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Chapter Text

March 25, TA 2941

It seemed the whole town of Bree was gathered in the Prancing Pony that fateful night in spite of the downpour outside. Wind and rain battered the old building, making the windows rattle and the shutters groan against their latches. A flash of lightning brightly illuminated the smoke-stained wooden walls inside followed quickly by a thunderclap, the sudden boom muffling the chatter inside for a brief moment before the spirited conversations resumed. All manner of men, and even a few ladies, lounged and moved about the tables strewn around haphazardly. Occasionally, a hobbit or two would skitter between the tables, ducking beneath the humans to avoid knocking their head on a serving tray or an elbow in the cramped fire and candlelit room.

Even with the constant movement and merriment of the crowd, one figure stood out amongst the rabble.

Thorin Oakenshield sat alone at a table too tall for his dwarven stature in the center of the tavern. Water clung to his long windswept dark hair, neatly trimmed beard, and fur-lined coat, having come in from the storm raging outside not long again. He chewed silently on his meager dinner of bread, cheese, and olives, lifting his mug of ale to his lips mindlessly between bites.  

Unbeknownst to the pensive dwarf, he was being watched by a set of very keen, very wise, and very old eyes not far away.

Gandalf the Grey pulled in another long drag from his pipe, the fragrant smoke of pipe-weed wafting around him as he waited for the right moment to approach the unsuspecting dwarf. Dark circles stained the skin around Thorin's eyes, and his mouth was twisted in a grim line. He was evidently none too pleased to be there.

“Probably wishing for dwarvish ale,” the wizard thought with a quiet chuckle.

Sweeping a glance around the tavern, an odd-looking man with one scarred blind eye and a bald head caught Gandalf’s eye. The strange fellow was sat under a window across the room, watching Thorin with unveiled aggression. With another slow turn of his head, Gandalf saw another scruffy man watching the dwarf, the same violent look in his eye as the first.

Clearly sensing the danger, Thorin’s sharp eyes flitted between the two men, tensing as they continued to stare at him. A moment later, the two suspicious men stood, stalking towards the lone dwarf. He slowly wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword resting beside him propped on the table, clearly readying himself for the fight headed his way.

While the timing wasn’t ideal, he figured it would be best to prevent a bar fight between two humans and the future king of Erebor. Or perhaps more than a bar fight if the message in his robe held any true merit.

Quickly tucking his pipe back inside his robe, Gandalf strode purposefully across the room and dropped down at the table across from Thorin, startling the anxious dwarf.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, smiling reassuringly and leaning his wizard’s staff against the table next to Thorin’s sword.

Thorin glanced at the men lurking nearby again before he dropped his hand reluctantly from his dwarvish blade. The two men froze, watching the new individual.

Gandalf paid them no mind as he tapped a serving girl on her shoulder on her way past their table.

“I’ll have the same,” he said, gesturing to Thorin’s plate. The girl nodded and walked off to get his meal.

Thorin sighed deeply before turning to stare at him, the dwarf's piercing blue eyes focusing on him like a hawk.  

“I should introduce myself. My name is Gandalf,” he said, trying to break the heavy tension in the air.

The dwarf blinked at him, clearly not impressed.

“Gandalf the Grey.”

Thorin nodded slowly. “I know who you are,” he said gruffly.

“Well now, this is a fine chance,” Gandalf said with a smile, clasping his hands together delightedly. It was, in fact, not chance, but Thorin didn’t need to know that. He’d been following the dwarf for the better part of the day, waiting for his chance to approach, but the message he intercepted earlier in the day had made him hesitate, waiting to see who else was tracking the dwarf. And it’s a good thing he did, judging by the two men that still stood glaring at him nearby.

“What brings Thorin Oakenshield to Bree?” he asked. Though he was trying to make conversation to help ease the tensely guarded dwarrow before him, he was also genuinely curious why the exiled king was away from his people in the Blue Mountains.

Thorin lowered his head, his eyes shifting pensively.

“I received word that my father had been seen wandering the wilds near Dunland. I went looking.” Thorin shook his head, discouragement shining in his eyes as his shoulders sagged. “Found no sign of him.”

“Ah. Thráin,” Gandalf said sadly, bowing his head respectfully. Thorin’s father, and his old friend, had gone missing many years ago. Despite the efforts and searching of many, the former Dwarf King remained missing to this day.

Thorin turned toward him, his eyes hard. “You’re like the others. You think he’s dead.”

“I was not at the battle of Moria,” Gandalf said stoically, nodding.

“No…” Thorin’s gaze turned from him, his eyes unfocused as the dwarf lost himself in his memories. A look Gandalf knew all too well.

“…but I was. My grandfather, Thrór, was slain. My father led a charge toward the Dimrill Gate. He never returned,” Thorin said thickly, his voice catching in his throat and his eyes shining hauntedly. He cleared his throat, his jaw clenching before he continued his tale, his voice biting.

“Thráin is gone they told me. He is one of the fallen. But at the end of that battle, I searched amongst the slain…to the last body.” Thorin shook his head emphatically. “My father was not among the dead.”

Gandalf shook his head slowly. He knew why Thorin still searched, but he feared his efforts were in vain. Losing a loved one, especially a parent, was always a hard thing. For mortals and immortals alike.

“Thorin, it’s been a long time since anything, but rumor has been heard about Thráin,” he said gently.

“He still lives! I am sure of it,” Thorin insisted, his eyes flashing.

They stared at each other for a long moment, neither one relenting their position on the matter. Finally, Gandalf sighed heavily. He wouldn’t be able to convince the dwarf tonight, but he still had a question that burned in his mind.

“The ring your grandfather wore, one of the Seven given to the Dwarf Lords many years ago…what became of it?” he asked, tilting his head.

Thorin shook his head, his brow furrowing in thought.

“He…gave it to my father before they went into battle.”

“So Thráin was wearing it when he d—when he went missing?” Gandalf corrected himself, trying not to provoke the dwarf’s anger.

Thorin nodded stiffly.

“Hmm. That’s that then,” the wizard said with a tight nod. A missing ring of power was never a good thing. He could only hope it hadn’t found its way into the hands of the enemy like so many of the others.

“Here you are,” the serving girl said, returning to set down a mug of ale and a plate of food before him. Gandalf nodded his thanks and grabbed the pint, lifting it to his mouth for a drink.

“I know my father came to see you before the Battle of Moria,” Thorin accused, glaring at him.

Gandalf quirked a brow, putting down his ale.

The dwarf leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “What did you say to him?”

Ah, so they were officially onto the topic of the evening. It was better that Thorin brought it up first. He doubted it would have been well received if he started this particular conversation.

“I urged him to march upon Erebor,” Gandalf declared. “To rally the seven armies of the Dwarves. To destroy the dragon and take back the Lonely Mountain.”

Thorin stared wide-eyed at him, his mouth slightly parted in shock.

“And I would say the same to you,” he said boldly. “Take back your homeland.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, then his lips quirked up into a smirk as he reached for his own mug of ale.

“This is no chance meeting, is it Gandalf?” he asked darkly, lifting the mug to his lips.

Gandalf met his pointed look stoically.

“No, it is not,” he admitted. “The Lonely Mountain troubles me Thorin, as well as another I know. That dragon has sat there long enough. Sooner or later, darker minds will turn towards Erebor.”

“Darker minds that long ago should have been vanquished,” he thought darkly.

But lately, darkness had been stirred in the north in forces and numbers that he couldn’t understand. Numbers that, given the increased frequency of messages he kept receiving from the north, he could no longer ignore.

Thorin stared at him, his eyes shifting as he mulled over the wizard’s words.

“I ran into some…unsavory characters whilst travelling on the Greenway. They mistook me for a vagabond,” Gandalf said with a smirk, reaching inside his robe.

“I imagine they regretted that,” Thorin said, grinning at him before tipping his ale back for another drink.

The wizard unrolled a tattered piece of cloth with strange markings on it.

“One of them was carrying a message.”

Thorin set his mug down and leaned closer. His brow furrowed, clearly confused by the strange slashes.

“It is Black Speech,” he clarified.

Thorin’s eyes met his before glancing back down at the dirty cloth.

“A promise of payment,” Gandalf said nodding down at the writing.

“For what?” Thorin whispered, his eyes flitting over the parchment.

“Your head,” he stated bluntly.

The dwarf’s head snapped up, staring at him.

“Someone wants you dead…Thorin, you can wait no longer. You are the heir to the throne of Durin. Unite the armies of the dwarves! Together you have the might and power to retake Erebor. Summon a meeting of the seven dwarf families. Demand they stand by their oaths,” he insisted.

Thorin leaned towards him, his voice hushed. “The seven armies swore that oath to the one who wields the king’s jewel. The Arkenstone.”

Gandalf nodded, knowing this fact to be true.

“It is the only thing that will unite them and, in case you have forgotten, that jewel was stolen by Smaug!” Thorin hissed, before his heated glare suddenly shifted behind him.

The wizard followed his gaze, catching a glimpse of the two hostile men from before slinking their way out of the tavern, glaring at the dwarf and himself.

“Good,” he thought. “One less thing to worry about.”

He turned back around to face Thorin and asked, “What if I were to help you reclaim it?”

Thorin’s eyes widened, his mouth parted slightly in disbelief.

“How? The Arkenstone lies half a world away…buried beneath the feet of a fire-breathing dragon,” he declared, his baritone voice booming rather finally around them.

“Yes, it does.” Gandalf smiled. “Which is why we’re going to need a burglar and a fire mage.”

Thorin's eyes flared wide, and his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. No words came out of his gaping mouth for a long moment before he finally managed to find his tongue.

“Fire mage? Fire mages are not real! They’re nothing more than the stuff of myth and legend. Old tales for mothers to tell their children. If they ever existed, they have long since died off.”

“Oh, I assure you. They were and are very much real, but unfortunate circumstances forced them into hiding,” Gandalf explained. A few tense moments of silence passed before Thorin spoke again.

“Alright wizard. Say I believe you. Say fire mages do exist. Where do you suggest we find your proposed fire mage and burglar?” he asked, narrowing his eyes to glare at him.

Gandalf breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t much of an agreement, and it certainly wasn’t an enthusiastic one at that, but it was an agreement, nonetheless.

“Gather your kin, Thorin. Those you can trust and meet in Hobbiton in precisely one month’s time. I will leave you instructions to follow once you are there. Our burglar lives in the Shire amongst the Hobbits. His name is Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins.”

Thorin nodded, tilting his head. “And the mage?”

Gandalf reached into his robe and grabbed the letter he had received not long ago.

“The mage has already agreed to join us,” Gandalf said, unfolding the letter and sliding it over for the dwarf to read.

“RVN?” Thorin's brow furrowed at the strange signature.

“Yes. Our mage is known as Raven, and they will meet us on the Ford of Bruinen as we approach the Misty Mountains. They reside in the northern Coldfells. Too far to join us for our meeting in Hobbiton on time, so we are to send them word by raven when we reach the Last Bridge on the East Road so they can meet us for the crossing of the Ford.”

“By raven? They were rare even before the dragon came. Then after the dragon destroyed Ravenhill, most of them fled and hid themselves in the north. How will we find a raven this far south?” Thorin asked tightly, quirking a brow at him.

“As stated in the letter, the sorcerer will be sending one to accompany us on the first leg of our journey and the raven will leave us at the bridge to bring word back to their master,” Gandalf said, waving a hand at the parchment on the table.  

Thorin looked down again, his eyes flitting over the paper, reading through the letter. After a long moment, his brow furrowed, glancing back up at him.

“What does this sorcerer want in return? There is no mention of payment. What does he get out of our journey?”

Gandalf huffed and shook his head. “They want nothing from you, Thorin Oakenshield. Raven wants the same thing I do: to see the Lonely Mountain restored to the rightful rule of the Dwarves and to free the land of the terror called Smaug.”

He pushed back from the table and rose to his feet, reaching for the letter. Thorin snatched it away from his hand, his eyes glinting darkly.

“You keep saying ‘they’, Gandalf. Is there more than one mage joining us?”

The wizard blinked down at Thorin. He had hoped the interrogative dwarrow hadn’t picked up on his vague language, but it seemed the Dwarf King was more perceptive than he appeared.

“No, Raven is not many persons. Though I do suppose there will be at least two individuals joining us. The mage rides atop a magnificent creature. Doesn’t travel without the beast. We’ll meet them both on the golden Ford.”

Gandalf tugged his letter from Thorin’s hand, folded it neatly and tucked it back inside his robe.

“What do the markings on the bottom of the letter mean?” Thorin asked, his eyes narrowing.

Blast dwarves and their keen eye for details! Though it shouldn’t have surprised him. Dwarves loved making contracts and deals, so it made sense for Thorin to see the small print at the bottom of the page.

