat, hits my sternum and blooms outwards like a mushroom cloud. Bones shift and crack, knitting together behind a fresh surge of agony. A whimper escapes through my teeth, and the pain subsides. Cool air fills my lungs, and they expand joyfully inside my newly-healed ribcage.

Bilbo’s wide eyes dart between my face and the empty vial. “What was that?”

“It’s medicine.” I kick the sack off my legs and wiggle my toes inside my boots, flinching as blood surges to the deprived muscles. “Of sorts.” Bilbo’s eyes shine with more questions, but he looks away, fiddling with one of the shiny gold buttons on his waistcoat.

With the pain finally gone, my gaze drifts to the three large figures across the campsite. Gandalf is busy examining the statues—he raps one smartly with his staff like a schoolteacher disciplining a student with his cane. The troll’s stone eyes stare off into the trees, forever oblivious. The dagger still wedged in its thigh glitters like a ruby encased in a halo of sunlight.

Leaving Bilbo and his questions behind, I roll to my feet and cross the glade to retrieve what’s mine. The Blade slides from the stone with no resistance, returning to my hand like a loyal pet. As its familiar weight settles in my palm, something else previously absent slots back into place in my chest.

Footsteps approach through the bracken a few feet from me. The slow, deliberate steps can only belong to one person. I duck behind the statue as Thorin emerges from the trees and strolls towards Gandalf. Though he’s half the Wizard’s height, he does his best to look down his nose at him.

“Where did you go to, if I may ask?”

“To look ahead.”

“And what brought you back?”

“Looking behind.”

I swear if I roll my eyes any harder they’re going to get stuck. Maybe Gandalf deserves some credit for saving our hides, but it’s also very possible this entire thing was somehow his fault. Thorin gives a barely perceptible nod of thanks, despite the tightness around his eyes that echoes my sentiments.

“Nasty business,” Gandalf mutters, glancing up at Lazy Eye. “Still, they’re all in one piece.”

Thorin doesn’t miss a beat. “No thanks to your burglar.”

Gandalf raises his chin. “He had the nous to play for time. None of the rest of you thought of that.”

Thorin looks sheepish for all of half a second before he sighs through his nose. “And what of the Elf? For a supposed dragon-slayer, she wasn’t any help at all. She almost got Kili killed.”

My breath freezes in my throat, my fingers digging into the statue beside me hard enough to hurt. Gandalf holds Thorin’s gaze, their expressions a perfect contrast. Thorin’s thick brows form a harsh ‘V’ over his eyes, his chest rises and falls a little too rapidly.

“I made my reservations regarding her clear from the beginning,” Thorin growls. Each word is like a fist driving into my gut. “If any of my kin are harmed because of her—”

“Our agreement still holds.” Gandalf’s voice is perfectly flat, mirroring his placid expression. “You may seek retribution as you see fit, as promised.”

Thorin nods his assent, and the conversation moves on. My pulse pounds behind my eyes. The Night Mother’s breathy whisper hisses inside my mind, repeating the words of the contract she burdened me with over a year ago. The Blade twitches in my hand, yearning for blood.

Why did I let him live?

With some effort, I shove the Blade into its sheath at my waist and stagger across the clearing on heavy legs. Curious eyes drill holes in my back, but I keep my gaze fixed on my feet. Crouching by my bag, I dig through the contents, hyper-aware of the steel pressed against my thigh.

It shouldn’t bother me, knowing that Gandalf and Thorin have an agreement about my death, as though they both expect me to betray them. At one time, I might have applauded their foresight. But after all the effort I’ve made to repress my assassins’ instincts—the same ones drilled into me by the very person who haunts my every step—I ought to be granted some kind of reprieve. I thought I’d left the distrustful glares and concealed blades on Skyrim’s grey shores. How naïve I was.

Curling my shaking hands into fists, I force a lungful of air in through my nose, hold it, and slowly release, my eyes shut tight. With each slow breath, the heat gradually subsides.

His approach is silent, but I sense Bilbo’s presence before he speaks. He hovers behind the pale curtain of mud-smeared hair brushing my shoulder—I tuck it behind my ear and turn to look at him. The gold buttons on his waistcoat gleam as he bounces on his toes.

“I wanted to thank you,” he says.

I blink at him. “Why?”

His nose twitches like a rabbit’s. “I saw you save my life. I may not have much experience with adventures or fights, but I do know a thing or two about manners.”

With my hands tucked inside my pack, I slowly uncurl my fingers. “You saved my life too. We’re square.”

A tentative smile brightens his face, and he offers me a slight bow. Against my better judgement, I smile back. He strolls over to join the Dwarves—they’re getting ready to move off. Upon reaching them, he turns and waves at me, beckoning. I nod, motioning for him to go on without me. My eyes dart to the troll statues. Thorin and Gandalf are nowhere in sight.

I inhale one final time and push to my feet, swinging my pack onto one shoulder and my hunting bow onto the other. My fingers brush the hilt of the Blade, and something inside me stirs, sending a thrill through my fingertips. Perhaps I will fulfil my contract after all.  

*

The trolls’ cave is located further into the trees, and is easy enough to find. The stench is ungodly—even standing outside the entrance, it’s enough to make my head swim. Gandalf leads Thorin and a few of the others down into the darkness, whilst the less foolhardy among the company remain out in the fresh air, taking stock of our situation and the gear we left back at the farmhouse.

I don’t feel much like talking to anyone—my thoughts are muddied by lack of sleep and snippets of the exchange I overheard between Gandalf and Thorin. I feel Bilbo’s eyes land on me repeatedly as we wait for the others to return, but I don’t dare to look at him. I don’t trust myself to control my expression, and if Bilbo finds out about my decision, he’ll go running straight to Gandalf. Wizards are far too unpredictable to engage in a fight. It’s just common sense to avoid confrontation with people who can bend the laws of nature to their will. The only thing to do now is pray for a quiet day of travel once we’re finished here.

“Bilbo.”

As if on cue, Gandalf looms out of nowhere like a wraith. I roll to my feet, alarmed at his silent approach, but he doesn’t even glance at me. He’s gazing down at Bilbo with a strange intensity, holding a sheathed dagger in one bony-fingered hand.

“Here. This is about your size.”

Bilbo stares at the blade like it might bite him, but eventually takes it. In his small hands, it’s about the size of a sword.

“I can’t take this.” Bilbo’s voice is a breathy whisper as he holds the dagger back towards Gandalf. The Wizard fixes him with a look that immediately ceases his uncomfortable shuffling.

“The blade is of Elvish make, which means it will glow blue when Orcs or Goblins are nearby.”

Bilbo’s eyes widen, as though Gandalf is trying to gift him a live snake instead of a magic Elvish dagger. “I have never used a sword in my life.”

“And I hope you never have to.” The Wizard echoes my thoughts, low and sincere. “But if you do, remember this: true courage is about knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one.”

A cold sensation spreads through my gut. I turn away before my face can betray me. If the Wizard can read minds, I’m done for. I suck in a breath, forcefully shoving my fantasies of murder into some deep, hidden recess of my brain. Gandalf’s attention doesn’t stray from Bilbo, but I won’t be fooled.

I pause, lifting my head to examine the forest. The trolls’ cave is enclosed by a circular wall of rocky slopes, with only one way in and out. It’s actually a pretty smart place to hide a treasure hoard. Upon first arriving, I scanned the surroundings for potential threats, and was satisfied nothing was waiting to ambush us. Now, a rhythmic pounding that can only be footsteps approaches from beyond the safety of the rocks and trees, heading in our direction.

“Something’s coming!”

Thorin’s yell bounces off the trees, and the Dwarves swarm like agitated bees, readying weapons and moving into defensive positions. Bilbo stands frozen, clutching his new dagger with white knuckles.

“Stay together!” Gandalf draws a blade from inside his robes and strides towards the Dwarves, leaving Bilbo and me alone.

Bilbo turns away from the chaos and gingerly draws the dagger from its sheath. It’s simple but beautifully made—the blade elegantly curved and engraved with delicate designs. The hilt fits perfectly in his hand.

Just like that, the only harmless member of the company is equipped to kill.

Before I can get caught up in the opposing emotions, I cross to his side and we hurry towards the others. Branches crackle and snap in the distance, growing louder at an alarming rate. Footsteps pound the earth, too numerous to count.

Something big bursts out of the undergrowth mere feet from our defensive circle. It skids to a stop in a spray of leaves and dirt. I blink once, twice, a third time. For a moment I think I’ve inhaled Gandalf’s secondhand pipe smoke, because what I’m seeing cannot possibly be real.

“Thieves! Fire! Murder!”

What fresh lunacy is this?

“Radagast!” Gandalf lowers his sword, a smile lighting his bearded face. “It’s Radagast the Brown!”

Wonderful.

*

Radagast the Brown presents a bizarre picture, even by the standards I’m accustomed to. He’s both similar to Gandalf—tangled grey beard, scruffy, mismatched brown clothes, massive brown hat, mage’s staff—and wildly different—Radagast is several inches shorter, somehow even more deranged looking, and has bird shit in his hair. As the two of them converse in barely-audible murmurs, I swear his hat moves. A quick glance around at the Dwarves’ expressions—which range from curiosity to fascination to poorly-disguised disgust—confirm I’m still not hallucinating. I might almost feel better if I were actually going mad.

As the two Wizards wander out of earshot to continue their conversation, movement catches my eye. My gaze is met by eight pairs of liquid black eyes belonging to the large brown rabbits tethered to the sled Radagast crashed in on. The biggest one regards me with a tilted head and twitching whiskers, each of us unsure what to make of the other. I wait for it to open its mouth and speak. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if it began reciting poetry.

Across the clearing, Radagast is speaking rapidly, gesturing wildly with his hands and Gandalf has become a silent grey statue. I catch snatches of words I don’t fully understand—‘Dol Guldur’, ‘Necromancer’, something about giant spiders and spirits of the dead. Bilbo sits beside me and peers into my face, eyebrows knitted. The air practically vibrates with unasked questions.

