Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Disclaimer: The main characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the unknown characters belong to me.

Series: The Mazarbul Chronicles – a series of independent stories, featuring various Dwarves.

Summary: As mentioned in “The Book of Mazarbul”, Bifur and Óin had always been close. So, why did they never court? Possibly because Bifur’s interest was elsewhere?

Don’t let the title mislead you. This is a non-slash, one hundred per cent canon, bookverse story. Well, 99 per cent canon anyway, seeing that Bifur is a bit different here. *g*

Dedication: This is a birthday fic for my good friend and fellow “Hobbit” fan, the_wild_iris.

My heartfelt thanks to Glîrnardir, my generous canon beta, for fact-checking and proofreading.

The small merchant caravan of BroadBeam Dwarves reached the Forsaken Inn in the early days of Spring in the year 2941 of the Third Age. It was a fairly modest one as Dwarven caravans go, consisting of six wagons only, arranged in a defensive horseshoe shape during their rests, with a large campfire in the centre. This formation had proved to be the one easiest to defend for travelling traders who spent most of their lives on the Road where dangers were numerous and often unexpected.

The Forsaken Inn, however, was one of the safest resting places on the regular route of this particular caravan. Built on a small, flat hillock overlooking the Road, it was a rather unremarkable, two-storey building, with a few trees on one side, weatherworn to the point of slowly falling apart, and clearly in desperate need of a new roof. But one could still sleep in what once had been the Common Room without getting drenched, should a quick shower of rain sweep over the Road, therefore it was a much sought-after place by weary travellers.

The caravan had a long way behind them. They had been on the Road for nearly a year and a half by now, having travelled from the Blue Mountains to the Iron Hills and back.

Well, almost back. They still had the last leg of their journey before them, which meant many leagues to go ere they would reach the major Dwarven settlement in the south of the Blue Mountains, just outside the small country of the Halflings: the deep halls of Thorin Oakenshield, crownless King of Durin’s Folk, the LongBeard Dwarves.

They had started their long journey back from the Iron Hills on the far North-east more than seven months ago, travelling the Wilderland along the Long Lake and the River Running. Then they crossed Mirkwood via the Old Dwarf Road, upon which once their ancestors had marched from Khazad-dûm to the northern settlements of the StoneFoot Clans in the Grey Mountains. Settlements most of which had been abandoned for a very long time.

They had enjoyed a short rest on the western edge of the forest, in the company of some friendly – well, mostly friendly – Northmen; then they crossed the Great River at the Old Ford and braved the High Pass, despite the winter, to get on the other side of the Misty Mountains as soon as possible. Lingering on the eastern slopes of the Mountains could be perilous, as the Wargs had grown in numbers, cunning and hostility in the recent years.

They had another brief respite in the Angle, where the descendants of the Men once populating the North-kingdom always welcomed them in their small, fortified homesteads. Then they had crossed the Last Bridge and headed straight to the Forsaken Inn, which they were glad to find empty. No-one of them felt like competing with other travellers for the best places.

“Arrange the wagons so that they would protect the front door of the Inn,” ordered the leader of the caravan, a small, rotund but powerful Dwarf-dam, the males who drove the sturdy hill ponies pulling the wagons. “That way we can make good use of the kitchen and the hearth, without attracting any wolves… or worse creatures.”

In spite of her relative youth – she was not yet one hundred and fifty – she had led the caravan for nearly sixty years by now… ever since their wise-woman, the wife of her much older cousin, died from the lung fever. As it was custom among Mahal’s Children, she travelled in the disguise of a male, of course; complete with male clothing and a fake beard that she had glued to her face with heated tree gum. That was not the most pleasant way to fasten a false beard, but at least so she did not have to glue it back every morning. The tree gum held for several moons, keeping up the disguise effortlessly.

No-one save her family and a very small handful of friends knew Sigrún Kuonisdóttir for who – or what – she truly was. For everyone else she was simply known as Bifur the toymaker.

Men or Elves would not find her remarkable; not even if they knew she was female and could see her without the facial fur that concealed many of her finer features. In the eyes of Dwarven males, however, she counted as more than comely, with her round, freckled face, cat-like beetle-black eyes, plump lips and thick, ink-black hair.

Her hair was her best feature anyway; a rare colour among the BroadBeams who were more on the ginger side of brunet as a rule. She wore it in male fashion, in one thick braid – thicker than her arm – and adorned with small, colourful glass beads. It caught the eyes of almost everyone at once, which was why she had it doubled over and hidden under her yellow hood.

Drawing too much attention could be dangerous for someone who lived on the Road.

Right now, however, she was among her own kind and thus could afford to let her hair down – both proverbially and literally. And so she did with great relish, removing even her fake beard, so that the skin of her face could breathe freely. Tree gum was not truly good for one’s skin. Fortunately, her mother had taught her how to make a poultice that would heal the damage quickly.

She made a mental note to make some for Inga, too. It would not do to ruin the beauty of such a young one, just to keep her safe.

“We will stay here and rest for a while,” she said to the younger one of her cousins, Bofur. “We are beyond weary and need to regain our strength before entering Bree.”

“We need to make inventory of all the things we traded for in the Angle,” he said. “And while there are no mines in the Breelands, perhaps Dagrún, Fródi, Veig or Egill can find some wood- or leatherwork in one of the villages – in case the Men of Bree have no interest for our wares. We need some real coin badly.”

“When do we not?” replied Bifur with a weary sigh, for things had not gone exactly well lately. As a rule, they traded in animal hides, small gemstones, amber, wine and honey, mostly, eking out a modest living the same way her parents, the founders and original leaders of the caravan had done.