“It’s a warning to be wary of orcs on the roads. They’re wandering farther south than usual,” Gandalf said quickly, grabbing his staff in his wrinkled hand. Rustling inside his robe quickly, he left some coin next to his untouched dinner and nodded down to the dwarf.

“Prepare yourself, Thorin. This will be a long and difficult journey, but I know you can do it. You are destined to reclaim your grandfather’s throne and rule the Dwarves of Erebor, united once more within the Halls Under the Mountain.”

With that declaration, Gandalf turned and strode from the tavern into the rain outside. Donning his hat and tugging it lower on his head, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt for lying to the dwarf. However, it couldn’t be helped. He wanted to honor the sorcerer’s instructions to the letter. Or should he say sorceress.

For as long as he’d known her, the young Raven had always been a bit mysterious and shrouded herself in secrecy. Even more so than himself sometimes, though that was the nature of fire mages after all. The Black Speech request penned at the bottom of her letter was a curious choice, but he would oblige her.

“”

And so he didn’t.

Chapter Text

April 25, TA 2941

Thorin heaved a frustrated sigh, turning around again at another dead end on the quiet night road of Hobbiton. Well-worn dirt paths wove through the Shire this way and that way in front of house after house dug into the sides of the dark rolling hills. Glowing lanterns placed sporadically along the fences lit his way well enough—not that he need the light since his eyes were well-adjusted to the extreme darkness of dwarven mines—but no signs were posted, leaving the roads unmarked, making it impossible for him to know which way was which.

Blast Gandalf!

The wizard had given him directions, proclaiming the hobbit hole with his mark on the door would be easy to find. Easy my left cheek. He should have known better than to think it would be that simple. Nothing was ever simple with wizards.

If someone had asked him for directions inside the halls of Ered Luin where the forges or the armory or even the pubs with the best—or worst—ale were, he’d have no trouble. But he rarely had reason to leave the dwarven halls of his people in the Blue Mountains, so the surface world was almost completely unknown to him after many years of life underground. Even his recent trip to Dunland and his ‘chance’ meeting with Gandalf the Grey in Bree had only afforded him a small sense of recollection of where things were on the lands above the earth.

And to make matters more frustrating, he passed not a soul as he wandered. Even if he wanted to swallow his pride—which he most certainly did not want to—and ask for directions, he couldn’t. He was completely alone. Not that he minded the solitude, but he was supposed to be eating and drinking with his kin right now, not roaming the roads like a wayward thief in the night.

Thorin turned down another unfamiliar path and approached another hobbit hole behind a gate and picket fence. He walked past the unremarkable house, but a croaked call caught his ear, halting his steps. Glancing back towards the sound, he spotted his sign that he’d finally arrived at the right place.

A large, black raven sat on the overgrown roof, staring at him with dark eyes, tilting its head towards him.

Thorin swung open the well-oiled gate and climbed the few steps to the large green round door at the front of the house. The windows on either side of the door glowed brightly with warm orange light from the inside and a single lantern hung above his head, lighting the small porch.

All the while the bird stared at him.

Loud singing rang out from inside the house. Something about ‘what Bilbo Baggins hates’. He chuckled at his kin’s song, rowdy and merry. It seemed their prospective burglar was getting the pointed end of their song with how many disruptive and disrespectful things this Bilbo seemed to hate. Though he had to admit, he would also be quite annoyed if they ‘smashed the bottles’ and ‘cracked the plates’ in his own home.

He was glad they were having a fun time. The journey ahead would be long, exhausting and filled with danger. He hoped they could still have fun times on the road, but they might become scarce and far between for a while.

He shook his head. It was best for them to enjoy the peace and merriment while they lasted.

He bent down and found his final confirmation he was well and truly at the right house: a faintly glowing dwarven rune etched into the hobbit’s door. Gandalf’s mark. Though, he didn’t know why he even doubted it, considering his kin’s rambunctious voices inside and the raven sat above his head.

Craning his neck to better look at the creature, Thorin asked, “You are the fire mage’s raven, correct?”

“Yes. I have come from my Master,” the bird replied. The bird’s harsh voice was a decidedly odd sound to hear Westron, the common tongue, coming from. He had not heard the voice of a raven in more than a century, and it took him a moment to understand the breathy croaked tone.

“What is your master’s name?” he asked. He didn’t trust what the wizard said at the tavern. The fact that Gandalf refused to call the mage anything other than ‘they’ unsettled him greatly.

“Raven,” the bird said with a flap of its wings, its black eyes glinting in the lantern’s light.

Thorin sighed. That was the name on the letter. RVN. That still didn’t tell him much, but at least the wizard gave him the correct name for the other sorcerer.

He chuckled at the irony. A mythical fire mage named Raven who used ravens as messengers. It certainly made for a rather bold statement, if not a bit egotistical. Though he’d never say as much straight to the man’s face.

“What is your name, noble bird?” he asked. If this bird truly reported to a powerful fire mage, he wanted to make a good impression for the servant to pass onto his master.

“Caric, son of Roäc,” the bird croaked, dipping his head in a semblance of a bow.

Thorin startled, blinking at the bird. “Roäc…son of Carc?”

Caric shifted on his feet, tilting his head to the side. “Yes. You know of my grandfather?”

Thorin laughed under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I knew your grandfather personally. He served my own grandfather well for many years before…”

Thorin trailed off, looking at the bird in wonder. This was the grandson of Carc, the great raven leader of Ravenhill. He thought the elderly raven had perished along with his young son, Roäc, during the dragon’s invasion of Erebor, but here stood his grandson, alive and well.

And serving a fire mage of the Northlands evidently.

“Before the dragon,” Caric finished for him.

“Aye, before the dragon. My name is Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, and I am honored to meet you, Master Caric.” He bowed his own head in respect for the bird. “Would you care to join me?”

He offered up his arm to the bird, shifting his cloak aside.

Caric floated gracefully down and settled lightly on his shoulder with a throaty rumble.

Thorin couldn’t help but admire the beautiful creature. It had been more than a decade since he’d seen a raven, even from a distance, and somehow the Maker had brought him the very bird that was connected to his home after all these years. So many questions rushed to his mind, anxious to learn all he could from the young raven, but he would have to save those for later. For now, his kin were expecting him, and he didn’t feel like standing out on the porch all night. Even if he did find himself in good company.

He waited a moment more on the steps, listening for their song to finish. When he heard the singing dissolve into cheering and laughter, he stepped up to the door, raised his fist and knocked loudly three times.

Then, he waited.

A moment later, the round door swung in to reveal the Grey Wizard himself. Beyond him, Thorin’s kin smiled at him, their bearded faces a welcome sight to his travel-weary soul.

Thorin grinned up at the tall man as he stooped over. His head almost scraped the ceiling of the small house, even with his shoulders slightly hunched.

“Gandalf,” he greeted, stepping inside with Caric. He smiled warmly at his Company gathered in the entry. Many of them returned his smile, some bowing their heads in respect.

“I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. I wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for this raven and that mark on the door,” he said, loosening the clasp of his cloak, careful to not disturb said raven too much as he swung the heavy fabric from his shoulders.

He rolled up his cloak neatly and smiled at his younger nephew, Kíli, who rushed towards him with a giant smile and his arms open wide.

Before he could hug his nephew, a new voice piped up from behind him.

“Mark? There’s no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!”

Thorin turned towards the new individual and looked curiously at their host and his soon-to-be newest hire. At first glance, he didn’t look like much, but then again, looks were often deceiving when it came to skill.

“There is a mark. I put it there myself,” Gandalf said gruffly, closing the door with a quiet thud. “Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our Company: Thorin Oakenshield,” the wizard said, gesturing towards him.

Mr. Bilbo Baggins turned and approached him cautiously.

Thorin handed his cloak off to Kíli before passing the raven gingerly over to his older nephew. Fíli readily accepted the bird with a beaming smile and Caric hopped up onto the young dwarf's shoulder with a click of his beak.

Thorin turned to address their new burglar properly, grinning at him.

“So, this is the hobbit,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest as he got a better look at the fellow.

Said hobbit had short curly brown hair, nervous shifty hazel eyes and large pointed ears. His white collared shirt and brown cut-off slacks held up by suspenders were well-pressed. He wore no shoes nor socks; instead walking about on his big bare, hairy feet. The mark of his hobbitness.

“Tell me, Mister Baggins,” he said, circling around behind the hobbit, “Have you done much fighting?”

“Pardon me?” The hobbit’s head snapped towards him, confusion etched in his brow.

“Axe or sword? What’s your weapon of choice?” Thorin asked, completing his circuit around the odd fellow, facing him again.

Mr. Baggins rocked anxiously on his feet and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Well, I do have some skill at Conkers, if you must know…but I-I fail to see…w-w-why that’s relevant,” he stuttered. His eyes kept shifting about, clearly unnerved by Thorin’s questions as he gave a rather pronounced sniff.

His cousin Dwalin dipped his bald head, trying to hide a smirk, clearly enjoying the halfling's discomfort. Though Thorin hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable, he wasn’t surprised by the hobbit's answer.

Bilbo Baggins looked quite…homely.

“Thought as much,” Thorin said, turning to grin at his kin. “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”

They shared a chuckle at his joke. He grinned good-naturedly at Mr. Baggins before moving further inside the hobbit’s house after a few of his kin. He shrugged off his great coat and draped it over the back of a chair on their way through what appeared to be a living room lit by a warm, crackling fire in the hearth.

“So, who is this handsome bird?” Fíli called from behind him.

The raven gave a breathy croak, the sound reminding him of an embarrassed gasp. Apparently ravens were bashful. Who’d have thought it?

“The handsome bird’s name is Caric,” Thorin said with a chuckle. “He’s the fire mage’s raven. He’ll be traveling with us until we reach the Last Bridge on the East Road.”

“F-F-Fire mage?!” Bilbo’s loud stammer echoed from the entryway, his voice shooting up an octave.

Thorin snorted, trying to muffle the sound. Clearly, Gandalf hadn’t told him much about their journey yet.

Dwalin led them to the dining room which Thorin was grateful for. After traipsing all over the countryside and getting lost—twice he was begrudged to admit—he was famished.

He settled himself at the head of the table, just inside the doorway and his kin filed into the small room, gathering around the table to join him. Gandalf plopped himself on a chair too small for him to Thorin’s left hand.

“Bilbo, would you please bring something for Thorin to eat?” Gandalf asked.

“Ah, yes. Of course. One moment,” the hobbit said from behind him, scrambling off towards what he could only assumed was the kitchen.

A few moments later, Mr. Baggins came back with a bowl of steaming hot stew and a mug of ale, placing them before him. Thorin dug into his food, nodding his approval. He would give the hobbit credit; he was a good cook.

His kin afforded him a few moments to eat, chatting amongst themselves before Balin piped up from his right.

“What news from the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?” his older, white-haired cousin asked.

“Aye. Envoys from all seven kingdoms,” Thorin replied with a nod and a smile. He took another bite as the dwarves murmured happily around the table.

“And what do the dwarves of the Iron Hills say?” Dwalin asked from his other side, watching him closely. “Is Dain with us?”

Thorin sighed as he placed his spoon on the table. “They will not come.”

Dwalin nodded and hummed quietly. The members of his Company looked around at the few faces that sat around the table, discouragement clear in the set of their furrowed brows.

“They say this quest is ours and ours alone,” Thorin said, trying to keep his frustration out of his voice. They quietly grumbled around the table, disappointment heavy in the air.

Though he too was disappointed by his cousin’s refusal to aid them in their journey, he couldn’t blame the other Dwarf Lord for his skepticism.

The whole mission from the outside sounded impossible. Travel across the world to an abandoned mountain where a fire-breathing dragon lived and pray to Mahal that the beast was either dead or so sound asleep that their new burglar could sneak in to grab the Arkenstone to convince his kin to join them in their retaking of Erebor. He still wasn’t sure where the fire mage came into play. He had been too mystified by the news that they even still existed to actually ask Gandalf how exactly a fire mage benefited his Company.

But with the mage’s raven holding a place at the table, it was a little late now for him to refuse the mysterious sorcerer’s assistance, even if he didn’t trust the altruistic reasons given for the aid offered to his people.

Aye, he had thought about retaking Erebor many times over the years, and even though he was the direct heir to the throne of Erebor, he knew his influence and sway amongst the other Dwarf Lords in Ered Luin—and even the other Dwarf Kingdoms—only extended so far. But even with his misgivings, he had more confidence now in their ability to reclaim the Lonely Mountain than he ever had before. Even if the rest of the Lords did not.

Thorin lifted his mug, shaking himself from his thoughts and taking a long drag from his ale. He nodded his approval. Though not dwarvish ale, the hobbit’s alcohol was better than most.