Radagast concludes his tale, visibly trembling and clutching his staff so tight it’s in danger of splintering. Gandalf reanimates, offering a pull on his pipe. Radagast instantly relaxes as a puff of herbal smoke wafts around his head. Gandalf leans closer to him, and Radagast fumbles beneath his filthy coat, producing an object wrapped in brown cloth.

The temperature plummets as Gandalf unwraps the sword. Bilbo goes tense beside me, and the Dwarves’ quiet chatter falls silent. A palpable sense of wrongness pervades the clearing, turning my blood to ice in my veins.

“That is not from the world of the living.”

The words settle around my shoulders like a heavy cloak. I’ve had dealings with creatures beyond the mortal realm—those experiences are scorched into my memory, and I’d rather not repeat them, thanks ever so.

Gandalf’s frown deepens as he examines the thorn-like blade, but he rewraps it after a couple of heartbeats. The dread dissolves and my breaths come easier, but the warmth fails to return to my body.

A low, chilling howl cuts through the silence.

“Was that a wolf?” Bilbo’s eyes dart between the Wizards and the trees. “Are there wolves out there?”

“Wolves? No, that is not a wolf.”

Am I to infer from your tone it’s something much worse? Excellent.

An enormous, four-legged shape crests the rocky slope behind Bilbo. The creature is easily three times the size of a wolf. Its yellow eyes regard us for a moment, saliva dripping from bared fangs as long and sharp as the Blade in my hand. A growl rumbles up its throat, and it leaps. Thorin’s blade slices into the back of its skull, but not before it takes down an unfortunate Dwarf with its massive front paws. A second beast appears atop the rocks behind Thorin, and an arrow zips past my ear, thudding into its shoulder. Knocked off balance, it tumbles down the slope and is met by a mighty swing from Dwalin’s hammer.

“Warg scouts!” Thorin yanks his blade from the twitching body. “Which means an Orc pack is not far behind.”

“Orc pack?” Bilbo’s voice echoes my own disbelief. How did I not notice a pack of Orcs on our tail?

Gandalf advances on Thorin, face like thunder. “Who did you tell about your quest, beyond your kin?”

“No one.”

“Who did you tell?!”

“No one, I swear!” Thorin’s eyes dart to me, then back to Gandalf. “What in Durin’s name is going on?”

“You are being hunted.”

Brilliant.

“We have to get out of here.” Dwalin’s gruff voice is tinged with fear, his tattooed, knuckle-dusted fingers tightening around the handle of his hammer.

“We can’t, we have no ponies!” Ori skids down over the rocks behind us, Bifur on his heels. “They bolted!”

Another spine-chilling howl echoes in the distance. The Dwarves glance at each other, gripping their weapons tighter. Bilbo’s eyes are wide and frightened in his pale face. I hope Shadowmere has found somewhere safe to hide—he’d never abandon me, but he’s also not stupid enough to take on an entire pack of Orcs.

“I’ll draw them off.”

I turn to gape at Radagast, at the fierce determination blazing in his eyes and the bird shit caking his hair. Are all Wizards in Middle-earth completely insane?

“These are Gundabad Wargs,” Gandalf protests. “They will outrun you!”

“These are Rhosgobel rabbits!” Radagast’s tone is utterly serious, and his eyes gleam beneath his ridiculous hat. “I’d like to see them try.”

I need a lie down.

*

Radagast might be a complete lunatic, but those rabbits of his can really run.

Beyond the trees, an area of open grassland littered with enormous, jagged boulders and smatterings of tall pines extends for several miles in every direction. Crouched behind one of these boulders, the company and I watch Radagast careen recklessly across the plain, a dozen Orcs on his tail. I can’t decide whether to stare at the bundles of furry lightning pulling the sled, or the pack of baying Wargs with Orcs astride them like horses. The sight is equally horrifying and morbidly amusing.

“Come on!”

Gandalf’s yell draws us away from the safety of the treeline and out onto the open, where Thorin quickly takes the lead. Ducking behind boulders and weaving up and down hills, we work our way across the plain as fast as the  Dwarves’ short strides will allow, accompanied by a distant chorus of barks and whoops.

At least one of us is having fun.

Several times during our flight, the Orcs cross directly in front of us, though always at a safe enough distance that we don’t draw their attention away from the Wizard and his rabbits. Each time, Gandalf ushers us in a new direction with only a brief pause. At first, the zigzagging back and forth seemed nonsensical and fuelled purely by fear, but there’s a deliberateness to it. Clearly he has a plan, but I’m not sure whether to be relieved or nervous.

We scramble over more boulders, and Radagast’s sled cuts in front of us again, the Orcs even closer on his heels.

But something’s wrong. There’s one missing.

Thorin ducks behind another boulder, and the rest of us pile in after him. Beneath the Dwarves’ panting, I hear snuffling, low growling and claws clicking on stone above us. Craning my neck, I catch a glimpse of matted brown fur and glistening teeth—one of the Wargs is pacing around on top of the boulder. It’s so close I can smell the musky, wet-dog stink of its fur and the rotten stench wafting off its rider.

Further down the line, Thorin nods at the bow in Kili’s grip. Kili’s eyes bug, but he slowly draws an arrow from his quiver. In a burst of movement, he leaps away from the rock, twists and shoots. A snarl, and the Warg lands almost on top of us, half-crushing its rider beneath its bulk. The Dwarves ready their weapons, and the wounded Orc meets the business end Dwalin’s hammer. The others launch into the fray, hacking and smashing with no finesse whatsoever. Bilbo remains by my side, his blade quivering. Howls and screams echo across the plain, deafening and endless.

The Orcs charge straight for us.

“Move!” Gandalf yells. “Run!”

The adrenaline sizzling in my blood urges me faster, despite the burn in my legs reminding me I’m exhausted and out of shape. Small rocks and grassy knots threaten to snap our ankles with every step, but there’s no time to pay any attention to my feet. The Wargs are unbelievably fast and show no signs of slowing.

I lose track of how long we spend running to and fro across the cursed plain, screeching to a halt and abruptly changing direction every time a Warg blocks our path. If the landscape were flat, we would have been run down several times over. Still, the Dwarves’ short strides are no match for the Wargs’ loping gait. Though their speed and stamina is impressive, it’s not enough to outrun our pursuers.

“We’re surrounded!” Fili crashes through the grass as two Wargs crest the hill behind him. There’s at least one in every other direction—they seem to rise from the earth itself, forming a loose circle around us. They’re too far away to attack, but close enough to prevent us making a run for it. Desperate faces cast about every which way, searching in vain for an opening.

“Here!” I usher Bilbo towards another rock—our only salvation in an otherwise open and vulnerable position. The others hurry towards us as the Wargs stalk closer.

“Where’s Gandalf?”

“He’s abandoned us!”

Impossible. He was here a moment ago, and there’s nowhere to hide, and no way he could have slipped through the circle of Wargs. He’s simply vanished.

Looks like here is where we make our final stand.

“Hold your ground!”

The least I can hope for is getting to watch Thorin get eaten.

Gandalf’s voice rings out behind me. “This way, you fools!”

That’s just rude.

Unseen by everyone except Gandalf, the ground beneath the rock opens up to reveal a tunnel, presenting us with an underground escape route. I can’t see what’s at the bottom, but whatever it is can’t be much worse than a dozen ravenous Wargs.

Thorin hops up onto a rock near the entrance and ushers the Dwarves inside. A Warg breaks formation to lunge at him, but is cut down by an Elvish blade wielded with deadly skill. A growl ripples through the enemies’ ranks, and they close in faster. Below, I can vaguely hear Gandalf counting the Dwarves as they slide into the tunnel.

“Five… six…”

I turn to look behind me. Kili’s dark hair whips in the breeze as he launches to arrow after arrow towards the Wargs and their riders. Some hit their mark, others lodge harmlessly in the ground. His rhythm is slowing. The nearest Orc sneers at him. I yank the bow from my back and unleash an arrow. Kili shoots me a startled look, but grins and swiftly nocks another arrow. The bow hums in my hands. My arms burn with the effort, but still the Orcs keep coming.

“Kili!”

My shout is echoed by Thorin’s, and we bolt for the tunnel. I shove Kili ahead of me, hot breath on my neck and the stink of must and rot in my nose. Kili disappears, followed closely by his brother and Thorin. I barely have time to slow before the ground dips sharply. My knees and shins bark as I land awkwardly in the dirt. I lie there, winded and unable to move, staring up at the roof of the small cavern and waiting for the Orcs to follow.

The sharp blast of a hunting horn is the last sound I expect to hear. Dust rains down, dislodged by thundering hooves above. Arrows zip through the air and thud into flesh, drawing screams from the wounded and dying.

Something heavy tumbles down the slope, sending up a cloud of dust. Weapons clatter as the Dwarves jump to attention, but they’re threatening a corpse. Thorin bends to retrieve the arrow lodged between the dead Orc’s eyes. His face twists into a scowl.

“Elves.”

I barely manage not to roll my eyes at his tone as I pick myself up off the ground and dust off my trousers. Something twinges in my knee—an old wound that never healed properly—but a quick inspection confirms no new injuries. I glance at Bilbo—he’s pale and trembling, but otherwise unharmed.

In the ensuing silence, Dwalin’s gruff voice echoes from the back of the cavern. “I cannot see where the pathway leads! Do we follow it or no?”

“Follow it, of course!”

As the Dwarves move off, Gandalf murmurs, “I think that would be wise.”

I’m almost too tired to wonder what he’s scheming at.