Unfortunately, the Road had become increasingly dangerous in the recent years, which meant painful losses for the small traders. Mannish merchants travelled in big, well-guarded caravans – or with entire merchant fleets upon the rivers – from one great fair to the other, and the Hanse of Lebennin practically owned every market in Gondor. No Dwarf traders dared to go south any longer – not farther than Dunland, that is, and the Dunlendings traded almost exclusively with the LongBeards, due to their long acquaintance with Thorin Oakenshield and his House.

That left for the small traders like Bifur and her companions the meagre markets in the Wilderland – and even there, the Merchant Guild of Laketown was a hard competition – the Breelands and the small farmsteads in Eriador, scattered between the Greyflood and the Blue Mountains. They could call themselves fortunate if they happened upon a fair in the Shire; a far too rare occasion for Bifur’s taste.

They had been hurrying as much as they could to be in Michel Delving for the Spring Fair, when the good-natured Halflings always generously spent their coin, but she knew they would not manage to get there in time. Their wagons, albeit safer and sturdier than Man-made carts, were also much heavier, as their walls as well as their roof were made of strong wooden planks rather than of canvas, and the additional weight slowed them down considerably.

They were built for endurance, not for speed – just like the Dwarves who had built them.

Not that Mahal’s Children would have been slow or clumsy – they were not. They were highly skilled and could move with alarming speed if they had to. But they still could not compare themselves with Elves – or even Halflings – when it came to moving along quickly and light-footed for an extended length of time, Bifur admitted bitterly. And that fact could prove fatal for them.

Missing the fair in Michel Delving would not only mean the immediate loss of opportunity. The Halflings would not be interested in buying things for a while after their greatest fair, either. Not after having spent all the coin they had saved for such purposes.

“I suppose we can go on straight for Thorin’s halls, once we have left the Breelands,” she said glumly. “No use lingering in the Shire. They would not want our wares, not now.”

“Afraid so,” Bofur agreed. “The more pressing it is, then, that the ones of us who can find some work in Bree, at least for a while. You could try to sell some of your toys in the smaller villages, too. They have no-one who could even come close to your skills.”

“I doubt that I would be able to use my finer tools any time soon,” she said. “Ever since I was injured in the fight with those footpads near the Angle my fingers seem to have lost much of their nimbleness. The lady healer of the Rangers did what she could; at least she stopped the infection from spreading and saved my hand. But I fear I may never be able to work in my craft properly again.”

“We have not had a proper leech among us since Old Tyrfingr chose to settle down in Balin’s mansion,” growled Bofur angrily. “He abandoned us for a life in plenty, and him being our mothers’ kin and all!”

“He is but a remote cousin of our granddam,” said Bifur with a shrug, “and he is old. He was already a battle healer at Azanulbizar; and not a young one at that. You cannot blame him for growing tired of the Road.”

“I can and I do,” growled Bofur. “We needed him and he left us, the only kin he still has, to grow fat in the safety of Balin’s home. There is no excuse for that. If our own kin abandons us, on whom can we still count?”

“On each other; and each other is all that we need,” replied Bifur firmly. “Now, why don’t you go and set up the watches for tonight while I see into the matter of supper? Perhaps we can persuade Bombur to allow Jörundr to cook today; then we might get something to eat before midnight.”

Bofur rolled his dark eyes in exasperation. “Good luck with that,” he said but then went to do as he had been asked.

Fortunately for them, the long journey had taken its toll on Bombur and he agreed without a fight to let Jörundr do the cooking. That was unusual; as a rule he was very proud of his cooking (and rightly so) and would not bear that little upstart usurp his position as the cook of the caravan.

Even though said little upstart had once been his apprentice whom he had taught every trick and secret and time-honoured recipe that he knew.

“I would not mind to let the lad slave over the hot oven tonight,” he confessed with a sigh. “The truth is, I am old, Sigrún… and I am beginning to feel the true weight of my age.”

“That is foolish talk and unworthy of you,” said Bifur sternly. “You are not that old.”

But as she was secretly watching her cousin she had to admit that Bombur did look old. The wrinkles that had just appeared after the death of his wife, Maren, had deepened and multiplied in the recent years, without anyone noticing it. His once thick russet hair appeared to be thinning on his crown – a highly unusual trait by Dwarves albeit not entirely unheard of among BroadBeams – and when she looked a bit more closely, she could spot the one or other thread of iron among all the russet.

“I feel old,” he replied to Bifur’s protests. “I feel like I have lost purpose. My beloved Maren is gone, most of my children are scattered all across Middle-earth – those who are still alive, that is. Only Bávor, Inga and Gellir are still with me. What true reason do I still have to keep going on?”

“You said it yourself: you still have three of your children with you,” reminded him Bifur. “And your daughter is being courted and will marry in a year’s time. Her children will need their grandsire. And Bofur will need his brother; and I will need my older cousin on whose wisdom I greatly depend. So dare you not to give up on us just yet, you hear me?”

But Bombur just blinked tiredly with those small, round beetle-black eyes of his.

“’Tis not so that I would want to, you know,” he said. “’Tis just… it has been a long time since I last had something to fight for. Since I had aught else to do than to drag myself forward from one day to the next one. There should be more to life than just going on for another day.”

To that Bifur could give no answer, for she had been plagued by similar thoughts for quite some time. Life seemed so meaningless, and all their struggles and labours led to nothing. There were days when she came dangerously close to giving up herself.

But that was something she could not afford. She was the leader of their caravan; the others depended on her strength. She had to be strong, for their sake. She just no longer knew where to take that strength from.