“You’re…going on a quest?” Mr. Baggins asked curiously, his feet shuffling behind Gandalf in the doorway.

Thorin went back for another bite of his stew, shooting the wizard a side eye. Did Gandalf not tell Mr. Baggins anything about why he was being hired? A twinge of annoyance flared in him, making his movements jerky and he had to consciously slow his hand to avoid spilling broth on his tunic.

“Bilbo!” Gandalf exclaimed, glancing at the hobbit over his shoulder, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Let us have a little more light.”

Bilbo nodded then walked out of the room. Gandalf’s hand disappeared inside his robe only to reappear a moment later holding an old piece of yellowed parchment, carefully unfolding it. Thorin and Dwalin quickly moved the foodstuff out of the wizard’s way, making room for him on the table.

“Far to the east…over ranges and rivers…beyond woodlands and wastelands lies a single solitary peak,” he said, smoothing out a map.

Thorin stared at the paper, his eyes flaring wide. Why did Gandalf the Grey have a map of his homeland?

The hobbit returned and stepped up beside him, setting a candlestick lightly on the table.

“The Lonely Mountain,” Bilbo said, reading over Thorin’s shoulder.

“Aye,” Glóin piped up. “Óin has read the portents, and the portents say it is time!”

The quiet steps of the hobbit faded behind him as the others started their grumblings again.

While they argued, Gandalf pulled out his pipe from his robe and Thorin watched curiously as the wizard lit the end not with a match or flint striker, but a tiny flame on the tip of his finger. Wizards.

Óin's words faintly filtered into his hearing. “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’,” the old medic finished the old wives’ tale with a dramatic dip of his voice.

“He speaks truth,” Caric said, shuffling on the back of Fíli’s chair. “My family left for the mountain just over one moon ago.”

“The bird talks?!” Bilbo exclaimed from behind him, coming up to the table, eyes wide as saucers. The dwarrows around the table shared a chuckle.

“Ravens served as messengers of the Dwarf King Thrór of Erebor between the other kingdoms before the beast destroyed their home called Ravenhill,” Balin explained to the bewildered hobbit.

“Uh, what beast?” Bilbo asked, his voice timid.

“Well, that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age,” Bofur said nonchalantly to his right, smoking his pipe.

The others glanced around nervously, tension quickly saturating the atmosphere. It was always that way when the dragon was mentioned. Even for dwarves who weren’t there on that day or even born yet, the name brought with it a terrible sense of dread for all dwarrows.

Bofur continued explaining to Bilbo, oblivious to the effect his rambling was having on the others.

“Airborne fire-breather…teeth like razors…claws like meathooks…extremely fond of precious metals—”

“Yes, I know what a dragon is,” the hobbit said tersely.

The youngest dwarf of their company shot up to his feet.

“I’m not afraid! I’m up for it. I’ll give him a taste of the Dwarfish iron right up his jacksie!” Ori shouted at the other end of the table.

Some of the others joined him, shouting their agreement. Thorin rolled his eyes. Though Ori was spirited, the naïve boy had no idea what he was talking about. Not but one thing could pierce the hide of a dragon, and such a weapon no longer existed in this world. Attacking a dragon with a dwarven sword—or dagger, in the case of the young unskilled fighter—would be like poking a bull with a toothpick. Ineffective and only good enough to anger the fire-breathing monstrosity.

“Sit down!” Dori, Ori’s oldest brother, said, pulling the young dwarf reluctantly back down into his chair.

“The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us!” Balin exclaimed, cutting through their voices.

“But we number just thirteen…and not thirteen of the best…nor brightest,” Balin quipped, raising his eyebrow at him. Thorin smirked.

Those gathered around the table started grumbling again, protesting the old dwarf’s words.

“Hey, who are you calling dim?!” came a voice near the back, but he couldn’t be sure of who said it over the many loud voices blending together again.

Óin held his hearing trumpet to his ear and asked, “What did he say?”

Fíli slammed a hand to the table, rattling the dishes. The accompanying loud thud silenced them as he called, “We may be few in number, but we’re fighters! All of us! To the last dwarf!”

Thorin smiled proudly at his heir, glad to see his older nephew was gaining back some confidence in himself. Fíli met his eye from the end of the table and nodded to him, his own light eyes shining.

Kíli piped up excitedly from beside his brother, “And you forget! We have a wizard in our company and will be gaining a fire mage later! Gandalf and Raven will have killed hundreds of dragons in their time!”

“Oh, well, now, uh, I-I-I wouldn’t say that. I—"

“How many then?” Dori asked, interrupting the wizards sputtering.

“Uh, what?” Gandalf asked, glancing at the dwarf.

“Well, how many dragons have you killed?” Dori repeated.

Thorin glanced up at the wizard, also curious about that fact. Gandalf started to cough on his pipe smoke, obviously embarrassed. Thorin sighed, clenching his jaw. The answer was none then. Fantastic.

“Go on. Give us a number!” Dori insisted.

Several dwarrows jumped up from the table, arguing about how many dragons Gandalf had killed. Mr. Baggins stammered behind him, trying to get the agitated dwarves to calm down, but they couldn’t seem to hear him. Or chose not to.

Thorin growled low in his throat as his patience ran out, having grown tired of their incessant yelling. He leapt to his feet with a bellow.

“”

Many eyes turned to him and many mouths snapped closed at his command. The dwarrows settled back into their chairs, watching him warily. He sighed, looking pointedly around the table.

“If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too?” he asked. His companions shared a glance amongst themselves, clearly not having thought about that fact.

“Rumours have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look east to the Mountain. Assessing. Wondering. Weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours?”

Many of them shook their heads and he grinned at them, glad to see they shared his sentiment.

“Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor? ” he called, raising his fist. His Company cheered with him, their excitement palpable in the air as he sat back down. Now that was much better.

“You forget! The front gate is sealed!” Balin exclaimed, interrupting their premature celebration. Thorin glanced at the old dwarf, his words ringing in his ear. The others quickly lost their zeal, sitting dejectedly back in their seats.

Balin sighed heavily, shaking his head. “There is no way into the mountain.”

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true,” Gandalf said, drawing the attention of the room. Raising his hand, the wizard twiddled his fingers and brought forth a key. An ornate ancient dwarven key.

“How came you by this?” he whispered, staring at the key awestruck.

“It was given to me by your father…by Thráin for safekeeping,” Gandalf said. Thorin glanced up at the wizard’s face. Why would his father give the wizard such an item? And not him?

Gandalf gave him a small smile. “It is yours now,” he said, holding out the key for him to take. Thorin carefully took the key from the wizard and held it up, studying it for a long moment. It was solid cast bronze and surprisingly weighty for such a small item. He wrapped a hand around it, grasping it within his fist.

His father held this key once and he could only assume his grandfather as well. This was a family heirloom, and he intended to see it well looked after.

“If there is a key,” Fíli piped up from the other end of the table, “there must be a door.”

Gandalf nodded and pointed to some dwarven text on the map spread out on the table with his pipe. “These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls.”

“There’s another way in,” Kíli said, beaming as he pat his brother on the shoulder. Both young dwarves shared an excited look, and he couldn’t help but share in their anticipation.

“Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed.” Gandalf heaved a tired sigh, hovering a hand over the map on the table. “The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map and I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in Middle Earth who can. Raven being one of those people.”

Thorin glanced at the wizard, quirking a brow. Was that truly the only reason this fire mage was to join them? To read a map? He supposed it was useful if it afforded them access to the Lonely Mountain, but that seemed like a waste of skill for another wizard. And a waste of a share of the treasure.

“The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage.” Gandalf paused, casting a look at the hobbit hovering nearby. “But if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done.”

“That’s why we need a burglar!” Ori exclaimed, pointing at Mr. Baggins.

“Hmm, a good one too. An expert, I’d imagine,” the hobbit said, shifting on his feet behind Thorin, pulling at his suspenders.

“And are you?” Glóin asked gruffly.

Bilbo stood quiet for a moment before looking up from the map he was studying to meet Glóin's pointed gaze. He blinked at the dwarf and glanced over his shoulder as if checking to see if he was truly being addressed. “Am I what?”

Thorin shot Gandalf a dark look and found the wizard avoiding his gaze. The sneaky bastard. He’d known the hobbit wasn’t actually a burglar. Then, if Bilbo Baggins wasn’t a burglar, what use was he to them?

“He said he’s an expert! Hey hey!” Óin exclaimed, holding up his trumpet to his failing ear. Several of the others laughed, clearing misunderstanding the situation.

“M-Me?! No! No, no, no, no,” the hobbit said adamantly, shaking his head. “I’m not a burglar! I’ve never stolen a thing in my life.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with Mister Baggins,” Balin said, meeting Thorin’s hard gaze. “He’s hardly burglar material.”

Bilbo made a small noise behind him, agreeing with his cousin.

“Aye, the wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves,” Dwalin said, eyeing the hobbit up and down.

A few of the younger dwarves voiced their protest to this statement. Namely Ori who was seemingly offended by Dwalin’s verbiage of ‘gentlefolk’.

“I’ll fight. I’ll fight! I will fight!” the young dwarf exclaimed, turning to his brother in outrage.

Thorin tried to get a word in through their bickering but found himself distracted by an odd rattling sound to his left.

Suddenly, Gandalf shot to his feet, towering above the table's occupants and plunging the room into an unnatural darkness.

“ENOUGH!” The wizard commanded, his voice booming in the small space, rattling the dishware on the walls and startling Caric into giving a croak and a flap of his wings. “If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar then a burglar he is!”

Almost every mouth was dropped in awe of the wizard’s brief display of power as the room gradually regained its light again.

Gandalf heaved a sigh and spoke once again in his normal voice. “Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of a hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage.”

Thorin glanced down at the table, mulling over the wizard’s words.

“You agreed to my choice of burglar for this company, and I have chosen Mister Baggins,” Gandalf said, sitting back in his chair. “There’s a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know!” The wizard glanced at the hobbit stood behind Thorin’s seat. “Including himself.”

Thorin met Balin’s eye across the table, his cousin’s face set in a stony frown.

“You must trust me on this,” Gandalf said, pulling his gaze. Thorin studied the wizard for a long moment, then sighed.

If Gandalf the Grey had faith in the hobbit’s ability to sneak passed Smaug and reclaim the Arkenstone, then who was he to tell him otherwise.

Thorin gave a slight nod. “Very well. We will do it your way.”

“No, no, no,” the hobbit said quietly. Thorin raised his hand to cut off the halfling's protests.

“Give him the contract,” he said, nodding to Balin. Balin frowned, giving a slight shake of his head, but reached into his coat anyway, drawing out the contract they had written up before setting out from Ered Luin.

“Please,” Mr. Baggins protested weakly behind him.

Balin held out the contract towards Bilbo. “It’s just the usual: summary of out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth.”

Thorin snatched the contract from his cousin’s hand and passed it back roughly to the hobbit over his shoulder.

“F-Funeral arrangements?” Bilbo stuttered, stepping away and unfurling the rather lengthy contract.

Thorin stood to his feet and leaned towards Gandalf.

“I cannot guarantee his safety,” he whispered bluntly in the wizard’s ear.

“Understood,” Gandalf said with a nod.

“Nor will I be responsible for his fate.”

The wizard met his eye, then nodded again stiffly. “Agreed.”

“Terms: cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding one-fifteenth of total profit, if any,” Mr. Baggins read aloud, nodding. “Seems fair. Eh…present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof including, but not limited to…lacerations…”

Gandalf’s head snapped over towards the hobbit with a nervous twitch in his eye.

“…Evisceration?” Bilbo asked, his brow furrowing as he flipped over the attached extra page.

“Incineration?!” Bilbo exclaimed, staring wide-eyed at Balin.

“Oh, aye. He’ll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye,” Bofur stated around the bit of his pipe.

Thorin crossed his arms over his chest, giving the hobbit a once over. The halfling looked a bit breathless, glancing around the hallway before settling on an apparently fascinating spot in the rug under his feet.

“Huh,” was Mr. Baggins’ only reply as he stared at the floor.

“You all right, laddie?” Balin asked.

“Uh, yeah.”

Bilbo Baggins did, in fact, not look ‘all right’. He bent over, braced his hands on his knees and puffed short breaths between his clenched teeth. The poor fellow seemed about ready to faint with how pale and wobbly he looked. “Feel a bit faint.”

Thorin quirked a brow. At least Bilbo Baggins was an honest burglar—or not burglar.

“Think furnace with wings,” Bofur said, rising from his chair, waving his pipe for emphasis.

“Air. I-I-I need air,” Bilbo stammered, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Flash of light, searing pain, then poof! You’re nothing more than a pile of ash.”