The tunnel morphs into a deep, narrow cleft bordered on both sides by towering walls of solid rock. In some places, it’s barely wide enough for the Dwarves to squeeze through, let alone Gandalf and me. My palms sting, scraped and bleeding from bracing them against the rock. All things considered, it’s a small price to pay after the day I’ve had. Exhaustion envelopes my brain in fog, burying any thoughts concerning Thorin and his impending demise. It’s actually a relief.

Also, I hope Radagast is all right.

The sliver of sky visible through the crack above fades from blue to purple, and shadows engulf our path. The Dwarves’ chatter lapses into silence. A faint but noticeable hum builds in the air, lifting the hairs on my arms.

Ahead of me, Bilbo stops. Slowly, he turns to look at me, then at the Wizard behind us. “Gandalf, where are we?”

The Wizard glances between us. His blue eyes gleam unnervingly in the dimness. “You can feel it.”

“Yes. It feels like…” Bilbo glances at me, and I nod. With less focus on where I’m putting my feet, I can taste metal on the back of my tongue. “Well, like magic.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Gandalf says softly. “A very powerful magic.”

A voice bounces off the rock walls, reaching us in a stifled echo. “There’s light ahead!”

With a glance at Gandalf’s placid, unreadable expression, I follow Bilbo towards the smell of fresh air and the soothing sound of trickling water. The tunnel opens into the pleasant evening, and my jaw drops.

We emerge onto a small outcropping overlooking a deep valley. A settlement nestles against the opposite cliff face—white walls, golden roofs and delicate arches shimmer in the light of the setting sun, surrounded by lush greenery and vibrant gardens. At least a dozen waterfalls gush from the rock into the river far below. The heady scent of a hundred different flowers fills my nose.

As I gaze down at the valley, warmth unfurls in my chest and seeps into my muscles, spreading through my limbs and pooling in my fingertips and toes. I catch myself smiling like an idiot, and quickly pull myself together before anyone can see. But I can’t squash the comfortable peace that has settled over my body.

Home. This place feels like home.

“The Valley of Imladris,” Gandalf announces. “In the common tongue, it’s known by another name.”

“Rivendell.” Bilbo’s smiling face glows in the soft evening light as he gazes out over the scene. He seems transfixed, his small body trembling slightly against my arm. The Dwarves shuffle about on the platform, restless and unimpressed.

“Here lies the Last Homely House east of the Sea.”

Thorin rounds on the Wizard, his face a thundercloud. “This was your plan all along,” he growls. “To seek refuge with our enemy.”

“You have no enemies here, Thorin Oakenshield,” Gandalf snaps. “The only ill-will to be found in this valley is that which you bring yourself!”

Bilbo and I exchange a glance. A laugh bubbles in my throat, and I bite my tongue to stifle it.

“You think the Elves with give our quest their blessing?” Thorin asks, voice tinged with something almost desperate. “They will try to stop us.”

“Of course they will,” Gandalf says. “But we have questions that need to be answered.” He raises his chin slightly. “If we are to be successful, this will need to be handled with tact, respect, and no small degree of charm. Which is why you will leave the talking to me.”

What could possibly go wrong?

@moloko-tyan ; @bluelinkmp  ; @inumorph ; @psychomanias   

[universalfanfic]

Something I think is neat and really cute about fanfic is that there’s a personal version of each character in it? Like, each writer focuses on different traits and qualities and even though there can be a hundred fics with the same character, they’re really not exactly the same.

So even if you and I are writing a fic with the same characters, they can still be uniquely different despite having the same core and they’re each dear to us personally as our take on the person.

I don’t know, I just think it’s cute that each writer cherishes these characters in personal and unique ways.

[byron2buddy-deactivated20170603]

“my babies” i whisper to 13 rowdy dwarves, a flustered hobbit, and a wizard

[the-plaid-mercenary]

And a brown wizard who doesn’t get much screentime, but is undeniably a cinnamon-roll.

[the-marvel-ous-hobbit]

To Slay a Dragon: Ch. 3

Summary: Three trolls, two chaotic Dwarf princes, one senile Wizard and an exhausted Dragonborn.

Warnings: like two curse words?

Word count: ~5800

A/N: We’re back, and we’re seeing this thing through. If anyone would like to be tagged, just let me know :)

part two || part four

A bright, cloudless dawn rouses me from the narrow bed in the Green Dragon’s pokey attic room the next morning. The sun warms my back as I dress and triple check my bags, but can’t thaw the dread in my gut.

My new travelling companions are slow to rise and even slower to load and mount their ponies. As I wait astride Shadowmere, my fingers drumming on the saddle, the conversation between Gandalf and Bilbo echoes around my head.

I’m certain I recognised something in the Hobbit’s eyes during Gandalf’s lecture about goblins and golf. A long time ago, I saw the same innocent expression in the mirror—the desire for a quiet life, far away from fear and danger and disappointment.

I desperately hope Bilbo Baggins won’t make the same mistake I did.

Shadowmere nickers softly, nudging my shin with his nose. The Dwarves are already disappearing down the track. Gandalf casts a furrowed glance over his shoulder. Shadowmere breaks into a trot without prompt. The Wizard doesn’t say a word as I draw level with him, but his eyebrows make it clear I’ve already managed to annoy him and we haven’t even made it out of Bywater. I busy myself with admiring the scenery—green hills, green trees, green grass—and twine my fingers in Shadowmere’s mane.

I spent an hour last night studying my map of Middle-earth, trying to get a feel for where we were going. The journey will by no means be short. I’ll have to make extra effort to remain on Gandalf’s good side, and stay out of Thorin’s way entirely. It’ll be best for everyone if I keep my head down and don’t piss anyone off too much.

Guess I’ll have to try harder.  

“Wait!”

My stomach drops into my boots. Ponies snort in protest as the procession grinds to a halt. I hold Thorin’s glare for a heartbeat before twisting in the saddle to face the direction of the shout.

Bilbo flies along the track, bare feet smeared with dirt, curly hair in complete disarray. A length of parchment streams behind him like a banner. He waves the contract in triumph, eyes gleaming. A cold fist clenches around my heart.

“I signed it!” He hands his prize up to Balin, who pulls out a monocle to peer at the neat signatures.

Gandalf practically beams. His determination to drag Bilbo on this quest is suspicious, and I don’t trust his motives.

“Welcome, Master Baggins, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

Bilbo is less than thrilled with the offer of a pony, but his protests are cut short when Thorin’s nephews bodily lift him and deposit him in the saddle. I hide a snigger behind my hand at his disgruntled expression, and nudge Shadowmere closer to his pony. If he insists on being foolish, the least I can do is keep an eye on him.

We’ve barely been walking for ten minutes before Bilbo brings the entire company to a halt again, fretting about a forgotten handkerchief. I rub my hand across my forehead, warding off the brewing headache. At this rate the dragon will die of old age before we can get to it.

“You’ll have to manage without pocket handkerchiefs, and a good many other things, Bilbo Baggins, before we reach our journey’s end,” Gandalf announces as we move off yet again. “You were born to the rolling hills and little rivers of the Shire, but home is now behind you. The world is ahead.”

Very poetic, Gandalf, but dramatic speeches won’t make him any less flammable.

*

Two weeks into the journey, we stop for the night on a large, rocky outcropping overlooking a steep drop onto a flat expanse of grassland.

Dodging the flurry of nightly activities, I pull out a whetstone and choose a spot away from the fire for my nightly ritual. My body settles into the familiar rhythm of cleaning and sharpening my blades. A prickle on my neck alerts me to the eyes watching me, but I refuse to take the bait. Instead, I drag the stone along the blade with slow, deliberate movements, twisting my wrist so the edge catches the last of the sun’s rays. Not quite threatening, but it sends a clear message.

I haven’t forgotten Gandalf’s warning back in Bilbo’s parlour. I have no idea how he’s kept Thorin off my back so far, but I’m not about to question his methods so long as they work. Given the way Thorin bristles if I stray within ten feet of him, getting him on my side, as the Wizard suggested, is completely out of the question. As long as Gandalf’s around, there’s no reason to resort to arse-kissing.

Satisfied with my work, I raise my head to soothe my protesting shoulder muscles. A pair of eyes catch mine across the space. The fair-haired prince inclines his head towards the blade in my hand, then to the pile at my feet. One eyebrow arches, and the corner of his mouth curls into an almost-smile. A spark of pride ignites in my chest and spreads to my cheeks, warm, foreign and wrong.

Metallic warmth floods my mouth as I duck away from his gaze. It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me like that, and for good reason. The only person foolish to harbour any sort of affection for me is far away, buried beneath a meadow of wildflowers.

A steaming bowl slides into my field of vision. My fingers tighten around the hilt of the Blade, a reflex I instantly regret when Bilbo’s eyes widen like a startled rabbit’s. His chin wobbles as I lower the blade from pointing at his throat.

“Sorry.”

“Oh, that’s – quite alright.” His voice catches on every other syllable, but his eyes crinkle at the corners as he offers a shy smile. “I brought you some food.”

Tucking the Blade safely out of sight, I take the bowl and cradle it close. His eyes drop to my hands—they’re shaking, the stew slopping gently in the bowl.

Before the concern can fully form on his face, my feet carry me towards the edge of the cliff. Cold stone bites through my trousers as I curl onto a rock. The bowl sits untouched in my lap as my mind wanders across the shadowy grassland towards the miles of saltwater between me and everything I once knew. The knife in my chest morphs into a hand gripping my throat. My breaths come shallow, and my eyes burn as I fight the urge to blink.

Of all the trials I’ve faced, all the times I’ve been inches away from death, my worst memory is of watching my husband draw his last breath.

I grip the bowl tighter and glance up at the circle of firelight, aware that I’m falling to pieces in front of an audience. Thankfully, most of them have their backs to me. They sit huddled close together despite the pleasantly cool spring evening, their laughter unusually restrained. An instinct I’ve learned to rely on taps me on the shoulder.