Ere the silence between them could grow uncomfortable, Bombur’s daughter Inga – a pretty, ginger-haired young Dwarf-dam with a great likeness to her father – opened the door of the wagon and looked in.

“Stop brooding, you two,” she said. “Jörundr says supper will be ready in half a mark. Come to the Inn, the others are already waiting.”

Following her young cousin to what had once been the Common Room of the Forsaken Inn, Bifur saw with satisfaction that the other members of their caravan had been busy since their arrival. A merry fire was burning in the great stone hearth – a heart large enough to crouch in – trestle tables had been set up with the help of sawed-up trunks of fallen trees, and Jörundr, their young cook, was already ladling the excellent rabbit stew into the hand-held wooden bowls no self-respecting Dwarf would travel without.

“Let it cool down a bit first, or else you will burn your mouths,” he scolded his travelling companions who seemed hard-pressed to hold their ravenous hunger under control.

“’Tis your fault for cooking so well,” replied Gellir, Bombur’s youngest – a mere stripling of forty-something, whose ginger beard was still too short to be properly braided.

He dug into the scalding hot stew with relish and then belched to show his appreciation – only to be backhanded by his sister for his efforts.

“Manners, stripling!” said Inga sternly. “You are not in the sole company of your friends.”

“And you are not back in the Iron Hills, in the posh mansion of the family of that pretentious mate of yours,” groused the youngling. “Stop behaving as you were my mother!”

“Stop behaving like the little pig you are and I shan’t have no reason to do so,” replied Inga coldly.

Being a late-born child, coming at a time when his parents no longer expected to breed, Gellir had been considered a gift of Mahal and thus terribly spoiled while their mother had still been around. No male Dwarf would have the cheek to talk to his sister the way he dared to do, and Inga was beginning to grow truly impatient with him.

Not only was she older and the only daughter of Bombur’s twelve children, which alone would put her way above her brothers in rank and importance; she was also betrothed to Nár son of Frár of the Iron Hills.

Nár’s mother, Yngvildr – also known as the Raven Lady – was a hero of the Battle of Azanulbizar and one of King Dáin Ironfoot’s Forge Guards: the closest thing Dwarves had to knighthood. And although Nár did not follow his parents on the path of the warriors, he was a bronzesmith, a talented and most respected artisan, who – unlike his brother – chose to be counted as a member of the BroadBeam Clans.

With his mother counting back her ancestors to King Azaghâl of Gabilgathol, the greatest hero of the First Age, Nár’s family counted as royalty, even though they no longer had their realm. No BroadBeam dam could look any higher when choosing her life-mate, and Inga could rightly expect from her clansmen to be treated with proper respect.

More so as Gellir was still but an apprentice toy-maker, learning the intricacies of his craft under the stern tutelage of Bifur, while Inga was a skilled bronzesmith who had learned her craft from the best masters of the Iron Hills – which was how she had met Nár in the first place.

Gellir knew that, of course, but he was used to get away with just about everything, as he had always been the babe of the family and the apple of his father’s eye. Thus, instead of bowing to his sister and apologising properly, he kept muttering under his breath, giving her wounded looks.

“Back off, Gellir, and behave,” she growled, “or by Mahal’s beard, I shall have you stripped and whipped in the middle of our camp, to everyone’s amusement. I have had it with you and your insolent ways!”

Gellir had the mother wit to duck out of her eyesight at once. She was the leader of their caravan for a reason, despite being the youngest of the three females by far. Even as the Lady Maren, Bombur’s wife, had still been among them, Bifur had taken care of the practical aspects of their daily lives; for she had inherited leadership from her parents, was good with numbers and deadly with her battle-axe.

After Maren’s demise she had also become the matriarch of the family, and neither Dagrún nor Frán had even questioned her authority. Despite the fact that they both had grown sons just a little younger than she was.

Besides, she was also the craft-master of Gellir; the one who taught him everything he needed to know to become successful in his chosen trade. Making her mad at him would not bode well for the little brat, for various very good reasons.

“No-one can put the brat in his place like you,” he said with honest admiration. “I certainly never could, though I am his uncle.”

“You are a very good uncle,” replied Bifur gently. “You have always done your best to help Bombur raise his get after Maren was gone. ‘Tis not your fault that she had spoiled her nestling so much.”

“And Bombur could never bring it over his heart to be heavy-handed enough with the brat,” added Bofur, giving his older brother, who was sitting at the other end of the table, staring listlessly into his bowl, a worried look. “I am concerned about him, you know. He has been… out of sorts lately. Even his appetite has suffered, as little as one may believe that. I do not like it.”

“I fear he has grown weary of the Road,” said Bifur in a low voice, “and can you blame him? We all have, one way or another. I wish he had accepted the Lady Yngvildr’s offer and stayed in the Iron Hills as soon-to-be-kin. ‘Twould have been better for him.”

“Would it truly?” asked Bofur quietly. “Would you do so? We may be simple merchants, miners and craftspeople, but would any of us like to live off the mercy of others, even though they were to become kin and could afford it?”

“On the person offering us a place to live,” replied Bifur. “I would not like to dwell in the Iron Hills as the near-penniless kin of the Raven Lady; that would be humiliating beyond what I could bear. But I would not mind living under the rule of Thorin Oakenshield; whether in the Blue Mountains or elsewhere. Our ancestors accepted his as their Kings; and if half of what they tell about him is true, I could accept him as mine.”

“So could I,” agreed Bofur, “though I doubt he would ever call upon us… any of us.”