“Master Dwarf! Please! That’s enough.” Caric’s harsh croak startled the dwarves as the bird flapped his wings in what he would called a rather agitated flutter. Bofur’s mouth snapped shut at the bird’s command, glancing guiltily at the near hyperventilating hobbit.

It took him a moment, but Mr. Baggins slowly stood to his full height again, taking deep breaths, trying to compose himself. He gave a big shrug and a pronounced sniff. He took a big breath then his eyes flared wide.

“Hmmm. Nope.”

The hobbit fell faint, dropping like dead weight to the rug, his big bare feet flying out from under him until they also stopped still on the carpet.

Thorin heaved a deep sigh, rolling his eyes as he turned back towards Balin, giving his cousin a pointed look. Dwalin stood to his feet, looking at the hobbit laying in a graceless heap on the floor with an amused glint in his eye.

“Ah, very helpful, Bofur,” Gandalf snapped, standing to his own feet and quickly moving to the hobbit’s side. Bofur at least had the good sense to appear remorseful under the wizard’s glare.

Thorin sat down and carefully folded up the map of Erebor, making sure not to crease or rip it any more than the battered parchment already was. Tucking the map inside his tunic, he reached for his unfinished dinner and went back to eating while the wizard worked on reviving the unconscious hobbit in the hallway.

He couldn’t help the slight twinge of guilt he felt for not stopping Bofur’s ramblings before Caric did, but the dwarrow only spoke truth. If Smaug was still alive, the dragon would become a serious threat to the safety of every member of the Company on this quest. And if their would-be burglar was so shocked at the mere mention of a dragon that he fainted like a female overcome, then he could only imagine how much worse the hobbit’s reaction would be at coming face-to-face with the terrifying beast.

Though Thorin would never admit it to the others, he had no idea what he was going to do if the dragon was actually still alive. He was still hedging his bets on the fact that the old drake had finally died and had left the treasure hoard of Thrór unguarded.

And if he was honest with himself, he was still praying to the Maker to even get them to the mountain safely in the first place. The Wilderlands were exactly that: wild and savage. Crawling with all manner of monsters and littered with treacherous terrain. He did not doubt his own abilities to fight and protect those under his leadership, but first, they had to get to the far-off mountain and then he would worry about the dragon if it still lived.

A gasp pulled his attention behind him again and he glanced over his shoulder. The hobbit had roused from his stupor and was sat up on the floor, supported by Gandalf.

“Dori, would you put on a kettle for Mister Baggins, please?” Gandalf asked, helping said Mr. Baggins to his feet.

“Of course, Mister Gandalf,” Dori said, awkwardly shuffling his way passed the dwarves sat around the table. He disappeared through the doorway nearby into the kitchen.

“Come, my dear Bilbo. Let us sit by the fire.” Gandalf led the still wobbly hobbit off towards the living room, swaying this way and that like a newborn fawn.

The others looked around at each other for a tense moment, not sure of what they should do.

Thorin sighed. “Go and settle in for the night. Try to get some rest. We’ll leave at eight in the morning for Bree to hire some ponies for the journey.”

Many of his Company shuffled quietly out of the room, leaving just himself, his two cousins, his nephews and Caric in the dining room.

“Balin,” Thorin began slowly, nodding at the raven sat on the back of Fíli’s chair. “When was the last time you saw a raven?”

Balin also studied the large bird, running a hand over his beard. “Saw a raven? Probably five or six years ago flying high above the peaks of Ered Luin, but I’ve not heard one speak since the time of your grandfather’s reign Under the Mountain.”

Thorin grunted, taking a long drag from his dwindling ale.

“My people have been in hiding,” Caric said quietly, shuffling awkwardly on his clawed feet.

“Hiding? From what, Master Caric?” Fíli asked, twisting around to look at the bird.

“Orcs,” the bird said darkly.

Thorin’s hand clenched tight around the handle of his mug, and he forced himself to take a slow, deep breath. Balin gave him a side-eye and Dwalin scowled across the table. Fíli and Kíli exchanged a tense look, glancing at him as he stiffly placed his mug on the table with a decided thud.

Orcs.

The very word sent a shiver of hatred up his spine. The vile creatures were parasites, destroying and killing everything in their path, unless someone stronger than them came along and destroyed them first. But no matter how many orcs one killed, there always seemed to be more. The damned vermin bred like cockroaches under a rock, gathering in great hordes and numbers in the deep and dark places of the world. And unfortunately for his people, they were no longer the mindless beasts they used to be. At least not all of them.

Thorin frowned, shaking his head, cutting that thought short. The past was the past and he couldn’t change it. No matter how much he wished he could.

“Balin, come with me, please,” he said, pushing back from the table. Balin stood with him, and he heard the dwarrow follow behind him as Thorin crept closer to the muffled voice of the Grey Wizard in the living room.

Thorin leaned back against an arching wooden support in the hall and nodded to the chest across from him, gesturing for Balin to sit with him. Balin settled himself heavily on the makeshift seat, giving a tired sigh. They sat together in silence, listening to Gandalf and Mr. Baggins in the other room. Or rather…mostly the wizard as he tried to convince the hobbit to join them on their journey.

“—just let me sit quietly for a moment,” Bilbo said, his voice still wavering a bit.

“You’ve been sitting quietly for far too long!” Gandalf huffed. “Tell me…when did doilies and your mother’s dishes become so important to you? I remember a young hobbit who was always running off in search of elves in the woods…who’d stay out late, come home after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies. A young hobbit who would have liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire.”

Thorin snorted to himself. The hobbit the wizard was describing most certainly did not sound like the Bilbo Baggins that he’d met. The homebody looked wholly adverse to anything unfamiliar or spontaneous or adventurous. Try as he might, the thought of Mr. Baggins covered in mud and twigs and fireflies was completely absurd and unfathomable. That sounded more like his nephew Kíli more so than the prim and fussy hobbit.

“The world is not in your books and maps…it’s out there,” Gandalf said softly.

Thorin could only assume the wizard had gestured to the window in the living room. He and Balin shared a look, waiting for the hobbit’s answer.

“I can’t just go running off into the blue! I am a Baggins…of Bag End,” the hobbit said rather decidedly.

“You are also a Took!” Gandalf snapped.

Took? Did the hobbit have two names? No. If he recalled correctly, hobbits had surnames, unlike dwarves, so perhaps it was his mother’s name. Either way, this ‘Took’ name made the hobbit fall quiet.

“Did you know that your great-great-great-great uncle, Bullroarer Took, was so large he could ride a real horse? Yes, well he could!” the wizard answered for Bilbo. “In the Battle of Green Fields, he charged the goblin ranks. He swung his club so hard it knocked the Goblin King’s head clean off, and it sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole. And thus the battle was won…and the game of golf invented at the same time.”

Thorin snorted, shaking his head. That sounded far too much like the fanciful imagination of bored Dwarrowdams who had nothing better to do than make up stories for entertainment.

“I do believe you made that up,” Bilbo said quietly. Thorin smirked. Apparently the hobbit thought so too.

“Well, all good stories deserve embellishment…you’ll have a tale of two to tell of your own when you come back.”

“Can you promise that I will come back?” Mr. Baggins asked.

“No,” Thorin thought ruefully. There was no guarantee for any of them to come back, and that was why he had only accepted those who wanted to come. He could never force someone on this quest. Not even their reluctant host and prospective burglar. It had to be his choice and his alone.

“No,” Gandalf answered honestly, “And if you do, you will not be the same.”

“That’s what I thought…sorry, Gandalf. I can’t sign this. You’ve got the wrong hobbit.”

Thorin dipped his head, clenching his jaw. Though he could not blame the hobbit for his refusal, the disappointment he felt stung more than he cared to admit. He’d hoped the wizard’s words would inspire the halfling to join them, perhaps remembering the adventurous young hobbit he’d been before ‘trailing mud and twigs and fireflies’, but it seemed fear was the stronger force within this Bilbo Baggins.

The soft thud of footsteps grew louder, and Mr. Baggins himself rounded the corner and walked off down the opposite hallway, disappearing further into the hobbit hole.

“It appears we have lost our burglar,” Balin said bitterly, then heaved a sigh. “Probably for the best.”

Thorin met Balin’s gaze, who shook his white-haired head sadly.

“The odds were always against us. After all, what are we? Merchants…miners…” Balin glanced down the hallway towards some of the Ur family gathered together. “…tinkers, toymakers.”

Balin gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Hardly the stuff of legend,” his cousin said, avoiding his gaze.

“There are a few warriors amongst us,” Thorin said, inclining his head to Balin, giving him a small smile.

Balin looked at him, his wrinkled brow drawn tight and gave a deep sigh. “Old warriors.”

“I would take each and every one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills,” he said with conviction, pushing off the wall to stand at his full height. “For when I called upon them, they answered. Loyalty…honour…a willing heart…I can ask for no more than that,” he whispered gruffly, a surprising tightness gripping his chest choking the words in his throat.

Balin stood to his feet and shook his head.

“You don’t have to do this! You have a choice,” Balin insisted. “You’ve done honorably by our people. You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains.”

“What kind of a life?” he thought darkly, staring at the floorboards. One where they’ve had to scrape and scavenge and scrounge the bottom of the barrel in a world that saw Dwarves as nothing but lesser beings. Even humans considered themselves higher than dwarves, and he’d seen how humans treat other humans. And they call us savages.

“A life of peace and plenty,” Balin said as if to answer his unvoiced question, drawing his gaze again. “A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor.”

“From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me,” Thorin said, pulling out the key Gandalf had given him.

Balin eyed the key darkly, as if the key itself held all the problems they faced in this world.

“They dreamt of the day when the dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland.”

My homeland.

Thorin shook his head, his voice thick. “There is no choice, Balin. Not for me.”

Balin nodded slowly, bowing his head. “Then we are with you, laddie. We will see it done.”

The old dwarf patted his arm, resting his hand there for a long moment. Thorin blinked at him, an unexpected wave of tears rushing to his eyes.

Balin and his younger brother Dwalin both had seen and lived so much with him. They’d followed him through excursions and schemes and battles, always standing faithfully by his side. They were the ‘old warriors’ as Balin called them. But if his cousins were old, then that made Thorin old right along with them. Through everything that had happened through the years, he was truly grateful to still have dwarrows in his life that he could genuinely call friend.

He sighed, placing his own hand over Balin’s. “Thank you, Balin.”

Balin nodded, his crow’s feet crinkling in a small smile. Thorin gently pulled away and stepped through the doorway into the now unoccupied living room. He made his way towards the fireplace, tucking his father’s key safely inside his tunic and pulling out his pipe. Balin sat behind him in an armchair by the fire, settling into a comfortable silence with him.

Lighting his pipe, he let his mind drift, bracing an arm against the wooden mantel.

Most of his Company joined him in the living room over the following minutes, remaining quiet and respectful of the almost reverent atmosphere. Many lit their own pipes, and the fragrant smoke hovered thickly in the air, mingling with the scent of wood smoke from the fireplace.

A quiet flutter caught his attention as Caric landed lightly across the room on the windowsill, settling his wings by his sides. A moment later, Fíli and Kíli quietly stepped into the room together, completing the gathering of the Company.

Kíli joined Dwalin by the table nearby with a mug of ale in his hand while Fíli leaned his shoulder against the wall next to Thorin by the fireplace. The young dwarf took a long drag from his pipe, staring unfocused at the floorboards by his feet. To most, the movement would seem quite usual. Natural even, but Thorin’s gaze narrowed on Fíli’s hand gripped tightly around his pipe. Something was bothering him. And he had a pretty good guess as to what that something could be.

“Fíli,” Thorin whispered, keeping his voice hushed.

Fíli glanced at him over his pipe.

“Are you doing all right?”

Fíli’s jaw clenched around the bit of his pipe for a moment, before he nodded. “Aye. Just tired, uncle.”

Thorin quirked a brow, but didn’t press him. Instead, he went back to smoking his pipe, a peaceful quiet hanging as thick as the smoke in the air.

If Fíli wanted to talk about what happened in Ered Luin, he would let his nephew come to him. Perhaps if the crown prince started to slack off from his royal duties or become distracted, he might have to address the matter, but he would leave the lad be for now.

After all, Fíli was a dwarrow fully-grown now. Both of his nephews were. It was one of the reasons he allowed his nephews to accompany him on this journey. They needed the opportunity to make their own decisions and become the dwarrows he knew they could be. And they couldn’t do that when they were locked away within the halls of a replacement dwarven kingdom with him or the other Dwarf Lords hovering over them every waking moment of the day.

His nephews deserved to see the kingdom of their forefathers just as much as he did. And if all went well on their quest, the sons of Durin would once more sit upon the throne of Erebor.

Mahal, he prayed everything would worked out in the end. He hoped it would. And he decided that, at least for tonight, hope was enough.