I sit up straighter, tuning out the chatter and casting about for any sign of danger. My gaze snags on the Dwarf-shaped thorn that is Thorin Oakenshield. He glances quickly away, but something in his expression echoes the voice in the back of my head. My fingers clench and unclench on my thigh, fingernails catching on the rough fabric. Gandalf continues to puff away at his pipe, the flames dancing in his restless eyes.

A full moon rises, bathing the landscape in silver. The Dwarves settle around the fire, leaving the two princes take the first watch. They sit close together, legs not quite touching. Restless rustling slowly descend into rhythmic snoring. Only the crackling fire and the princes’ murmured conversation disturbs the silence.

Movement catches my eye across the plateau. A short, curly-haired silhouette creeps around the snoring Dwarves towards the patch of grass where the ponies are tethered. Bilbo moves silently, almost unnervingly so. He locates his pony, Myrtle, and offers her the stolen apple he pulls from his pocket. As Myrtle happily crunches up the gift, Bilbo shushes her with a guilty glance over his shoulder. His eyes meet mine, and his cheeks flush pink.

A scream pierces the stillness. The sound shoots through my body like a bolt of lightning, vibrating through every nerve ending. Bilbo skitters back to the fire as a second shriek answers the first. His eyes are round as pennies.

“What was that?”

Kili’s brows knot together. “Orcs.”

The colour drains from Bilbo’s face as he scuttles closer to the fire. “Orcs?”

“Throat-cutters,” Fili says, peering at Bilbo over his pipe. “There’ll be dozens of them out there. The Lone-lands are crawling with them.”

A shudder bunches the muscles in my back. I’ve never liked Orcs.

“They strike in the wee hours of the night when everyone’s asleep.” Kili’s hushed tone covers the sound of my footsteps as I slink to the spot on Gandalf’s right. Only Balin notices me move, and has the grace not to draw attention to me. “Quick and quiet. No screams. Just lots of blood.”

Bilbo sways a little on his feet, his mouth hanging open. The princes exchange a glance and dissolve into sniggers.

“You think that’s funny?”

The grins vanish. Thorin looms over his nephews like a thunderhead.

“You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?”

“We didn’t mean anything by it.” Kili’s voice is barely a murmur. Fili’s shoulders curl inwards, his eyes on his boots.

“No, you didn’t,” Thorin growls. He turns to stride away, towards the edge of the plateau. “You know nothing of the world.”

I stare after Thorin for a moment, my gaze drawn to him without my permission. The moon’s ethereal glow illuminates his hunched shoulders and lowered head. Kili gently touches Fili’s shoulder, and the blond prince barely lifts his head to smile at his brother.

“Don’t mind him, laddie,” Balin says to Bilbo, who looks on the verge of collapse. “Thorin has more cause than most to hate Orcs.”

Oh good, I’ve been waiting for an explanation as to why he’s such an uptight pain in the arse all the time. I shift into a more comfortable position, resting my back against the rock behind me. The Blade is a comforting weight across my palm.

“After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient Dwarf kingdom of Moria,” Balin begins. “But our enemy had got there first. Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs, led by the most vile of all their race: Azog the Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin.”

If Thorin’s shoulders get any stiffer they’re going to shatter. I can’t say I blame him – the words ‘giant’ and ‘Orc’ have already set my teeth on edge.

“He began… by beheading the King.”

Oh.

“Thrain, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing. Taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us. That is when I saw him.”

Balin lifts his head to gaze at Thorin. Powerless to stop myself, I do the same. He still has his back to us, fingers clasped behind him, a light breeze stirring his dark hair.

“A young Dwarf prince, facing down the Pale Orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armour rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield.”

Oakenshield. The heroic image doesn’t fit at first, but slowly shifts into place the longer I watch Thorin. He’s the same hero who kept fighting despite losing so much, and emerged victorious. Something stirs in my chest, as though to reach out to him, and I hurriedly shove it down.

“Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken. Our forces rallied, and we drove the Orcs back.” Beneath his bushy white brows, Balin’s eyes shine with something fierce and pure that grows brighter each time he looks at Thorin. “Our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast, nor song that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived. And I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow. There is one… I could call King.”

At some point during the story, the other Dwarves have woken up, and they’re all now gazing at Thorin like he’s a god in Dwarf form.

Which I suppose he is. Suddenly a lot of things make sense—the brooding, the short temper, why he’s so determined to see this idiotic quest through, and why twelve other idiots are all so happy to follow him towards certain death. He’s led them to victory against insurmountable odds before, and they believe he can do it again.

Admittedly, after what I’ve just heard, I kind of want him to succeed.

I clear my throat and look towards the forest, shaking off the spell. I can’t afford to be distracted and pulled along by Thorin’s current with the rest of them. The only thing that matters is getting my hands on that gold.

As the awed silence becomes unbearable, Bilbo pipes up, “And the Pale Orc? What happened to him?”

Balin opens his mouth, but it’s Thorin who answers. Growls, really.

“He slunk back into the hole whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago.”

No one but me notices the glance exchanged between Balin and Gandalf that clearly says that statement will come back to bite him in the arse.

*

The weather holds up until the last week of May, with only the occasional shower interrupting the pleasant sunshine. Then the sky cracks open like an eggshell. The ground dissolves into a bog. The ponies slog through it with minimal complaint, though the Dwarves do enough of that for all of us.

“Mister Gandalf?” a voice pipes up behind us. “Can’t you do something about this deluge?”

Yes Gandalf, do something. I can’t remember what dry feels like.

The Wizard’s waspish reply emanates from somewhere beneath the heap of sodden grey rags riding in front of Shadowmere and me. “It is raining, Master Dwarf. And it will continue to rain until the rain is done.”

Very helpful.

“If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another Wizard.”

“Are there any?” Bilbo’s voice is barely audible over the waterfall pouring from the canopy above, though last I checked he was right beside me. “Other Wizards?”

“There are five of us. The greatest of our order is Saruman, the White. Then there are the two Blueses—do you know, I’ve quite forgotten their names?”

My confidence in this so-called Wizard is dwindling by the minute.

“And who is the fifth?” Bilbo presses before Gandalf can lose the thread of the conversation altogether.

“That would be Radagast. The Brown.”

Who on earth willingly calls themselves ‘the Brown’?

“Is he a great Wizard? Or is he… more like you?”

The arm of my shirt barely absorbs my snigger. Ahead of us, Thorin makes a weird choking noise that sounds a lot like a poorly-disguised chuckle.

“I think he’s a very great Wizard,” Gandalf huffs. “In his own way. He’s a gentle soul who prefers the company of animals to others. He keeps a watchful eye over the vast forestlands to the East. And a good thing too, for always evil will look to find a foothold in this world.”

How he manages to be so dramatic while soaked through I will never know.

The rain eases up around mid-afternoon. By the time the sky begins to darken, I’m halfway to drying out, though the same can’t be said for my saddlebags. I’ll be wearing wet socks for days.

Eventually we come upon an open, grassy space bordering a dense copse of trees. Atop a small hill, a heap of broken support beams watches us, a weary silhouette against the greying sky.

“We’ll camp here for the night,” Thorin declares. “Fili, Kili, look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them.”

As Thorin gives out orders and the Dwarves scramble to obey, Gandalf wanders up the hill towards the ruined building. Barely anything remains beyond jagged shards of wall and a sagging, half-collapsed roof. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly what destroyed the house—no soot stains the wood, and despite an unpleasant odour, there are no signs of rot. The damage is recent—the air still hums with the lingering impression of chaos.

A prickle starts at the back of my neck and trickles down my spine. A terrible thought niggles at the back of my mind—only a couple of events can cause such a strong, long-lasting impression on a place.

“I think it would be wiser to move on.” The prickle surges into a fully-fledged shiver. If Gandalf concurs with my ill feeling, there’s no way I imagined the strange atmosphere. “We could make for the Hidden Valley.”

Thorin stomps towards Gandalf, out of the company’s earshot. He briefly glares at me as he passes, but for once his ire is fully directed at someone else. “I have told you already, I will not go near that place.”

“Why not? The Elves could help us.”

Elves. I’ve heard snippets about them during my year in Middle-earth, but never actually encountered one. Thorin never misses an opportunity to make his feelings regarding them clear, but I’m still curious. Surely they can’t be as bad as he says.

Thorin as good as spits in Gandalf’s face. “I do not need their advice.”

“We have a map that we cannot read. Lord Elrond could help us.”

“Help?” Anger pours into Thorin’s voice. He steps towards Gandalf, fists rigid at his sides. “A dragon attacks Erebor. What help came from the Elves?” Another step. “Orcs plunder Moria, desecrate our sacred halls. The Elves looked on and did nothing.” Toe to toe with the Wizard, Thorin glares up at him with enough ferocity to make a dragon balk. “You ask me to see out the very people who betrayed my grandfather. Who betrayed my father.”

The anger snags on the final word. His eyes flick to his boots, and I twist away before they can find me, pretending to fumble inside my saddlebags. Something quivers behind my sternum, echoing the faint tremble in Thorin’s voice.

Yikes. No wonder he was so against having me on this quest when he discovered I’m an Elf. My distant cousins sound like selfish bastards.

“You are neither of them.” Gandalf continues looms over him like a ragged thundercloud, white-knuckled fingers clenched around his staff. “I did not give you that map and key for you to hold onto the past!”

“I did not know that they were yours to keep!”

I hold my breath, not daring to make a sound. The two glare at each other like rival alpha wolves, neither breaking eye contact. Gandalf turns on his heel and stomps down the hill, his staff slicing into the soft, damp ground. Heads lift to watch him as he storms through the centre of camp.

“Gandalf? Where are you going?” Bilbo trots after him, but is swiftly left behind by the Wizard’s furious stride.

“To seek the company of the only one around here who’s got any sense,” Gandalf growls without even glancing at Bilbo.

“And who’s that?”

“Myself, Mister Baggins!”