“Why not?” the challenge was sharp in Bifur’s voice. “Our parents bled in the war against the Orcs; a war of vengeance for his grandsire Thrór. Your parents perished in the great battle of Azanulbizar; and my father came back missing an arm. We are as entitled to respect as anyone else. Bombur even was there at Azanulbizar, though barely old enough to wield the axe.”

“He was helping the cooks,” reminded her Bofur with a wry grin. Bifur shrugged.

“So he was. He still slew his fair share of Orcs nonetheless. I am not ashamed of my family; and neither should you.”

“I am not,” replied Bofur defensively. “All I say is that many others would not appreciate Bombur’s deeds – or indeed our struggle to survive – as much as we might deserve. Most of our own people look down their nose at homeless Wanderers like us.”

“They should be careful with that,” said Bifur, her voice turning to ice, “or they might not have a nose left to do so a second time. My hand may be too damaged for handling my finer tools, but it is still good enough for putting the battle-axe to anyone who insults my family.”

“Aye, for that went so well last time you crossed axes with Lady Dís,” commented Bofur. “We got expelled from Thorin’s halls for a decade or so.”

“Dís Thráinsdóttir is a vengeful, contemptuous bitch,” declared Bifur with an angry scowl. “She did nothing to achieve her wealth and rank among her people. She would be nothing, were she not the younger sister of their King. And her two sons are spoiled brats, even worse than Gellir.”

“Oh aye, and telling her that in front of several hundred witnesses was such a wise thing to do, too,” returned Bofur dryly. “It landed us on the Road permanently, which is such a wonderful way to live.”

“If you hate it so much why did you not stay in the Blue Mountains, licking Thorin’s boots?” asked Niping, one of the older members of their caravan; a merchant by trade who had already travelled with Bifur’s parents.

“Living on the Road has always been good enough for us,” added Dagrún, his wife and the mother of their two grown sons. “You can always go back to mining coal for Men who spit on you in contempt if you feel too fine for the wagon.”

“Then leave your cousin alone,” snapped Dagrún. “Bifur has always led us well – better than anybody could have expected from such a young one. Do not let your cousin to tell you otherwise,” she added, looking at Bifur, who blushed just a little bit.

That was not what Bofur had tried to say, of course, but he wisely shut up. Arguing with a Dwarf-dam who could have been his mother age-wise – and one who could wield the axe with the skill of a trained warrior – would have been asking for trouble. A great lot of trouble.

Dagrún’s own sons – big, burly lads as BroadBeams go – tried their best to become invisible. Their mother had a fearsome temper; the last thing they wanted was to draw her attention when she got in a foul mood. Even their uncle Draupnír made attempts to shrink where he was sitting and thus offer the smallest possible target. Dagrún might have been his only sister buts he was also their family matriarch; one that knew how to keep his males on a short leash. All four of them.

Fortunately for everyone, ere Dagrún could fully unleash her temper Tyrgg, who had taken first watch, came in breathlessly.

“We have company,” he said. “I could hear a rider coming down to the Road from the North, approaching quickly.”

“A horse, based on its heavy gait,” replied Tyrgg. “Unless it is another Dwarf, riding a hill pony, that is. That would make about the same sound.”

Bifur shook her head. “Our kinsmen do not travel alone in the empty lands of Eriador. Not anymore.”

“Neither do Men, unless they mean something bad,” said Bombur, shaking off his moodiness in the face of imminent peril. “Whoever it is, they must come down from the Weather Hills; and no honest people have lived there for many lives of Men. This rider may be but the scout for an entire band of robbers and pillagers. We better prepare ourselves to deal with him swiftly, lest he calls his fellows upon us.”

The other Dwarves nodded in grim agreement. The memory of their recent skirmish with a large band of footpads – the very fight that resulted in Bifur’s damaged hand – was still fresh on their minds and weighed heavily upon their hearts. They had lost Skeggi and Órn in that fight, reducing their numbers to a mere twenty; and Draupnír was still limping from the leg wound he had received from a spear.

They could not afford any more losses; not on this tour. Not ere they could fill up their ranks – assuming they could find any more clansmen ready to brave the less than profitable perils of the Road.

“’Tis a good thing that we have no fire outside, between the wagons,” said Bofur. “The darkness will serve to our advantage.”

Which was the understatement of the Age, of course. Having adapted to a life under rock and stone for millennia, Dwarves could see better in the night than any other creature, save perhaps the Avari, the elusive Dark Elves of Mirkwood, who were said to have the best night eyes in Middle-earth. And it was highly unlikely that one of that secretive lot would ride across open territory alone. They never crossed the Misty Mountains, or so it was said, and did their best to avoid any contact even with other Elves, save alone Dwarves or Men.

Supper forgotten, the BroadBeams quickly grabbed their axes, war-hammers or swords, each his or her own choice weapon, and took up their usual positions at the wagons. Other heaved the copper and iron cauldrons found in the kitchen of the Inn, placed them close to the wagons and filled them with what water they could find in the cistern behind the weatherworn building.

Should the newcomer try to set fire on the wagons, that would at least give them a chance to put it out quickly. They could not afford to lose the only home they had.

“I wish we could use our bows,” muttered Egill, one of the youngest among them; a woodworker and bowmaker by trade, and a good one at that.

“So do I,” replied Bofur,” but we cannot simply shoot at whoever is coming. We must make sure first that they are actually an enemy or not.”

Frán, the oldest of the four Dwarf-dams in the caravan, gave a half-amused, half-annoyed snort. She was a trained warrior of considerable skill – one of the few BroadBeam dams who had fought at Azanulbizar and lived to tell the tale – and she always found it silly how much males appeared to need to talk ere they would actually engage in a fight.