Thorin did not know who began the humming, but slowly the room filled with the low drone of his kin’s baritone voices. He sighed heavily, lowering his pipe from his mouth. Every dwarrow in Middle Earth knew the song of the Lonely Mountain. But not many who were there on that day were still around to sing it.

So Thorin sang. He sang in their honour. In honour of those who lost their lives to the dragon. In honour of those who died from their wounds. In honour of those who died before their dream of reclaiming the Lonely Mountain could be made a reality. And he sang for the hope of all dwarrows who still believed the great Dwarven Kingdom of Erebor would rise again.

Far over the misty mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away ere break of day

To find our long-forgotten gold

Many of his kin softly joined in, their voices rumbling in a resonant harmony that seemed to stir the very fabric of the air around them.

The pines were roaring on the height

The winds were moaning in the night

The fire was red, it flaming spread

The trees like torches blazed with light

The final note rang out, suspended in the air for a long moment until only the sound of the crackling fire and the quiet puffing of pipes once more filled the hobbit hole.

~oOo~

Not a soul took notice of the raven sitting by the window as his eyes glinted gold. A single tear fell from his eye and rolled down his feathered cheek.

A tear he shared with his master.

Gandalf glanced at the bird from a nearby hallway, finding Caric’s eyes black once more and the wizard sighed.

“Soon, my dear. Soon you will have your revenge,” he thought, pulling another long drag from his pipe as the dwarves slowly dispersed, off to find somewhere to settle in for the night.

A quiet, gentle voice laced with melancholy spoke in his mind, barely more than a breathy whisper.

“Thank you, Mithrandir. Good night, .”

The Grey Wizard smiled sadly, meeting the raven messenger’s eye.

“Good night, Raven.” 

Chapter Text

Hundreds of pairs of heavy boots stormed towards the Gates of Erebor and the rattle of iron armor, spears and shields clanged loudly in Thorin’s ear. But even the thundering steps of the dwarven army behind him weren’t enough to drown out the deafening and bone-chilling roars beyond the giant barred doors of the Mountain. An enemy the likes of which he had only ever heard tales of lay beyond the doors of his home, clawing at the entrance to the stronghold of Thrór with all its terrible might.

The dwarven prince ran alongside his father, his sword gripped tightly in his hand as they led the charge through the halls towards the Main Gate. His heart pounded in his chest like a galloping mountain goat, his blood rushed in his ears like the River Running flowing from the Mountain and his palms were slick with sweat like he’d been working all day in the hot forges. And yet, despite his fear, he would not back down.

It mattered not that Thorin was still a child by his people’s standards. Even as a stripling, he was able-bodied and trained by the best of his grandfather’s warriors. He could fight. And he would fight.

Come what may, he would fight for his kingdom and his people.

To his last breath.

With his weapon raised and ready, his stomach dropped to his feet with the resounding crack of the ornate door. Wood splintered everywhere and smoke black as a moonless night billowed into the great hall, filling the air with the sharp tang of sulfur.

“” he heard himself shout, but inside he was trembling in fear.

A bellowing roar shook the very foundations of the Mountain. The stone ramparts above the gate shattered. He dropped to the ground, dodging a giant chunk of rock as it flew over his head. Shouts of surprise and pain rang out and the warriors scrambled to close their ranks again. He barely caught a glimpse of burning orange eyes through the black haze before a blast of white-hot fire blinded him.

~oOo~

April 26, TA 2941

Thorin startled awake, launching to his feet. The metallic shing of his sword echoed loudly in his ear as he wrenched it from its scabbard at his side. Blinking rapidly, he fought to clear his adrenaline-clouded mind of the fire that still flashed behind his eyes. He pivoted on his feet, scanning his unfamiliar surroundings for danger.

A small bed with a rumpled plaid blanket and tan sheets was the centerpiece of the small room. The rest of the cramped space was filled to the brim with oak furnishings and decorations in every shade of green imaginable. Threadlike rays of sunlight filtered through a small round window across the room, dawn just beginning to lighten the clear sky beyond the walls of his borrowed room.

The hobbit’s guestroom.

He groaned and slid his sword back into its scabbard. He sat heavily on the edge of his borrowed bed as yesterday’s events flooded his mind in quick succession. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes with shaky hands and then shoving his messy hair away from his face, Thorin sucked in a deep breath and held it for a long moment, trying to calm his racing heart.

Mahal, how long had it been since he’d had that nightmare? A year? Perhaps two? Though the years away from Erebor had gradually extended the time between each return to that painful memory, he knew he would never be rid of it. For he had seen dragonfire in the sky and a city turned to ash. He never forgave that terrible wyrm for the wanton death caused that day. And try as he might, he never forgot.

This was certainly not how he had wanted to start his journey, but he knew all too well what caused the nightmare to resurface. The song. It was only natural that his memories would be stirred by the mournful hymn of longing for their lost dwarven kingdom.

His lost kingdom.

The last memories he had of his home were stained with fire, smoke and blood. He would not wish what happened to his people on his worst enemy. Even if some of them deserved it.

By the Maker, he prayed this trip would not stir up any more painful memories. He would need a sharp mind and a level head if they were to survive in the Wilds, and he could not do that if his nights were teeming with the same monsters his days were bound to be full of.

When his heartbeat returned to a slow steady drum in his chest, he stood to his feet and moved about the room, redressing quickly and closing up the small pack Dwalin had handed off to him last night before he’d gone to bed. Strapping his well-worn and much-loved Oakenshield to his belt, he grabbed his axe from beside the door and stepped out into the central hall of Bag End.

A few loud snores blended together from down the hall and the quiet clinking of dishes came from the kitchen if he recalled the hobbit’s home correctly.

He made a quick stop in the bathroom and ran a brush quickly through his tangled hair and short beard. He tossed his dark locks over his shoulder, ensured his silver beads were still secured on his temple braids and wiped a damp cloth over his sweaty brow, scrubbing away the sign of his nightmare. Running his fingers along the newly fastened strip of leather around his neck, he gave the knot a firm tug, ensuring the loop holding his father’s key remained secure tucked under the collar of his tunic.

Satisfied with his regained composure, he quietly made his way towards the kitchen. Rounding the doorway, he found the Urs shuffling around the spacious room, moving like a well-oiled machine as they worked around one another, preparing breakfast for the Company.

“, ,” Bifur said gruffly, sketching a quick bow to him as he walked passed with a bowl piled high with peeled oranges.

“, Bifur,” he replied politely, stepping into the dining room to get out of the way of the trio of cooks. While Bombur was the assigned cook for the Company, his cousins Bofur and Bifur both scurried around to help, and he wouldn’t stop them. At least they were being productive. Especially Bofur. He had never met the dwarrow before the first volunteer meeting of the Company in Ered Luin, but he’d heard rumors of the toymaker’s smart mouth. After the ‘incineration’ incident with Mr. Baggins last night, he now understood what the rumors meant.

Balin, Glóin and Óin were sat at the dining table, a conversation of hiring ponies well underway. Thorin sat heavily in the chair at the head of the table, setting his axe and bag by his feet.

“Good morning, Thorin,” Balin greeted. Glóin and Óin nodded to him before returning to their conversation. Thorin grunted, leaning back in his chair to listen absentmindedly.

“Master Thorin, would you care for a cup of chamomile?” Dori asked from the adjoining doorway to the kitchen. He held up a tray with a small teapot and cups on saucers.

“I would prefer coffee if there is any,” he said, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand.

“Of course. There’s a pot brewing right now. It will be finished in just another minute,” Dori said, disappearing back into the kitchen.

The absence of Dwalin at the table did not go unnoticed. Usually his cousin was an early riser like himself. He waited for a loll in the conversation then asked Balin, “Where is your brother?”

Balin gave him a pointed look then nodded towards the hallway. “Kíli found Mister Baggins’ stash of malt beer in the pantry last night. Your nephew challenged Dwalin to a drinkin’ game and they both nearly drowned themselves to death tryin’ to outdrink the other. Last I saw them, they were both still passed out down the hall.”

Thorin sighed, rolling his eyes. Of course Kíli found the beer. If he didn’t know any better, he would think that dwarf was part hound for how easily he seemed to sniff out alcohol no matter where he went. And it was just like Dwalin not to back down from a challenge, no matter how foolish.

Thorin smirked. Dwalin better have won the challenge, or Kíli wouldn’t let him live that down for the rest of the trip. Despite his younger nephew’s smaller musculature, he was surprisingly good at holding his alcohol. His party lifestyle in Ered Luin contributed greatly to that, much to the chagrin of him and the lad’s mother. So until they woke, it was anyone’s guess.

“Here you are, Master Thorin. Coffee as requested. Would you like some cream or sugar?” Dori asked, setting a large, steaming mug of dark brew before him.

“No. Thank you, Dori.” Thorin lifted the mug to his lips and blew before taking a tentative sip. Strong and hot. Just the way he liked it.

Slowly, more and more of his Company trickled into the dining room, finding their places around the table and the Urs served the many dishes of ham, eggs, bacon, toast, and oatmeal, as well as fresh fruit and the pots of tea and coffee and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice. The spread was quite impressive and everyone dug in, eating and drinking their fill. They were almost done with breakfast when he realized they were still missing three individuals.

“Where are Kíli, Gandalf and Caric?” Thorin asked, glancing up from his now empty plate.

“Gandalf took Caric with him this mornin’ to go find a horse. Said the hobbits wouldn’t have any big enough for him to ride so he set out before first light so as not to keep us waitin’. But he also said if he wasn’t back yet to go on ahead and he would catch up,” Balin explained, cleaning his plate with his last bite of toast before rising from the table. Glóin followed suit, standing as well. “Speakin’ of horses, Gandalf said we don’t have to travel all the way to Bree for ponies like we thought. The hobbit’s Green Dragon Inn will have some for us, so Glóin and I will head there now and procure them for the journey. Remind me: do we need to bring an extra for the mage?”

Thorin shook his head. “No. The wizard said he ‘rides atop a great beast’. Whatever this beast is, he already has his own mount for the journey.”

Balin nodded, gathering his dishes. “Very well then. We’ll be back within the hour.”

Balin and Glóin disappeared into the kitchen and a few moments later, the front door opened and shut again, signaling their departure. Thorin frowned. Balin had neglected to say where his other nephew was.

“What about Kíli?”

A few of the others glanced nervously around the table, not meeting his eye. Even Fíli suddenly became enthralled with the bacon on his plate, strangely silent on the whereabouts of his brother.

But then, Dwalin cracked a smirk over the rim of his coffee mug. “He’s still passed out cold in the hallway.”

Thorin quirked a brow, fighting back his own smirk. “I take it you won then?”

“The lad put up one hell of a fight, but aye, I won.”

Thorin sighed, shaking his head slowly. “If he cannot walk right, you will carry him until he is sober.”

Dwalin barked a sharp laugh. “Ye cannae make me his babysitter just ‘cause I can hold my ale better than him!”

“I can and I will. You are supposed to be setting the example, Dwalin. Not indulging him in his bad habits. What would Dís say if she were here?”

“Well, she’s not here, thank Mahal, or I’d have my arse handed to me on a silver platter this mornin’,” Dwalin said with a wide grin. “I swear yer sister could kill a mountain troll with that scowl of hers.”

Thorin’s mouth twisted into his own scowl, glaring at his cousin.

Dwalin chuckled, lifting his mug to his lips. “Close, but ye don’t quite have the same effect. Ye need the icy glint in yer eyes and hands on yer hips, and then I might start shakin’ in m’boots.”

Thorin shot him another dark look then sighed, shaking his head. “Where is he?”

“Down the hall to the left, near the fourth door.”

Thorin nodded and rose to his feet. “Everyone. Finish your breakfast and then help clean up. As much as I dislike not bringing the burglar, I do not want to leave a mess behind for him to deal up. Put everything back the way you found it.”

The others nodded their understanding and most of them stood to do just that, gathering plates and utensils and chairs and tables, moving quickly and quietly around the small space.

Thorin followed Dwalin’s directions down the hall to his left and sure enough, there on a bench in the hallway slept his nephew, snoring softly without a care in the world. One arm was thrown up over his eyes, his dark hair was a tangled wild mess, and his clothing was all disheveled. An empty wooden tankard lay tipped on its side on the floor under his hand hanging limp off the bench.

“Kíli, get up,” he said, nudging Kíli's boot with his own.

Kíli grunted and shifted on the bench, but didn’t move again.

“Get. Up!” he repeated louder, kicking his nephew’s boot a second time.

Kíli groaned loudly and rolled onto his side, nearly tumbling to the floor. He caught himself with a lurch and his eyes popped open. Thorin frowned at his nephew as he looked around with bleary eyes.

“What…what happened?” Kíli asked with a dry croak.

“You drank too much…again,” he replied darkly.