Like a retreating storm, Gandalf leaves a blanket of eerie silence in his wake. Bilbo looks thoroughly alarmed, wide-eyed and pale.

“Come on Bombur, we’re hungry.”

Just like that, the evening proceeds as normal. The grey sky darkens to starless black and the fire crackles to life inside the decrepit house. Bilbo casts frantic glances over his shoulder every few minutes, skittering about the camp like a nervous doe.

Perched on a section of the crumbling wall, I check the locations of all eleven blades concealed beneath my clothes. If Thorin decides to rally a mob to chase me away, I’m not going down without a fight.

The smell of boiled vegetables and herbs wafts beneath my nose, prompting a ravenous growl from my stomach. The Dwarf with the funny hat stands guard over the cooking pot, ladling its watery contents into bowls. Bilbo flutters around him, still fretting, too distracted to bring me a bowl.

“He’s been gone a long time.”

“Who?”

“Gandalf!”

“He’s a Wizard! He does as he chooses.”

Which is both inconvenient and extremely bloody typical. The senile old coot has probably forgotten I even exist, and I’ll have to spend the rest of this bloody quest sleeping with one eye open in case I wake up with a knife in my gut.

Mud squelches under my boot as I drive the heat in my blood down through my heel into the earth. Never, ever trust a Wizard. Especially not an ancient, weed-smoking hippie who thinks Hobbits make good burglars.

Rustling grass draws my attention to the woods just as maroon coat-tails vanish between the trees. I sit up straighter, blinking away my frustration, and scan the bodies nestled around the fire.

No Bilbo.

I’ve lost both of my allies.

The skin beneath my collar itches. I sense eleven pairs of eyes on me, though no one even glances in my direction. One word from Thorin and they’ll all turn on me. After Balin’s story, I can’t underestimate the lengths they’d go to for him. Even the fat one and the one with the ear trumpet would come after me with pitchforks if Thorin gave the order.

Though I’m nowhere close to the fire and mostly exposed to the elements, I can’t bear to stay inside the stifling farmhouse any longer.

I trudge into the open air, shivering as the sparse warmth recedes and a chill nips at my exposed skin. Pulling the roughspun cloak around my shoulders, I glance up at the mountains looming above serrated black trees. According to my map, we’ll have to cross them at some point—how we’re going to do that with sixteen stubby-legged ponies and all the baggage, I have no idea.

Shadowmere raises his head as I approach him. Early on in our friendship, I learned the hard way that he doesn’t like to be tethered. He patrols the treeline like a sentinel, barely distinguishable from the shadows. I reach to pat his muzzle but he jerks his head away and stamps his front hoof. His red eyes glow bright with unusual intensity.

“What is it?”

He snorts, shakes his mane and points his nose towards the forest. In there.

The shadows between the trees are too dense to see through. I step towards the edge, bracken and nettles crunching under my boots. My ears strain to pick up any sign that something’s off—I trust Shadowmere’s instincts just as much as mine, if not more.

There.

Two bodies crash through the undergrowth. Fili emerges first, and stops dead when he sees me. Kili slams into his back, pitching him forward a step. Kili steadies him, and they both stare at me, white-faced and breathing hard.

“What’s going on?” I peer over their heads into the trees. The teeth gnawing my gut elongate into fangs when no Hobbit emerges. “Where’s Bilbo?”

“Trolls,” Fili gasps, “took the ponies. Bilbo’s gone to investigate.”

My heart tumbles over itself. Metal bites into my palm—I don’t remember drawing the Blade. Stinging heat sears my palm, and blood slides between my fingers. “You sent Bilbo towards a group of trolls alone?”

“They won’t see him.” Kili’s hand finds his brother’s shoulder. “If he’s careful.”

I shake my head. The thought of Bilbo—soft, sweet, tiny Bilbo—facing even one troll makes me feel sick. “He’s in danger.”

Kili swallows, fingers digging into Fili’s collarbone. He leans close, obviously hoping I won’t hear, and murmurs, “We have to tell Thorin.”

Fili grimaces, as though the thought of approaching his uncle gives him stomach ache.

“How many of them?” An idea niggles at me, drawing my focus away from Fili’s slumped shoulders and Kili’s twitching fingers.

Kili’s gaze flicks up to mine. “At least two. Three, going by the stink of them.”

Three trolls. I’ve taken on trolls before, but never more than one at a time. But if I can pull this off and save his burglar, Thorin might leave me be.

I can’t believe I’m considering risking my life for someone else’s approval, but in the face of Gandalf’s indefinite absence, it might be my best option.

Never mind that. I will not stand here and let Bilbo Baggins get eaten by trolls.

Squaring my shoulders, I look down at the two princes. They both stare back at me, eyes wide, waiting. It’s a little unnerving. People don’t usually look to me for instructions, even when they should.

“Stay here. I’m going back for Bilbo. If we’re not out of this forest by first light, tell Thorin.”

To my surprise, they both nod. Kili’s arm remains around Fili’s shoulders, though he throws several glances over his shoulder towards the trees. Sucking in a lungful of cool night air, I curl my fingers around the Blade and step into the forest.

Beneath the black canopy, the darkness is tangible. Air sticks in my throat, thick and stifling. The stink of rot, fermented earth and something unbearably foul threatens to choke me. Snatches of sound dance past my ears—deep, jagged grunts and grumbles that barely resolve into speech.

Apparently these trolls can talk.

Barely ten steps in, footsteps crash through the brush behind me. I whirl and almost slice off Kili’s ear.

“Mahal.” He stares at the Blade in my hand as he straightens, transfixed by the faintly glowing markings. I forget what a formidable sight my dagger can be to those seeing it for the first time. I swiftly tuck it into my sleeve, breaking him out of his trance.

“What are you doing?” Even my quiet hiss is too loud in my own ears.

“I’m coming with you.”

“No, you—”

He plunges into the shadows. With a reserved sigh, I follow the trail of rustling and faint cursing, praying the trolls won’t hear our not-so-subtle advance. A smudge of glowing yellow appears amid the gloom, and I get my first glimpse of the trolls.

These trolls are nothing like the trolls in Skyrim. They’re much, much bigger—at least ten feet tall—and strangely humanoid in shape. Completely hairless, their skin is grey and cracked like granite. They’re somehow ridiculous and terrifying all at once. Behind them, the stolen ponies cluster together inside a makeshift pen, whinnying and tossing their manes in fright.

My heart skips as I spot something squirmy and Hobbit-sized struggling against the grip of a gigantic, gnarled hand. They’ve found Bilbo.

A hand seizes my wrist and yanks me to my knees. My shins bark in protest as they collide with the ground. Clenching my teeth against a hiss, I shake Kili off and peer through the thicket.

Bilbo dangles from the biggest troll’s fist like an absurd bat, coattails flapping around his head. The pointy end of a curved blade jabs his soft belly.

“Are there any more of you little fellas hiding where you shouldn’t?”

“Nope!”              

A troll with a lazy eye sticks its ugly, rock-like face close to Bilbo. “He’s lying!”

“No I’m not!”

“Hold his toes over the fire! Make him squeal!”

Kili goes rigid beside me. Before I can grab him, he launches into the clearing, slashing at Lazy Eye’s calf. The troll shrieks, hopping backwards as Kili makes another swipe at its foot. He’s surprisingly good with a blade.

“Drop him!”

And also a complete idiot.

“You wot?”

Kili deftly twirls his sword. There’s a mad glint in his eyes that says he’ll willingly take on all three of the trolls if they don’t co-operate. “I said, drop him.”

This isn’t going to end well.

Something huge thunders through the trees behind me. I turn, and freeze.

A dozen Dwarves swarm into the clearing, and everything dissolves into chaos.

Thorin’s company attacks as a seamless unit, bounding off each other and hurtling in every direction like hairy cannonballs. Yells and whoops bounce off the trees, filling the night with savage joy. I can do nothing but watch, fascinated, as every single Dwarf throws himself wholeheartedly into the fight.

My eyes find Thorin of their own accord. His fighting style combines brute strength and a surprisingly graceful agility in a way that’s utterly mesmerising.

I shake the thought away, tearing my gaze from Thorin and searching the clearing for Bilbo. It’s impossible to pinpoint anything in the carnage, and I’ll never find him just sitting in this bush like a moron. I haven’t been in a fight for over a year, but that shouldn’t be a problem.

Rising from my crouch, I roll my shoulders and step into the fray.

The trolls smell even worse up close, their screams and howls deafening. Bodies catapult around me—Dwalin’s tattooed head, Balin’s white beard and Fili’s golden hair flit about my peripheral vision, but there’s one curly head I don’t see.

Where the hell is Bilbo?

With a chorus of joyful whinnies, the ponies break free from the pen and bolt into the trees. A green waistcoated figure clutches the trolls’ curved dirk, urging the animals to flee. The largest troll notices the commotion and, with an enraged bellow, lumbers towards Bilbo.

I launch into its path, skidding on the loose earth. The Blade sinks into the meat of the troll’s thigh, the force of the blow wrenching it from my grip. A boulder-like hand catches me squarely in the chest. The force of my back smashing into the ground punches the breath from my lungs. Fire twines around my ribs. The noise of battle submerges beneath roaring agony, the scene blurring into indistinguishable smudges of colour.

“Bilbo!”

Kili’s panicked shout hauls me back to consciousness. The Dwarves cluster to my right, their gazes fixed on something several feet in the air. Thorin’s arm is an impenetrable barrier between Kili and the trolls. The young prince’s eyes spark, his jaw tight.  

Pain lances through my chest as I twist to look over my shoulder. Two of the trolls have Bilbo by his arms and legs, stretching his small body between them like he’s strapped to a torture device.

“Lay down your arms! Or we’ll rip his off!”

Thorin stays unbearably still, eyes burning. Then he drives the point of his sword into the ground. Grumbling and muttering, the others follow suit. Kili throws his sword down with clenched teeth.