In a battle, she corrected herself. Drunken fights in roadside inns happened with little to no provocation, as a rule.

“We need not to worry about that if the two of you keep chattering like Halflings,” she said. “Whoever it is, they will hear you and turn away, should they have any mean intentions.”

“In most cases you would be right,” agreed Bifur who had come out to them, theirs being the only vantage point from where the northern branch of the Road was visible. “This one, though, seems desperate to spend the night under the roof of the Inn – what is still there of it. Not that I would blame them for that… if only we could be sure that they are friendly.”

“And, pray tell, how many friendly ones have we met lately, be them Elves or Men?” grumbled Egill, still nursing a knife wound he had got in a drunken fight with an enraged Northman ere they crossed Mirkwood.

“You never met a single Elf in your whole life,” Jörundr, who shared a wagon with him, reminded him grinning.

Egill snorted. “And if I never see one it would still be too soon! ‘Tis enough to have Men treat us like dirt.”

“Now you are being a fool who talks foolishly,” said Jörundr. “The people of the Angle were more than generous to us: they shared their food, dressed our wounds and generally treated us with nought but respect. ‘Tis not their fault that you got chased around by an angry – and very drunk – Northman with the biggest knife ever forged in the Wilderland. Which, by the way, you deserved; that poor Man had just caught you in the haystack with his daughter.”

“I was wondering how a girl, even if just the daughter of some Northern brute, could have picked the ugliest of us all,” commented Bofur, his eyes glowing in the dark with amusement. “Now I understand; it must have been very dark in that haystack.”

Egill, very young (for a Dwarf) and foolishly proud of his conquest, was about to give an answer he would most definitely regret later, but Frán hissed at them to shut up, The mysterious traveller was coming into earshot. They could all hear the thunderous clattering of hooves on the dirt road. It sounded like the trod of a big horse indeed; but again, Tyrgg rarely erred in such matters.

“‘Tis not some slow, cold-blooded beast, used to pull carts or carry burdens,” whispered Mötsognir, Jörundr’s brother. As an ironsmith, he knew a great deal about horses and ponies, having shoed quite a number of both in his life. “It might tread heavily, but at considerable speed.”

“A war-horse?” guessed Frán. “But we never heard of mounted warriors in these lands, save for the Rangers; and those do not travel at night if they can avoid it. They lack the night-eyes of our people.”

“Perhaps this one has been sent on errantry that could not be delayed,” said Bofur grimly. “Or perhaps it is not a Ranger at all – not even a Man. Look!”

They were just a little after a full moon; Zigilnâd⁽¹⁾, as the Dwarves called it, just begun waning, its silver light still shining brightly. And in that silver moonlight they all could see now a dark shape appear at the end of the northern road – or rather the end of how much they could see of it. Not even Dwarven eyesight could penetrate the solid shape of the hills or other landmarks.

It was a rider all night. But not one they had expected. It was most definitely not a man upon a horse. Both he and his beast were too short and too broad for that, albeit his steed looked way too large and powerful for a mere pony.

“Rakhâs⁽²⁾?” asked Bifur in a voice too low for anyone but another Dwarf to hear.

Frán shook her head. “No lone Orc would dare to come so close to the Angle… or to Bree, for that matter. They are way too cowardly for that. And a scout for a larger band would never travel openly. Nay; ‘tis no Orc.”

“What is it then?” asked Bifur. “’Tis too large for a Bree Hobbit, yet too short for a Man of Bree.”

“We shall see it soon enough,” Frán tooted twice as a night-owl, summoning her mate and their son. “Take Fródi and Veig with you and hide on the other side of those bushes,” she said. “Get torches. At my mark, light them; we shall do the same here. And you, Egill, have that bow of yours ready, just in case.”

The others obeyed quickly and without delay. For whenever they got into a fight – or expected to get into one – Frán was the one to give the orders. That was her appointed task within their caravan, being the only warrior among them… and a female one at that. Without her experience in battles and the sharpness of her tactical mind they would have fared much worse on their long, perilous journeys.

Less than half a mark⁽³⁾ later, when the lone rider came up close enough to the defensive arrangement of wagons to recognise them for what they were – a small but effective mobile fortress – the trap had already been set. Frán tooted like a night-owl again, this time thrice, and at her mark half a dozen torches were lit all around, all at the same time, and three bows were aimed at the newcomer, with their heavy, iron-tipped arrows at the ready.

“Hold on, stranger!” she called out in her deep voice that only another Dwarf would have recognised as a female one. “State your intentions and be warned: our archers have aimed their arrows at you, and they are very good at what they do.”

“Who are you, lady, to threaten weary travellers?” asked the newcomer indignantly, his voice every bit as deep and rough as hers. “I owe no answer to anyone but my lord, on whose behalf I am travelling all across the empty lands.”

“Are you now,” said Frán, not the least mellowed; the fact that he had recognised her as a female only strengthened her suspicions, for what was a Dwarf doing, travelling alone in the wilderness? “Who is that lord of yours and what is your errand then?”

“I would be a most untrustworthy errand rider, would I give the name of my lord to any strangers,” replied the unknown Dwarf. “As for my errand, I am looking for the caravan of Bifur the toy-maker. I was told they would be due to return to Eriador this way, and that soon.”

“Told by whom?” demanded Frán who was no more willing to give away Bifur’s presence than the newcomer would tell anything about his mysterious lord.

“Why, by Tharkûn the Grey Wizard, of course,” he replied a bit more readily now. “And ere you ask me how he could tell me where to look for Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, then all I can say is: I don’t know! Wizards are odd people: they come and go as they please, know things they ain’t supposed to know and meddle in affairs that are nowhere near their business. What I do know, though, is that their tidings are usually reliable.”