Kíli sat up slowly with a pained groan, rubbing his temples. He blinked a couple times as if he was trying to clear his vision then frowned at the bench across from him in the hallway.

“Wait…wasn’t Dwalin just there?” he asked, pointing to the bench.

“Dwalin is helping clean up breakfast in the dining room like a responsible dwarrow.”

Kíli glanced at him before dropping his gaze to his boots, his wild hair falling over his eyes. “Sorry, .”

Thorin sighed, holding out a hand to Kíli. His nephew accepted his offered hand, gripping his forearm tightly and slowly stood to his feet. He swayed precariously once before he found his balance.

“Get some food and water in you and then help Bombur wash up the dishes,” he said, steering him in the direction of the kitchen.

Kíli gave a dubious glance down the hallway, his brow pinched. “That’s really cruel, Thorin.”

Thorin quirked a brow at him. “No, cruel would have been leaving you here alone and passed out for the hobbit to find after we left without you. I’m being generous making you wash dishes.”

Kíli shook his head slowly and whined, “But there’s light in the kitchen.”

Thorin bit back his chuckle. He’d experienced enough of his own wild and drunken nights when he was younger to know exactly what Kíli was talking about. Light felt like daggers straight to the eyes for a few hours upon waking. But instead of agreeing with Kíli, he leveled his nephew with a stern look.

“You should have thought of that before you drank so much. Ask Bombur if he has a hangover cure and help clean up.”

Kíli grumbled under his breath, but didn’t fight him as he gave the lad a gentle shove down the hallway. Thorin stooped to grab the empty tankard off the floor and followed behind Kíli into the dining room.

“Mornin’, sleepin’ beauty,” Dwalin said through a mouthful of toast, standing with his empty plate in hand.

“Oh, shut it!” Kíli snapped. He snatched a hunk of ham from the table and wolfed down a huge bite. A few of the others chuckled as they worked, taking trips to and from the kitchen and pantry as they cleared breakfast from the table.

“Good morning, Kee.” Fíli handed a glass of yellow liquid to his brother.

“What’s this?” Kíli asked around the ham in his mouth, eyeing the drink suspiciously.

Fíli rolled his eyes. “Just drink it, you big pebble.”

Kíli took a reluctant sip, and his eyes flared wide. He slapped a hand over his mouth and choked down the liquid. “Gah! Why is that so sour?!” he exclaimed, glaring at the drink in his hand.

“It’s lemon and herbs. Bombur made it for you with Óin’s help,” Fíli said, his mouth twitching at the corners trying unsuccessfully to hide his smirk.

“They couldn’t put some sugar or something in it?” Kíli asked darkly, taking a smaller sip and shuddering in disgust.

“I think you had plenty of ‘sugar or something’ last night,” Fíli said pointedly.

“Ye should have joined us, Fíli. It would have been more fun,” Dwalin called before disappearing through the kitchen doorway.

“I think having one hammered brother is enough. Besides, one of us has to be the responsible one.”

Kíli smirked at his brother. “You mean be the killjoy.”

“Yeah, sure. You be sure to let me know how much ‘joy’ you’re having when we go outside in the sun later, Kee.” Fíli smirked and left the table, rounding the corner into the hallway. Kíli stuck his tongue out at his brother’s back, but took another reluctant sip of his mystery drink, clearly trying to negate the later effects of said sun.

Thorin chuckled and pushed back from the table. “Remember to help with the dishes, Kíli.”

His nephew nodded his understanding and Thorin took his coffee mug, plate, and the empty tankard to the kitchen.

“How’s the lad?” Bofur asked, scrubbing a plate in a basin of soapy water.

“Grouchy and tired, but he’ll live,” he said, handing over his dishes to the waiting dwarrow. Bofur chuckled but didn’t say anything more as he went back to washing up dishes.

“Save some of those for Kíli,” Thorin said over his shoulder, then made his way towards the hobbit hole’s door and swung it wide open.

A gentle, warm spring breeze blew inside, making the many hanging cloaks sway on their hooks in the hall, including his own where Kíli hung it last night. Thorin took down his cloak from the wall, folded it up and shoved the heavy fabric in his bag by the dining room table. With the warm spring sun already drying the morning dew on the grass, he knew he wouldn’t need it today.

He settled himself by the doorway, leaning a shoulder against the green frame to wait for Balin. A handful of hobbits passed by on the path outside while he waited. They greeted him pleasantly enough and they weren’t subtle in the least with their staring, but they kept on going about their business and didn’t inquire about his.

Quiet footsteps caught his ear, and he turned to find Fíli awkwardly shuffling behind him, glancing strangely at the walls. His nephew stopped in front of a small mirror nearby in the entryway, dug a brush out of his rucksack and began redoing his many blonde braids.

Thorin quirked a brow but said nothing. Balin and Glóin weren’t back yet with the ponies and the only thing left to do was the dishes, which was already reserved for Kíli. If Fíli wanted to fix up his hair, Thorin wouldn’t stop him. At least one of his nephews cared about their appearance. He knew his younger nephew didn’t braid his hair, saying they were a waste of time since they just had to be redone over and over again, but he would bet Kíli wouldn’t even bother to run a comb through his unruly hair before they left the hobbit’s home.

Loud boots clomped up behind him and Dwalin joined him by the door, looking one way down the path then turning his bald head to look the other way.

“My brother ain’t back yet?”

Thorin shook his head. Dwalin grunted and glanced behind him. An amused smirk curved his mouth beneath his thick mustache.

“Why are ye wastin’ time with all them braids, princess? We’re travellin’ through the Wilds, not goin’ to a grand feast,” Dwalin said, quirking a thick brow at Fíli.

“Some of us were taught to always look presentable,” Fíli said, ignoring Dwalin’s jab as he continued to braid his hair. “No matter where you’re going.”

“Who told ye that? ‘Cause I know it wasn’t this old sod.” Dwalin tilted his head towards Thorin. “Yer uncle once showed up to a council meeting in Ered Luin covered in orc blood and guts, and didn’t bat an eye about it. And the entire time,” Dwalin shot him a smirk, “the Lords were tryin’ their damnedest not to gag at the stench.”

Thorin quirked a brow, smirking right back as he crossed his arms over his chest. “They said ‘be on time’. I was. They didn’t say I needed to be presentable,” he said, turning his smirk to Fíli.

“My taught me to dress to impress,” Fíli said, returning his smirk in the mirror.

“Then Dís has higher standards for you than she does for herself. If my sister manages to rake a comb through her hair, it’s a good day,” Thorin said with a chuckle, remembering a time long ago when he had to physically restrain his little sister just to brush through the dark rat’s nest she called hair. The first couple of times, he had tried to braid it back away from her face, but as soon as he released the wriggling dwarfling from his death grip, her grabby little fingers had yanked the metal clasp beads right out. He’d given up very quickly on braiding her hair and settled for the excruciating task of brushing her messy locks at least once every day or so.

“Well, I doubt there’ll be any bonnie lasses to impress with yer braids in the forest. None that you want the attention of, your highness,” Dwalin said with a wolfish grin. Then his cousin frowned at the back of Fíli's head. “And besides, why do ye care what forest nymphs think of ya when you’ve got yer own lass back in Ered Luin?”

Fíli's fingers froze in his hair and his jaw clenched tightly. Fíli met his eye in the mirror, a silent plea shining in his light eyes. Thorin cleared his throat loudly, drawing Dwalin’s attention away from his nephew.

“Dwalin, come here for a minute,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. Dwalin followed silently behind him down the hall to an empty bedroom and Thorin shut the door behind them.

“What? All I did was ask ‘bout his lass.” Dwalin said, his brow furrowed in confusion. “Did something happen to her?”

Thorin sighed heavily, shaking his head. “No, she’s fine. Fíli's engagement was broken off.”

“What?!” Dwalin startled, blinking at him. “Since when?”

“Right before he and Kíli left Ered Luin.”

“Whose idea was that?” Dwalin asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“The Dam’s,” Thorin said, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t appreciate his cousin’s assumption that he had something to do with it, but he couldn’t fault him for thinking that. Fíli's engagement had never sat right with Thorin, but he’d respected his heir’s choice of bride even if he had his own misgivings about the girl’s family. And unfortunately, he’d been proven right.

Dwalin grunted and a scowl carved deep lines in his forehead. “The lass wasn’t willin’ to wait for him?”

Thorin leveled him with a dark look. Dwalin was much closer to the truth than he realized, but it wasn’t Thorin’s place to discuss it. When Fíli had shared his betrothed’s vile and deranged parting words with him, Thorin had doubted that a Dam would actually say the things Fíli had told him. But then again, she was the daughter of Lord Hallr.

Dwarf Lord Hallr was nothing more than a self-absorbed and opportunistic pain in Thorin’s arse. Though Dwarves as a whole had acquired a bad reputation for their greed amongst the other races, Hallr truly was a prime example of an avaricious dwarf. And even though she was a female, it didn’t surprise him one bit that Hallr’s daughter took after his materialistic, power-hungry, and self-centered way of thinking. Like the old Manish saying went: the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Thorin shook his head. “I won’t discuss it behind Fíli's back. If he wants to tell you, then fine, but it’s not my place to say.”

Dwalin nodded his understanding, then gave him an odd look. “Does Dís know?”

“Aye.”

Dwalin quirked a brow. “And the Dam is still alive?”

Thorin nodded stiffly. “Aye.”

Dwalin chuckled low in his throat. “Damn. Now I wanna know what Fíli said to stave off that outcome.”

“Fíli didn’t. I did,” Thorin said darkly.

Dís had stormed into his room just before he left the halls of Ered Luin, interrupting him as he tried to wrap up last minute arrangements. She had stomped over to his desk and asked—demanded more like—to have five minutes alone with the Lord’s daughter.

Dís was not typically a violent Dwarrowdam. Between the two of them, she was the calm, charming, suave business negotiator who preferred to settle disputes with balanced terms for both parties, whereas he was the one more likely to challenge someone to a duel for an offense. But all bets were off when it came to Fíli and Kíli. His little sister turned into a raging mama bear the moment someone hurt her sons. It didn’t matter if they were Dwarrows full-grown or not. They were still her bairns.

Besides the fact that he had to talk her down from the murder she was no doubt planning, he also kept Dís’s parting words to himself since they were so absurd, they did not bear repeating.

~oOo~

“Perhaps you’ll both find your Ones on this journey since the Maker seems to have left you both wanting here.”

“I don’t want, nor do I need a One, Dís,” Thorin huffed, sealing the final letter on his desk. “I need to reclaim Erebor for our people. For our father and grandfather. And for the future of your sons.”

“No, what you need is to pull your head out of your arse for five minutes and think about what it is you truly want, Thorin,” Dís snapped with her hands on her hips. “Sure, you can reclaim Erebor for , but what happens after it’s reclaimed? What then?”

“I haven’t thought beyond taking back the Mountain,” he admitted begrudgingly, running a hand through his hair.

“That’s exactly my point!” she exclaimed, waving a hand wildly towards him. “That’s why you need someone beside you. A partner who can help you think things through and help guide you. Someone who sees things from a different perspective and can see sense…and someone who will love you. Not for your crown or your power or your wealth like the Dams here, but someone who will love you just for being you.”

Thorin pushed back from his desk and skirted around it, smirking at his sister. “Why are you so concerned with pairing me up with someone? Shouldn’t you being focused on marrying off your own sons? Or are you now my too?”

Dís blinked at him, a frown tugging the corners of her mouth down. Thorin startled, recognizing his careless words too late. Mahal, he could be such a pebble-brain sometimes! He reached a hand towards her and said softly, “I’m sorry. I did not mean—”

She swatted his hand away. “Well, since she’s not here anymore, someone has to be the voice of reason to you, you stubborn Dwarf.” The small smirk on her lips couldn’t quite hide the sadness in her eyes.

He sighed heavily, holding his arms open for her. She stepped into his embrace, and they wrapped their arms around each other for a comforting hug. He pressed his forehead to hers for a long moment and then let her go, backing away towards the doors.

“I have to go. The rest of the Company has already left, and I don’t want to be too far behind them.” He gathered his cloak from the back of a nearby chair. “I love you, .”

She nodded stiffly, a misty sheen in her bright blue eyes. “I love you too, . May the fires of Mahal’s forge guide you all. Just…promise me one thing,” she said softly.

He wrapped his cloak around his shoulders and nodded stiffly.

“Promise me you will protect my sons.”

“You need not even ask. I swear I will protect them with my life.” He sealed his vow with a bow of his head and placed his clenched fist over his heart.

Dís nodded, placing her own fist over her chest in acceptance of his word. “And…”

Thorin raised an eyebrow.

“Promise me you will come back.”

Thorin’s jaw clenched as he swallowed thickly. Then he nodded.