What follows is a fairly predictable downward spiral, during which I struggle to hold onto consciousness. Half of the Dwarves are tied to a spit and hoisted over the fire. The rest are stuffed unceremoniously into sacks and chucked into a pile. My ribs scream as thick fingers seize me and my limbs are encased in burlap. A blur of red catches my eye—the Blade is still lodged in the troll’s leg. My pathetic attempt to lunge for it earns me a sneer and my vision plunges back into darkness.

A debate about how to cook us comes to me in jagged pieces punctuated by the ringing in my ears.

“Never mind the seasoning, we ain’t got all night! Dawn ain’t far away, so let’s get a move on! I don’t fancy being turned to stone.”

I try to sit up again, and discover I’m wedged between two solid Dwarves. My shins and ankles are pinned beneath a third and rapidly losing blood flow.

Dwarves are heavy.

“Wait!” Bilbo’s voice pipes up near the fire. I can see well enough over the bundle of bodies to tell he’s unharmed—the relief is almost worth the rush of nausea from the concussion. “You are making a terrible mistake!”

“You can’t reason with them, they’re half-wits!”

“Half-wits? What does that make us?”

It’s quite difficult to glare at Kili from this angle, but I manage. This whole thing is basically his fault.

“I meant with… With the seasoning.”

A migraine bunches at my temples. Coupled with a moderate-to-severe concussion and what has to be at least four cracked ribs, it’s getting harder to focus on what’s going on.

“What do you know about cooking Dwarf?”

“The secret to cooking Dwarf is to… skin them first!”

A boot catches me in the ribs, the taste of metal flooding my mouth as they all shout and struggle at once.

“Traitor!”

“He’s right!” Lazy Eye snatches up the nearest Dwarf, lifting him high above his ugly face by the toes. “Nothing wrong with a bit of raw Dwarf!”

Behind the trolls, something grey and distinctly Wizard-shaped darts behind a large boulder. I blink, squinting at the trees. Am I having pain-induced hallucinations? And why Gandalf, of all people?

“Not that one, he’s infected!”

Lazy Eye squeals, and the Dwarf slams directly on top of Kili.

“They’re infested with parasites. It’s a terrible business.”

“We don’t have parasites! You have parasites!”

Beneath the pain fogging my brain, I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. Nothing this ridiculous could possibly happen in real life.

A boot thumps Kili’s back, cutting him off mid-yell. Kili twists to glare at his uncle, and the realisation visibly dawns on his face. I can almost hear the rest of them catching on, like a cascade of coins pinging off the ground.

“I’ve got parasites as big as my arm!”

It might be the concussion, but I have a sudden, bizarre urge to laugh. I glimpse Thorin’s head poking out of the sack behind me and almost inhale my own tongue.

The biggest troll jabs a finger at Bilbo. “This little ferret is taking us for fools!”

“Ferret?”

“Fools?”

“The dawn will take you all!”

Oh, thank the gods. I’d recognise that dramatic, booming voice anywhere. Gandalf looms into view atop the boulder, a Wizard-shaped silhouette against the lightening sky. Every pair of eyes in the clearing turns to towards him.

“Who’s that?”

“Can we eat him too?”

Gandalf’s staff cracks down, cleaving the boulder clean in half, and the first rays of dawn spill into the glade.

With a series of rumbling groans, hisses and cracks, the trolls’ grey, craggy skin solidifies into stone. It’s over in a few seconds, and we are all left staring between three life-sized troll statues and the Wizard who arrived just in time.

The glade erupts into cheers.

@bluelinkmp ; @moloko-tyan ; @inumorph

[the-marvel-ous-hobbit]

To Slay A Dragon: Ch. 2

Summary: The Dragonborn meets the company and their reluctant burglar.

Warnings: Like one or two curse words. Also Thorin being Thorin.

Word count: 5100

part one || part three

Twelve months later, the note arrives.

It's sitting on the bed when I return to my room. The yellow parchment sticks out like a beacon against the grey wood and black shadows. I snatch it up, ignoring the tremor in my fingers as I read:

The Green Dragon inn, Bywater. Tomorrow. 7 o' clock.

The words don't make much sense until my gaze snags on the name at the bottom:

Gandalf the Grey.

I'd long ago accepted I wouldn't be hearing from Gandalf again. After two or three weeks hanging around Bree, the urge to wander was like an itch in my bones. The certainty that I would soon be dragged back to Skyrim shadowed me like a reaper; in an attempt to dissuade any efforts to track me down, I spent the better part of the year travelling. I hopped between towns and did whatever I could to keep busy – an existence eerily reminiscent of the life I led before Astrid took me in.

The more of Middle-earth I uncovered, the more certain I was that I would prefer to be smote down by a wrathful god than ever set foot in Tamriel again. I let myself believe that if I stayed away long enough, the Night Mother would assume I wasn’t coming back and leave me alone. The naiveté of the notion wasn’t lost on me, but I clung to it nonetheless.

Perhaps I was right to do so. I just didn’t expect my salvation to arrive in the hands of a Wizard dressed all in grey.

The discovery that Gandalf is in fact a Wizard and not a homeless old hippie as appearances suggest came soon after meeting him, thanks to the good folk of Bree's fondness for gossip. It’s unclear how similar the Wizards of this world are to the Mages of Skyrim, but so far they seem to possess the same degree of both infamy and absurdity.

Still, I refuse to do anything just because someone tells me to, even if that someone is a Wizard. The real reason I leave for Bywater at sunrise is shiny and metallic and has the potential to fix at least some of my problems. Whether or not it’s currently being sat on by a dragon is irrelevant.  

Gandalf is waiting inside the inn, accompanied by a gaggle of Dwarves. None of them pay me much mind, though a couple slide suspicious glances in my direction. I’m content to ignore them in kind as Gandalf leads the way into a pleasantly cool spring evening, and we set off to meet the unfortunate creature Gandalf has elected as the resident burglar.

Thus, as the front door of the little house jerks open, I encounter my first problem with this whole thing:

Gandalf’s ‘burglar’ is a Hobbit.

The cluster of Dwarves topple onto the mat in an unceremonious heap. I might have found it funny if my heart wasn't beating so fast; the eagerness to go on a proper quest after so long is wearing off, and the reality of the situation is sinking in.

I’m going to be travelling across an alien continent, surrounded by a large group of strangers armed to the teeth, heading towards a mountain guarded by a dragon, all for the sake of what remains of a home that burned down and a family that perished in the flames.

Amid a lot of grumbling and muffled yells of "Get off!" Gandalf bends down from his towering height to peer into a warmly lit hall.

"Gandalf."

The Hobbit's tone and resigned expression paint a very descriptive picture of his feelings towards the Wizard. He looks like most of the other Hobbits I’ve encountered: a few inches over three feet tall, curly hair covering his head and dusting the tops of his bare feet, a bit pudgy around the middle. He looks about as capable of burgling as a dragon is of tap-dancing.

The Dwarves manage to disentangle from each other and queue to introduce themselves. I take note of their distinctive appearances; they're as different from each other as it seems possible to be whilst remaining of the same race. Apparently some of them are related, but I would be hard pressed to point out any family resemblance.

After they finish bowing and offering their services to the Hobbit, he stands aside to let them all in, though it seems to take an emotional toll. Gandalf stoops almost in half to fit through the little round door, and the Hobbit glares daggers at the Wizard's back as he shuffles off down the hall.

He goes to close the door and does a double-take when he sees me lingering on his doorstep.

I suppose now it's too late to make a run for it.

"You're not a Dwarf."

I shake my head and pull back my hood. A cool breeze nips at the tips of my ears; the Hobbit’s eyes linger on them briefly before returning to mine.

"I'm a friend of Gandalf's," I say. "May I come in?"   

My fingers itch to curl around the Blade of Woe as the Hobbit regards me in silence. The absence of the hood leaves me painfully exposed. I long for the cowl I left back at the inn; it covered my head and the lower part of my face, rendering me comfortably anonymous. A few days after meeting Gandalf, I packed away the black and red assassin's garb in favour of a simple outfit in shades of green and brown, complete with a hooded cloak. The clothes are itchy and made of too much fabric, but the hidden folds are quite useful for concealing knives.

The Hobbit still hasn’t spoken. He’s obviously waiting for me to offer a name, which I am not inclined to do. I return his stare with a bit more intensity than is necessary, and it doesn't take him long to blink.

"Bilbo Baggins. At your service."

He adds the last part with a wry smile waves me inside. 

The Dwarves immediately make themselves at home by emptying the pantry. Bilbo scurries amongst the throng, his orders to put everything back falling on deaf ears. I make a beeline for a nondescript corner safely out of the way and prop myself against the wall. There's enough space between the top of my head and the ceiling that I don't feel too claustrophobic, but only just. Gandalf looms over the chaos like a harbinger of doom in tattered grey robes, comically huge in the Hobbit-sized house. He smacks his head on a chandelier and I have to fight back a laugh that would have come out far too loud.

The house is by no means small – there’s more space inside than one Hobbit could reasonably have use for. Elegantly sculpted walls panelled with caramel wood curve seamlessly into an arched ceiling lined with beams. Chandeliers cast the hallway in soft yellow light. Most of the furniture is wooden and antique. Bilbo Baggins’ home is the personification of the word ‘cosy’. Or it would be, were it not filled to bursting with Dwarves.

They seem to be everywhere at once, laughing, jostling and shouting over each other with enough noise to not only wake the dead but also give them a considerable headache. They clog the air with their commotion and musk until there isn’t enough oxygen to go around. I sink further into my corner and struggle to claw back some semblance of personal space. After so long spent in solitude, the cacophony of life is overwhelming.

A Dwarf with a black and white beard approaches Gandalf. As he passes under a chandelier, something metallic catches the light. I have to look twice to make sure I'm not seeing things.