“Perhaps so,” allowed Frán. “That still does not tell me who you are and why should I trust you.”

“I am Óin son of Gróin, from Durin’s own line,” answered the stranger with authority in his voice that had not been there a moment ago. “My mother, may her glorious memory never fade, was the Lady Frey of the FireBeard Clans. I am a jewel-smith and a lore-master; and I dwell in the Blue Mountains with Thorin Oakenshield’s people.”

“So you say,” returned Frán, still not persuaded that she was not being lied to. “Yet if you are such an important person, why would you seek out humble Wanderers like Bifur, Bofur and Bombur?”

“He seeks us out for he is an old friend,” Bifur stepped out from behind a wagon and into the light of the torches, so that the newcomer could recognise her. “Welcome to our humble camp, Óin Gróinsson. It has been a long time since our paths last crossed.”

“Too long,” agreed the newcomer – obviously the very Dwarf he had stated to be.

Then, to the shocked surprise of the entire caravan – with the likely exception of Bofur and Bombur – he dismounted and enveloped Bifur in a bear hug that would have bruised the ribs of a strong Man.

(1) Zigilnâd was a rejected name for the Celebdil (Silverlode). Tolkien later decided to go with Kibil-nâla. I just needed a Dwarvish-sounding name for the Moon.

(3) With “mark” I mean the equivalent of an hour, assuming that the Wanderers used marked candles to measure time. It is of no true significance, I just wanted a somewhat old-fashioned expression.

Author’s notes: This is still a bookverse fic and will remain such. However, I found the appearance of a few movie Dwarves appealing, so I adopted their looks. Óin is such a Dwarf (albeit younger-looking and not deaf), while Bifur and Bombur are not. To see my idea of Bombur, you can google for Váncsa István, Hungarian journalist, author of cooking books and all around great guy.

The herbal lore is based on “Brother Cadfael’s Herb Garden” by Rob Talbot and Robin Whiteman – an excellent book on the topic. I hope I have not misinterpreted anything I read there.

After nearly being hugged to her death by her unexpected visitor, Bifur called Fródi, one of the young males entrusted with the care and feeding of their ponies, and ordered hi to look after Óin’s mount. It was a hill pony just like the ones pulling their wagons, but of a much nobler breed. One of those bred by the StiffBeard Clans in the Blue Mountains and called therefore Dwarf ponies.

They were bred for the use of messengers and errand-riders; sometimes even for warriors, although Dwarves generally preferred to march to war on foot, for only this special breed was capable of carrying a warrior Dwarf in full armour with good speed. Albeit much shorter, Dwarves easily weighed as much as any grown Man due to their densely muscled bodies… in most cases even more. Therefore Dwarf ponies were not much smaller than a regular horse – like the heavy-bodied, thick-legged ones used in Lossarnach.

They were strong, sturdy, powerfully built animals like their owners, with long, shaggy manes and tails, and feathering around their hooves that enabled them to carry weights under which the back of any great war-horse would break. They were also stubborn, wilful beasts that did not obey anyone else but Dwarves; and only those Dwarves that had won their trust by taking good care of them. Óin’s dappled grey pony was fortunate, as its rider was not wearing full armour and thus was presumably lighter than the average fully armed warrior. When the son of Gróin entered the Common Room of the Forsaken Inn, though, where supper was hurriedly re-heated, those of the caravan who had not met him before had to admit that he was one of the most imposing Dwarves they had ever seen.

Although not as large as a BlackLock or an IronFist warrior, the giants of Mahal’s Children, neither as heavily built as a BroadBeam (which would be impossible for any Dwarf not related to the Clan), he was still a powerful, striking figure in his travelling garb of fine black wool and the grey, moleskin-lined cloak worn over mail shirt. His lion-like mane fell unbraided over his broad shoulders, save for a ceremonial braid on the back of his head that identified him as a scholar, and shone in the deep hue of pure copper. That, with the thick, arched eyebrows so characteristic for Durin’s line, gave him a particularly fierce look.

He had deep, dark eyes, a fine scimitar of a nose and thick moustaches that curved around his strong chin like the horns of the wild kine, emphasising the fierceness of his appearance. His forked beard, also of shiny, coppery red, was braided and doubled back in two decorative plaits like thick rope, adorned with small silver beads. A broadsword, too heavy for a strong Man to lift, let alone wield, was buckled to his back in a richly adorned scabbard.

Despite his apparent status in the halls of the crownless King of the exiled LongBeard Dwarves, he seemed a friendly enough chap… and genuinely happy to see his old friends. He exchanged the obligatory head-butts with Bofur and Bombur, not caring that their plain clothes were stained from the long journey, and as for Bifur…

Dwarves could not read the bonded or free status from somebody’s eyes as it was said about Elves, but they could reach each other’s body language like an open book, no matter how subtle it might be. Therefore Dagrún and Frán needed but a few moments to come to a complete – albeit wordless – agreement. It was clear to anyone with eyes to see that Bifur and Óin had once known each other intimately… and that some of that old fondness was still there.

Dwarves dallied freely – and often outside their own race, given the low numbers of females among them – until they found the person who would be the one for them. Once they had found their chosen one, though, they only had ears and eyes for that single person. Remarriage after one of the bondmates had dies was allowed – in theory – but had not happened since the Awakening of the Seven Fathers, as far as everyone knew. They were a single-minded and fiercely jealous people, be it about their mates, about their work or about their wealth.