“I promise,” he said huskily, the lie catching in his throat. He turned and left his chambers, blinking away the tears that rushed to his eyes. He did not know if he would come back.

None of them did.

~oOo~

“I can imagine how well that conversation went,” Dwalin said with a wide grin, pulling him back from his thoughts.

“Well enough. The girl will live,” Thorin said darkly, keeping the conversation to himself. “Just don’t bring up Fíli's engagement again. It’s still a fresh wound.”

Dwalin frowned. “Is he gonna be mopey for the whole journey? ‘Cause I tell ye what, Thorin, I don’t have the patience to deal with a sulkin’ heartsick dwarrow for the months we’re gonna be on the road.”

“Just give him some space for now. He’ll forget about her in time.”

Dwalin snorted, then a sly grin curved his mouth. “Maybe he does need the attention of a forest nymph after all. Help him forget.”

Thorin scoffed, shaking his head. “He just got rid of one female. I doubt adding another would help matters. Besides, he doesn’t need the distraction on the road.”

“Eh, sure he does. If it keeps his mind sharp while also wettin’ his hammer, let the lad have some fun.”

“Are we still talking about Fíli?” Thorin asked, quirking a brow and giving his cousin a knowing grin.

Dwalin smirked at him, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hey, if I find a willing lass in the forest, I ain’t passin’ up an opportunity for a good shag. It’s the least I deserve for joinin’ this Mahal forsaken quest of yers.”

A noise outside the door interrupted his comeback. Someone called Balin’s name, and a neigh caught his ear. The ponies had finally arrived.

Thorin shook his head and yanked open the door. “You’re getting too old for that shit, Dwalin.”

“The lasses don’t complain!” his cousin called behind him, his dark chuckle following him out into the hall. Thorin rolled his eyes but didn’t humour Dwalin with a response. Instead, he grabbed his bag and axe from the dining room, stopped in the living room to shrug on his great coat and made his way outside. Most of the Company was already outside, securing their packs, weapons and supplies to the many long-haired ponies tied off to the fence posts along the path.

“Thorin! This one ‘ere is yers,” called Glóin, tying off the reins of a dark-maned chestnut pony to the fence nearby.

“Does ‘this one’ have a name?” Thorin asked, raising his hand for the creature to smell as he approached slowly.

“I think that one there is called Primrose. Or is it Daisy?”

“Daisy is Bombur’s pony,” Balin called from down the path beside a beautiful white pony.

“Oh, aye. So Primrose,” Glóin said, giving the pony a gentle pat on the nose before meandering over to a black pony nearby.

“It’s nice to meet you, Primrose,” Thorin murmured soothingly to the mare. He scratched gently between her ears and ran his hand along her side, letting her know where he was as he moved around her. Balin and Glóin must have bartered for the ponies’ tack as well because all the mounts were equipped with bridles and reins, saddle pads and saddles alike. Working quickly, Thorin secured his axe, shield and pack to the saddle. He left his sword at his side for easier access in case of danger. Not that he expected any this close to the idyllic Shire, but one could never be too careful. He gave one more good tug on the leather straps holding his supplies, then wove his way around his Company’s ponies, checking on their progress. Most of them were all packed and ready to go with a couple ponies heavily loaded with extra foodstuff and supplies.

Balin had planned well, but they were still leaving later than he would have liked. Based on how high the sun had risen in the sky, he would say it was almost nine o’clock. And if he remembered correctly, his cousin had left not much later than seven. He made his way to where Balin and Glóin were making final counts and preparations.

“What happened to ‘within the hour’?” Thorin asked, “Did you have trouble wrangling all the ponies?”

“No, the ponies were fine tied together and followed along like a line of ducklings,” Balin said, scratching something off on the supply list in his hand with a feather quill.

“Was getting the extra food we needed an issue?” Thorin had been confident that the Hobbits would have more than enough food for them to purchase considering that Mr. Baggins’ pantry could feed the entire Shire for a month by itself.

“Nay, them Hobbits have more food and ale stored up than all of Eren Luid goes through in a month,” Glóin said, running a hand over his long red beard. “We ran into a wee bit of a different problem.”

Thorin waited for them to offer an explanation, but Balin avoided his gaze, scribbling away on the parchment in his hand.

“What problem?” he asked, giving Balin a look.

Balin sighed and shook his head. “The Inn was short three ponies, so we had to travel down the road a bit to a farmer for the rest. It took a bit more…convincin’ and a few extra coin, but we got the ponies just the same.”

Thorin frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “It didn’t happen to be a farmer of Men, did it?”

Glóin coughed awkwardly into his hand, confirming his guess. Balin folded up the thick parchment and tucked it along with his quill and inkpot back into his bag. Finally meeting his eye, Balin said, “Aye, ‘twas a Man.”

“Figures,” Thorin huffed. “How much extra?”

“It doesn’t matter. The ponies are ours.”

“How much, Balin?” he snapped.

“We have plenty of money left, laddie. The man had several young bairns runnin’ ‘round and after the deal was struck, we left him with Mahal’s blessing. No point worryin’ ‘bout it now.”

Thorin raked a hand through his hair, sighing deeply through his nose. It was all well and good for his cousin to be benevolent and bless a family, but he didn’t understand why Balin would bother wasting it on one of the race of Men.

Thorin knew firsthand what Men were like. He’d worked in their villages and towns for years, trying to provide for his people, before they finally established a refuge in the Blue Mountains. The derogatory names and insults hurled his people’s way as they wandered in the Wilds were unending, some even coming from the Men Thorin personally worked for as a blacksmith. He would craft weapons and fix everyday items in the name of whatever human owned the forge he slaved at day and night just to earn enough to feed his starving people. Even the pay given to him was a mere pittance compared to what Men paid their own kind for work of lesser quality.

This much Thorin had learned over the years.

There were only two reasons why Men interacted with Dwarves. They wanted their coin, or they wanted their skill. Even the women.

But as much as Thorin loathed giving their hard-earned coin to a human, Balin was right. The bargain was complete, and they had the ponies.

“Fine,” Thorin huffed, “Tell the others we leave in ten minutes with or without Gandalf.”

Thorin strode back inside the house to check that they had everything they’d brought with them. Peeking his head inside the doors that were open in the hall, he made his way quickly through the rooms, finding them clear of anything dwarvish in nature. As he came back out the last door in the hallway, Kíli came around the corner of the pantry with a coin purse clutched in his hand.

“What are you doing?” Thorin asked curiously.

“I, um…I felt bad I drank most of Bilbo’s beer, so I left him some money so he could buy more,” Kíli replied sheepishly, waving a hand towards a keg in the pantry. A few coins were stacked on top of the wooden barrel in plain sight.

Pride swelled in Thorin’s chest at the thoughtful gesture. Even if the lad was high-strung and lacked self-control sometimes, he was still an honorable prince and a good Dwarf at heart.

“I see.” Thorin gave Kíli an approving smile. “That’s what a responsible dwarrow would do.”

Kíli's eyes lit up at the redeeming statement and his face broke into a beaming smile. “Thank you, uncle.”

His younger nephew left the hobbit hole with his head held high and Thorin found himself admiring the change in him. They had barely left the halls of Ered Luin and Kíli was already acting differently than the rebellious stripling Thorin was so used to scolding. Perhaps this journey really was the opportunity his nephew—both of his nephews for that matter—needed to mature into the full-grown Dwarrows he knew they would become.

Checking the last few rooms, Thorin was surprised to find Balin in the living room holding something in his hand.

“What’s that?”

“Master Baggin’s contract,” Balin said, eyeing him hopefully. “I thought perhaps we could leave it for him. Maybe a good rest was just what he needed to change his mind.”

Thorin shook his head, not allowing himself to get his hopes up. No one had seen their prospective burglar since last night when he disappeared down the hall of his home. Not even the bustle of breakfast had enticed the hobbit out of his bedroom and if there was one thing that could possibly lure out a hobbit, it was food. But alas, they had no such luck.

“I don’t think so Balin. The halfling was rather adamant about staying in his nice warm hobbit hole.”

“Well, we don’t have a use for his contract anymore so we might as well leave it. If nothin’ else, the hobbit can hang it on his wall as a reminder of an excitin’ night filled with tales of dragons and dwarven treasure,” Balin said with a chuckle.

Thorin shrugged his shoulder. “Very well. Make sure you leave some coin to pay for our unexpected food and board,” he said, following after Kíli's example.

“I already did.” Balin gestured towards the kitchen where a coin purse rested on a note on the countertop. His cousin unfurled the lengthy contract and laid it on a cushioned footstool by the fireplace in the living room. Together, they made their way back outside and Thorin closed the door with a rather conclusive thud. He mounted his pony, gathered Primrose’s reins and led her along the others, checking that everyone was ready to leave.

Dori fussed over Ori, trying to pull the lad’s scarf higher up on his neck while the younger brother swatted the elder’s hands away with a huffed, “I’m fine.” Bifur and Bofur helped Bombur up onto his pony, ensuring the rotund dwarf didn’t topple back down onto the ground before mounting their own ponies. Fíli and Kíli shuffled impatiently at the back of the herd. Kíli's hood was pulled up over his head, no doubt trying to block the sun’s bright rays from his sensitive eyes.

On his way passed Dwalin mounting a white mare that matched his brother’s, Thorin smirked. “Glóin, what is Dwalin’s pony’s name?”

Glóin glanced over at the white pony. “That one there is Bonnie.”

Thorin barked a sharp laugh, cutting it off with a cough into his hand. Well wasn’t that just perfect.

Dwalin scowled at him over his shoulder. “What’s so funny ‘bout a pony named Bonnie?”

Thorin rode up beside his cousin and said quietly, “It seems you found your bonnie lass after all.”

Dwalin blinked at him then shockingly, his big burly warrior of a cousin—the same one who’d stood unwavering by his side through battles and orc raids and ambushes—blushed. A real blush with flushed cheeks and pink ears. Dwalin cleared his throat quickly and smirked at him. “Aye, I suppose I have. And what a bonnie lass, she is,” he said, affectionately patting his mare’s neck.

Thorin chuckled and pressed his own mare to the front of the line. With one final look behind him, he called, “Let’s go!”

~oOo~

The Company had been weaving their way along the narrow paths of Hobbiton for maybe thirty minutes when a deep, rumbling croak sounded out from above. Thorin glanced up as a familiar dark-winged shape circled high above their heads.

“Good morning, Caric!” Kíli called so loudly, Thorin could hear his nephew—who had taken up the rearguard alongside his brother—all the way from the front of the long procession of ponies.

Caric’s throaty laugh echoed in the morning air around them. “Good morning, Prince Kíli.”

The raven swooped down and landed lightly on Thorin’s fur-covered shoulder. He smiled at the bird and slowed his mare’s pace a bit to a smooth walk. The Company slowed their pace to match him as they wove their way through the woods of the Shire. “Good morning, Master Caric. Glad you could join us.”

Caric dipped his head, settling his wings at his sides. “Of course, your majesty.”

Thorin chuckled at the bird’s formality. “I can honestly say I have not met a more polite raven in my life, but there is no need for titles on the road. Master Thorin or just Thorin is fine.”

“If you wish, Thorin,” the bird said.

“Did you not go with Gandalf this morning?”

“I did,” was Caric’s short reply.

Thorin quirked a brow. “Where did the wizard run off to that you’ve returned alone?”

“I am not alone.” Caric turned around on Thorin’s shoulder and waved a wing behind him. Thorin followed the bird’s gaze and low and behold, Gandalf the Grey rode astride a chestnut draft horse, trotting up the road with his staff in hand. Many of the Company greeted the wizard and he replied in turn, but did not stop his hurried pace until he reached Thorin’s side.

“I certainly hope you didn’t get lost, wizard,” Thorin said with a smirk, “because if you did, that does not bode well for our journey.”

“I see a bit of rest has improved your humour.” Gandalf chuckled warmly. “No, I did not get lost. I needed to send a message, so I called upon the help of an old friend. Took a bit longer than I planned and when I’d gone back to Bag End to remove my mark from Bilbo’s door, you had all gone already.”

“Any sign of Master Baggins?” Balin called a couple ponies back.

“Not yet,” Gandalf answered.

“You mean not at all,” Glóin grumbled, tugging on the reins of a supply pony.

“Master Glóin, you might do well to give our burglar more credit. He may surprise you yet,” Gandalf said, an odd gleam in his eye.

“Oh, if it’s credit you’re wantin’, how ‘bout a little wager?” Nori asked with a sly grin.

Thorin rolled his eyes. Nori was a notorious gambler and loved to make money off of other people. He also had a bad habit of taking things that did not belong to him, so it was any wonder why anyone would trust the thief to pay out the bets if he lost.