I’m not.

The shard of an axe-blade is embedded in the front of his skull, and he’s walking around like it’s perfectly ordinary. 

What in the name of all that is reasonable are these Dwarves made of?

The Dwarf speaks to Gandalf in a language I assume is Dwarfish, which Gandalf apparently also speaks, because he replies, "Yes, you're quite right, Bifur. We appear to be one Dwarf short."

They're all short, Gandalf.

"He's late, is all." This new voice comes from a Dwarf with tattoos decorating his head and a set of knuckle dusters adorning each hand. "He travelled north to a meeting of our kin. He will come."

As Gandalf turns away to speak to yet another Dwarf, the one with the tattoos catches me admiring the metal banding his fingers. The rings glint menacingly as he curls his hand into a fist.

Finally, the table is as laden as it can be whilst remaining structurally sound. The Dwarves gravitate towards the feast, leaving me alone in the hallway. My shoulders slump as breathing becomes easier now that the air is less stifling.

I weigh my options for a few seconds before my stomach makes my decision for me and I peek into the dining room.

The turmoil is equally prevalent at the table as it was in the hall. The Dwarves hardly bother with plates, let alone cutlery. Unidentifiable scraps fly through the air like wayward missiles. The roar of conversation continues around far too large mouthfuls of food. My own mouth waters at the sights and smells of roasted meat, fresh vegetables, homemade bread and a whole symphony of herbs and spices, but I can't make myself take the final step into the dining room.

As I'm about to give up and slink towards the front door, Gandalf catches my eye and I involuntarily stop dead. A bushy eyebrow twitches, and I know immediately that he's already guessed I was about to run. He holds me in place for a few excruciating heartbeats without a word, then holds out a plate piled high with food. I manage a nod of thanks and retreat until my back connects with the wall. The sensation of all my secrets being laid bare by the Wizard's gaze sticks in my throat, and only after it dissipates do I tuck in to the best meal I've had in ages.

Aside from their incessant racket and appalling table manners, other things about the Dwarves become apparent as the evening drags on. They enjoy each other's company like a family. Scattered amongst the jostling of shoulders and thumping of backs are smaller, more careful touches. These are brief and sometimes barely noticeable, but they snag my attention. The two youngest Dwarves, in particular - one dark-haired and the other golden - shower each other with brief but affectionate touches, as if afraid the other might disappear.

An ache gnaws at the pit of my stomach as the reminder that my family is gone hits me like a blow to the gut from a Giant’s club, and I catch myself just in time to prevent the plate in my hand shattering against the opposite wall. Most of them seem content to pretend I'm not there, and I’m content to keep it that way. One or two sneak curious glances at the spectre with pale hair and a scarred face lurking at the edge of their feast. I keep my gaze lowered, pretending to concentrate on my food.

What has Gandalf told them? Do they know what I am, and what I can do?

I was careful not to give away too much in the Prancing Pony. I told Gandalf and Thorin I'm a dragon-slayer by trade (which is as much of the truth as I intend to tell) and would be glad to take care of their problem for the right price. Thorin wasn't convinced from the outset; the suspicion that rolled off him throughout the conversation was so strong I could taste it. I recognised the bitterness as the same kind that lingers in the back of my throat.

The sound of cheering brings me abruptly back to the present. The golden-haired Dwarf has climbed up onto the table and is handing out mugs of ale. He picks his way through the carnage with a precision and grace that holds my attention prisoner right up until he reaches the far end. I wait too long to look away; he catches my eye and raises a mug in my direction. My throat is bone dry but I shake my head. He bounds over anyway, pushes the mug into my free hand. Blue eyes sparkle as he winks at me. I take the mug wordlessly and he turns away to rejoin the group. 

A chorus of belching erupts around the table, shaking me out of a daze.

Truly charming creatures, Dwarves.

When the food is all but demolished, the Dwarves begin the process of tidying up, prompting the Hobbit to resume his flapping. The chaos spills out from the dining room into the hallway; I reacquaint myself with my corner, relying a bit too heavily on the wall to support my weight as the food settles in my belly. The ale is doing wonders to soften the edges of the ruckus; my eyes are halfway closed before I remember where I am and snap back to attention.

At the end of the hallway, Gandalf and Bilbo are engaged in some sort of confrontation barely within my earshot. The Hobbit's arms wave all over the place as he beseeches the Wizard, his voice bordering on a pitch only dogs can hear.

"I don't understand what they're doing in my house!"

Gandalf's expression remains stoic in the face of Bilbo’s agitation. Evidently he hasn't informed the Hobbit of his ideas yet; I almost dread the moment Bilbo finds out about all the scheming that's been going on without his knowledge, and the role he's expected to play in it. Perhaps I should reach out to him, just to give him a bit of warning before his world turns upside down.

How I wish someone had done that for me.

Another Dwarf chooses that moment to emerge from an adjoining room. "'Scuse me," he says to the Hobbit, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but what should I do with my plate?"

"Here you go Ori, give it to me."

The golden-haired Dwarf takes the plate from Ori's hand and tosses it down the hall to his brother. Bilbo's eyes and mouth widen as the air fills with flying crockery heading purposefully towards the kitchen.

It's fascinating to watch. A couple of them start showing off by bouncing plates off their elbows and, in a thoroughly unanticipated turn of events the Dwarves begin to sing.

"Blunt the knives, bend the forks!"

"Smash the bottles and burn the corks!"

"Chip the glasses and crack the plates!"

"That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!"

Of all the things I could have assumed or guessed about Dwarves, the fact that they might be talented musicians would have been right at the bottom of the list. They can carry a tune better than most bards I know. The one with the hat pulls a piccolo from somewhere inside his jacket and the older one with the ear trumpet somehow convinces a teapot that it was destined to be a flute. Gandalf blows smoke rings for them to use like hoops at a carnival and seems to enjoy himself immensely as the plates sail through them.

It's such a jolly scene that I can't help tapping my foot along to the beat. Such ridiculous, noisy, oddly delightful creatures.

"That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!"

Just like that, the dishes are done. Bilbo looks like he's having an out-of-body experience as the Dwarves crowd around him, laughing and congratulating each other.

They'd be utterly useless against a dragon, but I bet they’re a hoot at drinking parties.

A loud thumping comes from the direction of the front door and silence descends like a shadow across the moon. Gandalf peers at us through a haze of pipe smoke.

"He's here."

The congregation shuffles towards the front door, the pipes and mugs in their hands all but forgotten. Thanks to my distinct height advantage, I have a clear view of the door as it swings open to reveal none other than Thorin Oakenshield.

I haven't seen him since that day in the Prancing Pony, but he's not the sort of person that's easily forgotten. He looks cleaner, drier and in better spirits than he was twelve months ago - in fact he almost smiles as he greets Gandalf.

Almost.

Every pair of eyes, including the Wizard's, follows Thorin as he moves further into the house. Even I’m drawn in by the gravitational field surrounding him. Only the Hobbit is left looking a bit perplexed as he moves to stand next to Gandalf.

"Bilbo Baggins," the Wizard says, "allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield."

"So, this is the Hobbit." Bilbo blinks up at Thorin like a clueless rabbit, eyes round and guileless.

After inspecting Bilbo from all angles and intimidating him with talk of weapons, Thorin concludes, "He looks more like a grocer than a burglar."

Well, he's not wrong - putting all their eggs in this Hobbit's basket will lead nowhere good, but I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for Bilbo as the Dwarves all snigger at his expense.

Despite the rest of the Dwarves having obliterated the contents of his pantry, Bilbo manages to rustle up some soup for Thorin they regroup around the table. The jovial atmosphere has utterly vanished; the air of solemnity around Thorin swallows up any remaining mirth. They barely give him chance to eat before beginning a discussion about the meeting he attended. As far as I can make out, he went to ask for help from other Dwarves, and they told him to stuff it.

"They say this quest is ours, and ours alone."

"You're going on a quest?"

The Wizard actually starts - apparently I'm the only one who heard Bilbo approach. Maybe he wouldn't make a bad burglar after all.  

Gandalf makes a valiant effort to pretend Bilbo didn't just scare the shit out of him. "Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light."

Bilbo nods and vanishes again. The Wizard stands up, producing a map from somewhere inside his ridiculous robes. He spreads it out on the table and everyone leans in to peer at it. I can just about see over Thorin's shoulder without having to get any nearer to him.

"Far to the east," Gandalf says with dramatic flair, "over ranges and rivers, lies a single solitary peak."

Bilbo, having returned with a lamp, reads over Thorin's shoulder: "The Lonely Mountain."

"Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold. 'When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end'."

That's very poetic and all, but prophecies have a habit of being ridiculously convoluted in their execution after leading you to believe everything will be nice and simple and you’ll be home by teatime. I firmly believe that whoever writes these prophecies is an unapologetic sadist.

"What beast?"

The poor thing really is clueless. How high was Gandalf when he thought this would be a good idea?

"That would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible. Chiefest and greatest calamity of our age."

He won’t be when I'm finished with him.

And what kind of a name is Smaug?

I look at the tiny, squishy creature beside me. To a dragon, he would look like a dumpling with curly hair. Even I've had difficulty with them in the past, and I was basically born to kill them. This Hobbit's chances are so far beyond laughable to simply be non-existent.

"The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us," says the Dwarf with white hair - Balin, I think. "But we number just thirteen. And not thirteen of the best, nor brightest."

Another ruckus breaks out, and I'm inclined to agree. Maybe it's time to let them know they have an experienced dragon-slayer in their midst.

From the corner, the golden-haired Dwarf speaks up, "We may be few in number, but we're fighters. All of us! To the last Dwarf!"

His brother adds, "And you forget we have a Wizard in our company. Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!"

I glance sideways at the Wizard, who looks distinctly uncomfortable.

"I wouldn't say -"

"How many then? How many dragons have you killed?"