It was obvious for the two older Dwarf-dams then that Bifur and Óin had not found the one in each other, which, in their opinion, was a shame as those two clearly liked each other very much. Óin must have known the whole family for quite some time, for not only did he call Bifur by her true, female Mannish name but he also asked about Bombur’s children, whom they knew by their names, all twelve of them, knew which ones were still alive and which ones had already families of their own.

“I used to travel with Sigrún’s parents in my youth, ere they would put this caravan together,” he explained. “Both my brother and I did. We were barely more than striplings, our parents lost in the war against the cursed Orcs; Kuoni and the Lady Sigga took us in and cared about us ‘til Balin would take over responsibility,” he smiled at Bifur warmly. “Glóin always says my wanderlust comes from that time.”

“How is that lazy brother of yours doing anyway?” asked Bombur, grinning. The unexpected reunion with his old friend seemed to have awakened him from his lethargy, for which Bifur was grateful.

“He is well enough. Was doing his best to beat you where it comes to the number of children, but after the sixth one Nei put her foot down and flat out refused to have any more,” he turned sad for a moment. “I suppose she was shaken by the fact that their youngest did not last very long. He was a sickly babe from the birth on and died after a couple of moons. They were both inconsolable for a long time. You know what Glóin is like; big and ugly he may be but his heart is soft like butter.”

Bombur, a grieving father of several dead children himself, nodded in sad understanding.

“Are the two of you still making jewelled items?” asked Bofur hurriedly, ere the mood could have turned gloomy again.

“Glóin found that he could not compete against Regin Frerinsson who is the best jewel-smith in the Blue Mountains in these days, despite his youth. So my brother learned how to make good armour and that is what he does nowadays,” he gestured at his own mail shirt. “As you can see, he does nice work. Nei still makes jewellery when the children leave her the time to do so. But mostly she teaches the younger ones her craft.”

“And what about you?” asked Bofur with interest. He found Óin’s obfuscating a little strange.

“I have been travelling across Eriador and the Wilderland on Thorin’s behalf,” explained Óin. “Acting as his emissary between the various settlements from the Iron Hills over the Grey Mountains down to Lindon leaves me very little time to do anything else. But I do not mind, honestly. I have met many people, from all seven kindreds; learned much about their traditions, their deepest desires… about whom one can count on in times of need and whom not.”

“Are we looking forward to times of need then?” asked Bifur. “More needful times than we already have, that is? For if we are, then I truly fear what may await us in the future.”

“Not that kind of need,” replied Óin. “Unfortunately, I am not entitled to tell you more. You would better ask Thorin himself.”

“And how, pray tell, am I supposed to do that?” demanded Bifur bitterly. “You know we are not welcome in his halls. Not since I had that little… disagreement with Dís.”

“That was many, many years ago,” said Óin dismissively. “Dís has learned to handle people more carefully in the meantime. Things would have smoothed over by now.”

“So does Thorin Oakenshield,” replied Óin. “He remembers all too well that Bombur fought on his side at Azanulbizar. He has not forgotten you; either of you,” he looked at Bofur. “Have you not laboured side by side in the mines and forges of Dunland for many years after that battle?”

“We have,” agreed Bofur. “But then he moved on to become lord of Durin’s Folk under the Blue Mountains and I… I remained who I have always been: a simple miner, labouring for other people for a handful of copper, trying to eke out a meagre living as well as I can. Oh, I am not unhappy with my life,” he added hurriedly. “What we need we have; even though we do not live in plenty like our more fortunate kinfolk. All I am saying is that people like me are not the usual company for the likes of Thorin Oakenshield. Not any longer.” "Are you sure about that?” asked Óin gravely. “For I can tell you this: Thorin is not the Dwarf who would turn his back on old comrades, just because his fate has taken a turn to the better.”

“We have no need for him and his charity,” said Bifur harshly. “We can do well enough for ourselves.”

The other BroadBeams nodded in agreement and murmured wordless encouragements. They were a hardy people, used to the hardships of the Road and proud that they managed on their own, without outside help.

Óin shook his head in mild exasperation. “But perhaps he has need for you,” he said.

“Why would he?” asked Bombur with a frown. “We are just a bunch of Wanderers. What good could we possibly do for him?”

“I cannot tell – why do you not ask him?” replied Óin with a question of his own. “You are going right to Bree from here, right? So am I. And I am to meet Thorin in the Prancing Pony in a few days’ time.”

“We cannot afford rooms in the Prancing Pony, said Bifur. “We shall camp right outside Bree as always. The recent years were not kind of us; ever since the passing of Maren, we had to make do what little coin we could earn – and believe me, that was not much.”

“But it would still be enough for a tankard of ale or two in the Pony, would it not?” asked Óin. “You can afford that much to meet Thorin and hear what he has to say.”

“I would like that,” admitted Bifur. “It has been too long since any of us met him, and while we may not be of Durin’s Folk, we still keep the loyalties of our longfathers. But I fear we do not have the time. We must look for work to earn some coin; fortune has not been kind to us in recent times.”

“Nonsense,” interrupted Frán sternly and glared at the younger Dwarf-dam from narrow dark eyes. “You are our leader, but we are no children. We can do without you for an evening or too. Niping and his lads can deal with the merchants of the Breelands; and those with a craft for which might be demand there can look for work on their own.”

“We have sent word to the pony breeders by way of those FireBeard traders we met on the Road,” added Dagrún. “At least we shall have buyers for Veig’s harnesses.”

“And I shall go around all the smaller villages and offer my services,” said her brother Draupnír, a locksmith and wandering cutler. “If Tyrgg comes with me to help, we can make some honest coin; there shan’t be much demand for miners here, I fear.”