“What are we bettin’ on?” Bofur asked.

“Whether or not our hobbit and burglar will join us on our quest,” Nori said. “Shall we say…two silver pennies per bet?”

A few of the dwarves voiced their agreement.

“Well alright then. But this is the real question: will any of you actually bet on Bilbo turnin’ up? We need at least one person to counter.”

It was quiet for a long moment, the silence broken up only by the gravel crunching beneath the ponies’ hooves.

“I will,” came a voice in Thorin’s ear. His head snapped towards Caric, more than a bit surprised by the raven’s participation in the bet. He remembered the ravens of Erebor were paid for their service as messengers in coins, but that was because the birds liked the metal’s shine, not because they used it as any sort of currency. What use would Caric have for coin on the road?

“Um…I don’t mean to be rude, Master Caric, but you need coin to play. And unless you’ve got magical invisible pockets we don’t know ‘bout, I don’t think you can bet this time ‘round,” Nori said, doing a poor job at hiding the amusement in his voice.

Caric tilted his head, the sun glinting brightly in his eyes before the bird flapped his wings, gliding away from Thorin and settling himself on Gandalf’s shoulder. The raven croaked low in his throat and Gandalf nodded, that odd gleam back in the wizard’s eye.

“I’ll cover his coin,” Gandalf said, dipping a hand inside his satchel, “As well as place my own bet for Bilbo.”

“Well, I suppose if you want to cover his bet, I won’t stop you,” Nori said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Alright lads, who’s bettin’ what?”

Moneybags were tossed to Nori left and right and Thorin just shook his head, facing around the front again to hide his grin. It was nothing more than a silly game, but it seemed to lift their spirits a bit.

Four members of the Company bet in favor of Master Baggins, with Óin and—quite surprisingly—his nephew Fíli joining their coin with Gandalf and Caric. Nine members bet against Master Baggins, including Nori the money-keeper. Thorin and Balin stayed out of the betting since it would be inappropriate considering their names were on Mr. Baggins’ contract. Even if it was highly unlikely the hobbit would show up, it would be in poor taste.

Nori poured out the last pouch thrown his way into the bag he was using to collect the coin. “Alright. When do we want to call the bet?” Nori asked.

“It shouldn’t matter when the laddie shows up. Just that he does,” Óin said, his trumpet pressed to his ear.

“You just don’t wanna admit, ye’ve already lost,” Bofur jeered.

“How about when we reach the East Road?” Fíli suggested.

“How far away is the East Road?” Nori asked.

“About half a day’s walk on foot,” Gandalf said over his shoulder from the front of the line. Thorin had allowed Gandalf his spot as leader of their motley herd since he was unfamiliar with the crisscrossed roads and footpaths of the Shire. After being corrected twice by the wizard for starting down the wrong path, Thorin figured it’d be better if Gandalf led the way until they were on the main road.

“I’d say that’s fair,” Nori said, nodding his head. “Till the East Road it is.”

Pleasant chatter broke out amongst the Company as they paired off along the line. They passed through beautiful fields of spring wildflowers, waded across crystal-clear streams, and rode beneath thick canopies of great oaks, beeches and pines. The time passed quickly with the Company stopping once at high noon for a snack and water break, and again about an hour later for them to relieve themselves. Hours flew by like the picturesque countryside of the Shire around them.

But as the day went by, Thorin could not help but notice Gandalf kept glancing over his shoulder, as if he was expecting to see the hobbit racing through the woods towards them. Suddenly, the dense trunks and foliage around them thinned to sparse oaks. Not far in the distance, a wide road met the path they were on, forming a T crossing.

“Is that the East Road?” Bofur asked loudly.

“Yes, Bofur. It is,” Gandalf said with another lingering glance over his shoulder.

“And Master Baggins is not here,” Dwalin said with a hint of smugness.

“I suppose not,” Gandalf said sadly. Caric clicked his beak, his head hung low over the wizard’s shoulder. Even if he did not share their faith in the hobbit, Thorin couldn’t help but feel bad for the pair who had held out such hope for their burglar. But it was not to be.

“Didn’t I say it? Waste of time!” Dori grumbled loudly. “Ridiculous!”

“That’s true enough!” Glóin agreed.

“‘Use a hobbit’ he said,” Nori snarked.

“Whose idea was it anyway?” Dori snapped.

“Gandalf’s,” Nori said, already digging into the bag of coins to split up the winnings.

“Wait! WAIT!!!”

A distance shout caught the Company’s attention and calls of “whoa” were heard from along the line as they stopped their ponies.

Thorin could hardly believe his eyes as a tiny figure in the distance steadily grew closer, a pair of big, bare hobbit feet running as fast as they could to catch up. A bewildered smile curved Thorin’s lips as he reined in his mare and turned her around to see the one and only Bilbo Baggins running through the woods, his burgundy coattails and his contract trailing wildly through the air behind him.

“I signed it!” Mr. Baggins exclaimed, waving the parchment like a flag for all to see as he approached the procession of ponies. The hobbit’s gaze landed on Balin, and he handed up his contract to the old dwarf. Balin unfurled the rest of the contract, took out his pocket-glass and inspected it. Then he smiled warmly at the hobbit.

“Everything appears to be in order,” Balin said, folding the contract back up. “Welcome Master Baggins to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

Several of the dwarves cheered heartily, even those who bet against the hobbit. Balin grinned down at Bilbo from the back of his pony, flashing the hobbit a wink. Bilbo answered with his own beaming smile.

Thorin bit back his own smile. If he had joined in the wager, he would have lost, but he was happy to have been proven wrong. That young adventurous hobbit that Gandalf remembered was still in the homebody. He just needed that extra push to draw that rambunctious youth back out. And who knows? Perhaps Bilbo Baggins had more courage than he had thought.

Gathering his reins again, Thorin called, “Give him a pony.”

Giving Primrose’s sides a firm kick, he started the Company on their way again as Master Baggins rambled out loud protests to his riding on a pony.

“No, no, no, that—that won’t be necessary, thank you. I—I—I’m sure I can keep up…on foot. I—I—I’ve done my fair share of walking holidays, you know. I’ve even got as far as Frogmorton once—WAGH!”

Thorin glanced over his shoulder to see his nephews haul Master Baggins up by his pack and set him on the back of one of the supply ponies. Bilbo looked absolutely terrified on the mare as she neighed and tossed her head at the new weight on her back.

Thorin turned back around with a chuckle and picked up the pace again. Gandalf fell back, matching stride with him for a moment. “Take the left onto the East Road. From there we’re on that road until we reach Bree, so unless you need me, I’d like to speak with Bilbo.”

Thorin nodded. “That’s fine. Go make sure the halfling doesn’t pass out again. It wouldn’t do well for him to have agreed to join us, then fall off his pony and break his neck, now would it?”

Gandalf chuckled. “No, it would not.” The wizard stepped off to the side, letting the rest of the Company pass him until he sidled up to Mr. Baggins.

Thorin led the way, the trees around the path becoming scarcer as they reached the crossing of the East Road. Turning left like Gandalf said, he settled into a steady gait, trying to make up for the lost time this morning.

“Come on, Nori! Pay up!” Óin called. The clinking of coins sounded out as Nori started tossing bags of coins to the few members who had bet on Bilbo. If he’d counted correctly, each of them put in two silver and got back six. Not a bad bet.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Óin chortled excitedly.

“One more!” Fíli called, not to be left out. Another coin bag clinked. A few grumbles traveled through the line, but no one seemed too hurt by the outcome. It was all in good fun after all.

“What’s that about?” Bilbo asked.

“Oh, they took wagers on whether or not you’d turn up. Most of them bet that you wouldn’t,” Gandalf said.

“And what did you think?” Bilbo asked.

“Well, um—” Another coin bag clinked and Thorin could only assume that Nori had thrown Gandalf his winnings. Gandalf chuckled. “My dear fellow, I never doubted you for a second.”

The clopping of hooves was interrupted by a rather loud sneeze.

“Oh. All this horsehair,” Bilbo whined, “I’m having a reaction…oh…oh no wait! Wait stop! Stop!”

Thorin yanked hard on his reined and glanced over his shoulder at the hobbit. What was wrong? Was the hobbit deathly allergic to horsehair? He’d heard of food allergies amongst Men being deadly at their most extreme, but never an allergy to an animal. Glóin almost barreled into him, turning at the last moment to avoid running his pony into him.

“We have to turn around,” Bilbo declared, his hands scrambling frantically through his coat pockets. Thorin frowned. The hobbit looked fine to him.

“What on earth is the matter?” Gandalf demanded.

“I forgot my handkerchief,” Bilbo lamented.

Oh for Durin’s sake! Thorin didn’t bother trying to hide his annoyance as he rolled his eyes heavenward and shook his head, sighing in frustration. They had barely stepped out of the Shire and already Master Baggins was proving to be a test on his patience.

“Here!” Bofur called, tearing off a strip of his undertunic. “Use this.”

The jokester tossed the rag to Bilbo and the hobbit held it as far away from him as possible with his lip curled and his nose scrunched in disgust. The dwarves laughed at Bofur’s joke at Bilbo’s expense. Thorin gathered his reins again, trying to muster his patience.

“Move on,” he commanded, starting along the road again.

“You’ll have to manage without pocket-handkerchiefs and a good many other things, Bilbo Baggins, before we reach out journey’s end,” Gandalf said tersely.

“I wouldn’t use that dingy cloth to line the bottom of a nest, let alone put it near my beak,” Caric croaked out, “I don’t mean to be rude, Master Bofur, but I can smell that filthy rag from here.”

Thorin snorted a laugh. Who knew ravens were cheeky little buggers?

“Hey! It’s better than leavin’ snot on yer sleeve,” Bofur called.

“I think I’d prefer my sleeve,” Bilbo said darkly.

“I don’t believe you’ve been properly introduced,” Gandalf said. “Bilbo Baggins, this is Caric.”

“Not properly. Hello Bilbo,” Caric said warmly. “It’s good to see you again. I’m glad you joined us.”

“Um…h—hello, Mister Caric…sir,” Bilbo said awkwardly, “It’s nice to meet you, though I—I don’t think I’ve ever seen a raven personally, let alone met one. Though I don’t think such an occasion would arise for me to meet a raven. Or any other bird for that matter. And certainly not one that talks! How do you speak I wonder? Are you magic? Some kind of dwarven spell perhaps?”

Caric gave a throaty, rumbling laugh and some of the dwarves joined in.

“My, my. You are a curious one aren’t you?” Caric said, his tone strangely affectionate. “No, I am not magic. My people have always been gifted with language, learning from the great Dwarves, Men and Elves of old, mimicking their tongues throughout the ages until we understood it. I am no more magic than a common robin or thrush.”

“But that can’t be true, Master Caric!” Bilbo exclaimed. “You can talk!”

“And so can you. Do you think you are magical, Mister Baggins?” The bird’s question seemed to have stumped the hobbit for he fell quiet for a long moment.

“I know this must all seem rather odd to you, my dear Bilbo,” Gandalf said, “but I expected nothing less. You were born to the rolling hills and little rivers of the Shire, but home is now behind you. The world is ahead. And in this world are things you couldn’t even begin to imagine, but if you keep an open mind, you might find that magic is not as distant and unfathomable as you may think.”

“Aye! And ye’ve already got the best kind of magic with ya,” Bofur half-sung.

“Oh, yes. I suppose Gandalf would be the best at magic. In fact, I—”

“No! Not Gandalf!” Bofur protested loudly, interrupting Mr. Baggins. “Aye, a wizard’s handy in a pinch, but ye’ve got dwarf magic now, laddie! And dwarven magic is the best kind of magic. The kind where the food never stops feastin’, the ale never stops flowin’ and the song never stops singin’. Speakin’ of song, how ‘bout I—?”

“NO!” came the resounding reply of all the dwarves, cutting off Bofur’s song before it began.

“We’re gonna be on the road for months, so unless ye wanna be tossed in the next river we cross, I’d keep my trap shut if I was ye,” Dwalin said with a growl.

“Wow. Tough crowd,” Bofur said, his grin clearly audible in his cheery voice.

Thorin had a sneaking suspicion this wouldn’t be the last of the Bofur’s antics and he could only praise Mahal that he was at the front of the line because if he was riding beside the dwarrow and forced to listen to his jaunty songs for hours on end, Thorin may very well be tempted to toss a member of his Company into the nearest river like Dwalin had suggested. That wouldn’t make him a very good leader, but it would definitely make him feel better.

“Pick up the pace!” Thorin called over his shoulder. Giving Primrose a nudge with his boots, he pressed the mare into a trot and the Company matched his faster pace. With all members accounted for, the afternoon sun at their backs and a gentle spring breeze wafting eastward with them, it looked to be a promising start to their journey.

Promising indeed.