Gandalf chokes on his pipe.

I’ve had enough of this.

"Thirty-seven."

My voice comes out a bit hoarse, but loud enough for Thorin, Bilbo and Gandalf to hear. Thorin turns in his chair to look at me for the first time since entering Bilbo's home. There's something in the set of his brows that I don't much like.

"What did you say?"

By now, the Dwarves have abandoned their spat and fifteen pairs of eyes are turned in my direction, all gleaming unnervingly in the light of Bilbo's candle.

I clear my throat. "I killed thirty-seven of the Dovah - dragons - in my homeland. Including Alduin, the World-Eater."

Thorin's stoic expression morphs into a glare. "I do not recall anyone asking you, Elf." 

"Thorin -" Gandalf starts.

Thorin rounds on him, hissing across the table, "I asked you to find us a burglar, not a dragon-slayer. I will not risk the lives of my company by bringing along an Elf we know nothing about."

My mouth drops open. The Dwarves glance uncertainly between the three of us. Thorin remains sitting with his back to me, as impassive as a slab of granite.

"It would be beneficial to have someone like her in the company."

Even Gandalf sounds a bit uncertain. My stomach drops into my boots; I can already feel the future I’ve imagined falling away from me. The longer Thorin stays with his back to me, the farther away it gets, shrinking like a ship on the horizon.

Thorin thumps his fist on the table. "I never agreed to allow an Elf to accompany us." His voice is remarkably level despite the aggression in it. His shoulders bunch beneath his shirt; he's built like a brick, broad and compact. My chest tightens as I stare at his back. He doesn't even deign to turn around before growling, "I suggest you leave now. These matters do not concern you, and you are not welcome here."

Something inside me snaps.

"Are you blind?"

The tension in his body pulls even tighter, like a bowstring pulled back to the point of snapping. Everyone and everything in the room goes utterly, completely still. Thorin turns, very slowly, to face me.

"What?"

"Anyone can see that this quest is a fool's errand. You're placing all your hopes on one Hobbit who's never even seen a dragon from a distance. How long do you think he'll last if he's made to face one alone?"

Thorin says nothing. Around the table, a few Dwarves openly curl their hands into fists. The golden-haired one reaches for something at his waist, a gesture I know all too well. His brother lays a hand on his arm, but the look he gives me speaks volumes.

I turn to Gandalf. The Wizard has been suspiciously quiet throughout this entire exchange. A sour taste floods my mouth. For a moment, I debate turning on my heel and marching out the front door. Screw this quest, screw these bull-headed Dwarves, and screw this sneaky, conniving Wizard. But, without them, the path outside that front door can lead only to one place, and the thought of returning there turns my insides to lead.

I take a deep breath, willing some of my frustration to dissipate. "I am the best chance you have," I say, hating the rawness in my throat and my voice. “Please, let me help you.”

Thorin glares at me with eyes of blue steel. "You are a stranger to all of us. Our business is nothing to do with you. I don't care what skills you claim to have."

Is he going to make me beg? I’ve never begged for anything in my life, but now it seems the only option. My body won’t accept the order from my brain; my jaw stays firmly closed, as though wired shut. Neither Thorin nor I move for a time that may have been a few seconds or several lifetimes.

Then, Gandalf finally chooses to intervene. He lays a long-fingered hand on my shoulder. "I think it's best if you wait in another room."

I shake him off with a barely-restrained snarl. My eyes still haven’t left Thorin’s; his mouth twists like he wants to snarl right back at me. I’m loath to break eye contact, to submit to him in any way, but I can’t draw my knife in a room full of witnesses ready to jump to his defence.

"Gladly."

I stalk from the room, my cheeks flaming and my ears filled with a dull roar that drowns out any other sound. I reach the end of the hall and turn to see Bilbo Baggins standing behind me. He points to a room in the opposite direction; his hand trembles slightly.

"The parlour’s this way."

It takes a moment for the realisation to sink in that he isn't mocking me - he's being kind. Wrapping my arms around my stomach, I follow him to the parlour, consciously shortening my strides to allow him to remain ahead. The room, like the rest of the house, is warmly-lit and cosy, furnished with a couple of armchairs, some bookshelves and a fireplace. Bilbo directs me into one of the chairs and I sit carefully, unsure of how it will take my weight.

"Can I get you a cup of tea?"

It's such an odd question given the situation that I almost laugh. I try for a smile instead, but it feels awkward and probably looks more like a grimace. Bilbo looks at me for a long moment. The candlelight sparks off the green in his eyes and, for the first time, I notice the tips of pointed ears peeking from beneath his hair.

"Are you really an Elf?" he asks.

I nod. My limbs are growing heavy in the wake of my outburst; my fingers dig painfully into my sides as I fold my arms tighter around my abdomen. For some reason, I don’t feel the need to keep my emotions in check around Bilbo.

"You're not what I expected."

I look up from inspecting the rug. "Neither are you, Mister Baggins," I say truthfully.

He gives an awkward little bow and leaves the room. I let my head drop over the back of the armchair and listen to the slap of bare feet on wood recede into the dining room.

I couldn't care less if all of these damned Dwarves make it to the Lonely Mountain, or if they survive the encounter with the dragon. My only concern lies with the pile of treasure the creature broods over - a mountain of gold belonging to a king.

It would be more than enough to renovate the Dawnstar Sanctuary and probably a few others, if Nazir is so inclined. If I can bring back enough money from this excursion, he and Babette will be set for life. They can choose to rebuild the Dark Brotherhood or let it die. I will fulfill my last promise to Astrid - to look after what remains of her odd little family. I never promised I would remain a part of it.

There's a shuffling just beyond the doorway and Bilbo comes in, closely followed by Gandalf. The Wizard has a large hand on Bilbo's shoulder and seems to be half-steering him towards the fire. Bilbo’s skin is pale and waxy, his eyes glazed and not quite here. I jump up from the armchair, and he collapses into it. Gandalf disappears for a moment and returns with a steaming mug. He hands it to Bilbo, who takes it with a trembling hand.

"I'll be alright, just let me sit quietly for a moment," Bilbo says, trying to swat the Wizard away. I can sense the lecture brewing around Gandalf like a storm cloud.

"You've been sitting quietly for far too long."

Bilbo looks as though he would like nothing more than to hurl his cup at the Wizard's head. The next few minutes are eerily reminiscent of the conversation between Thorin and Gandalf in the Prancing Pony. I pretend to be absorbed in the contents of the bookshelves as Gandalf goes on a tirade about one of Bilbo’s distant relatives. It’s unclear how he knows all this, and how much of it is true. Bilbo seems unconvinced that his great-great-great-great-uncle invented golf.

“I do believe you made that up,” he says with a faint smile.

Gandalf has the grace to look a bit sheepish. “All good stories deserve embellishment. You'll have a tale or two of your own when you come back.”

My heart breaks the tiniest bit when Bilbo asks, "Can you promise that I will come back?"

"No. And if you do, you will not be the same."

Well, at least he’s honest, even if Bilbo looks vaguely nauseous at the suggestion.

"That's what I thought. Sorry, Gandalf, I can't sign this. You've got the wrong Hobbit."

Bilbo leaves, and I find myself smiling for a reason that eludes me. Then Gandalf’s turns to me, and the smile fades as quickly as it came. He gazes at me with eyes that harbour entire universes behind them. The urge to flee seizes my chest, but Gandalf speaks before I can so much as twitch.  

"I believe you are these Dwarves' best chance,” he says. I blink – I didn’t expect that. “Thorin can be stubborn and unreasonable, but he wants what's best for this quest. I can prevent him sending you away, but I can only do so much. It will be up to you to convince him to allow you to accompany him all the way to Erebor."

Heat rushes back to my cheeks; my nails make a hollow, rhythmic sound on the wooden shelf. "I couldn't care less about Thorin and his silly quest."

"The choice is yours," Gandalf says with finality. "We leave at first light."

He's wrong. As he shuffles out of the room, stooping to avoid smacking his head on the low archway, I stare into the fireplace and think that it isn't my choice at all.

The only way to break these shackles is to get my hands on that gold. If an exiled Dwarf king is foolish enough to try to prevent it, I’ll gladly introduce him to the business end of my blade.

[flyingrotten]

Thorin’s dragon sickness

[oakenbaggins]

thorin oakenshield

reblog if you agree

[slightly-taller-than-a-hobbit-d]

Oin: If you bite it and you die, it’s poisonous. If it bites you and you die, it’s venomous.

Kili: What if it bites me and it dies?

Oin: That means you’re poisonous.

Fili: What if it bites itself and I die?

Oin: That’s voodoo.

Ori: What if it bites me and someone else dies?

Oin: That’s correlation, not causation.

Bofur: What if we bite each other and neither of us die?

Oin: That’s kinky.

[valtsv]

everyone in fantasy novels is horny on main for elves and it’s honestly a travesty like why the hell would you want to marry an elf you’ll just spend the rest of your days growing old in the woods with a bunch of immortal bastards whose heads are so far up their asses they think singing week-long ballads is prime entertainment and say shit like “thou” and “beseech” unironically y'all should be hooking up with dwarves who 1. actually know how to throw the fuck down and let loose at a party 2. will literally shower you in diamond dust and gold they mined and crafted with their bare hands and 3. can sling you over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes with their huge muscular arms developed from hours of said mining and crafting. there’s literally no contest.

[oh-archivist]

[thewarriorandtheking]

Thorin Thursday

[baggvinshield]

remember when rumlow only made an appearance in cacw to remind the audience that steve is in love with bucky

[the-marvel-ous-hobbit]

Would you ever consider writing a second part for „to slay a dragon“?

I am planning to! As soon as I find the time to do a good job I’ll definitely work on a second part :)

[sassyactorsandmanyfandoms-deact]

Sebastian Stan looked damn fine today, I didn’t see him, but I know he did.