Tyrgg, a relatively young Dwarf – and a fairly handsome one as BroadBeams go, with his dark brown, almost black hair, high cheekbones and almond-shaped black eyes – nodded in agreement. The multiple braids of his beard swung gently from the head gesture, making the silver rings that fastened the ends glitter in the firelight.

“I can do that,” he said. “If we take our wagon, moving the wheel should be easy, and we shan’t need to waste our coin on rooms.”

“We might find something, too,” said Hjalli, Frán’s mate. “There is always something to do for a stone-mason, and even such simple Men know that we are much better than their own craftspeople.

Like his wife, he was an old Dwarf who had begun to show his age. His hair was turning iron-grey and his hairline receding – a trait characteristic for BroadBeams only – and he wore it as well as his beard unbraided. Those big eyes under his bushy brows had seen a lot and he was not easily shocked or surprised anymore.

“And you should show that hand of yours to a leech,” added Frán, looking at Bifur. “The lady healer of the Rangers did her best with it, but it still does not seem healing well to me.”

“We cannot afford the services of a leech,” protested Bifur, but Frán cut into her word.

“Oh, but we can afford you losing that hand? I thing not. Don’t be a fool, young one! Coin can be replaced; a hand cannot.”

“You have been injured?” asked Óin worriedly. “Well, show me the injury; I have learned quite a bit of leech-craft on my many journeys; perchance I shall be able to help.”

He was already shedding his fine tunic and rolling up his shirtsleeves. Bifur did not feel comfortable with this turn of events, but she knew better than to argue with a determined healer. Besides, she was worried about her hand that had not healed as fast as it was supposed to be, given the sturdy nature of Dwarves.

Therefore she extended her arm to Óin, who carefully removed the bandage and the poultice applied by the lady healer in the Angle… and shook his lion-like head in concern at the sight offering itself to his trained eye.

The wounded hand was clearly infected; a dark red swath was running from the base of Bifur’s palm up her arm. The skin in the affected area was taut and shiny. What was even worse, two of her fingers seemed markedly swollen, as if the blood could not flow freely through the injured part of her hand.

“This is not good, not good at all,” murmured Óin, carefully turning the injured hand over between his broad palms. “The wound is inflamed; I could feel the heat radiating from it before even touching it.”

“How can that be?” demanded Bofur. “There was no sign of swelling, nor any trace of infection when the healer of the Rangers bandaged it, back in the Angle, a couple o’ days ago!”

“Then the infection must have developed since then,” replied Óin. “Unfortunately, such things happen, even if you do your best to spare the injured hand. You did spare it, right?” he asked from Bifur, with a clear warning overtone in his voice.

She gave him an annoyed look. “Of course I did. I am not an idiot, you know. So, can you heal it?”

“I can try stopping the infection, but that would mean cutting and draining your hand,” answered Óin honestly. “Which would be painful, and in the end might not even help. Not too much anyway.”

“If you do not, though, I might lose my hand,” said Bifur. It was not truly a question, but Óin nodded nevertheless. Bifur sighed. “We have no chance then; we must give it a try. I need that hand.”

“All right,” said Óin. “But I will need lots of boiling hot water for that, all the time; can somebody see to it while I am doing the rest?”

Inga, now seriously worried about her older cousin, hurried over to the kitchen to fill the largest cauldron and stir up the fire in the hearth. Óin, in the meantime, brought forth from his saddlebags a small, silver-bound lidded chest, beautifully carved from oak-wood, that stood on four short, sturdy legs. Unlocking the small padlock, he lifted the lid, revealing the contents: small, wood-stoppered vials of clouded glass with various tinctures and healing oils, bunches of dried herbs, a small soapstone mortar, rolled-up linen strips and other bandage materials and all sorts of odd-looking instruments for treating injuries. It was the chest of a travelling leech indeed, like the one Old Tyrfingr used to carry with him, only better equipped.

“I shall wash your hand with a juice made of both the roots and leaves of adder’s tongue first, to clean it from all possible things that might aggravate the infection,” explained Óin. “Then you will have to soak it in scalding hot water for a while, ere I do the incision. That will soften the skin and draw the infected matter closer to the surface.”

Bifur nodded her understanding. Óin washed his own hands in hot water first, scrubbed them in fact, and coated them with some clear liquid from one of the stoppered vials. Then, wetting a soft white cloth with the same liquid, he washed Bifur’s hand carefully. Bifur gritted her teeth against the pain but otherwise endured the treatment stoically.

Óin then asked for a small bucket of steaming hot water, in which to soak her hand, and for a candle. While she held her hand in the bucket, drops of sweat from the heat and the pain gathering over her brows, Óin took a small argent knife out of the chest and held the narrow yet obviously razor sharp blade over the flame of the candle.

“Is that a mithril blade?” asked Bifur, her pain momentarily forgotten at the sight of such a beautiful instrument.

Óin nodded. “Aye; I bought it from an Elven healer in Lindon. He was setting off for the Grey Havens, planning to Sail to Elvenhome in the Far West and no longer needed it. ‘Twas a lucky purchase, seeing as mithril has healing qualities in itself.”

“Sit here,” he instructed. “Bofur, stand behind her and make sure her upper body does not move. And you,” he looked at Inga, “must hold her arm still at the elbow and shoulder.”

Bifur drew her hand from the hot water and looked at it with detached interest. Thanks to the soaking, the skin was no longer shiny; instead, the whole hand seemed puffy and red. Óin took a fresh cloth from his chest and dried the hand with it. Then he wetted the cloth with woundwort tincture from another vial and swiped over the area where he intended to make the incision.

“Just try breathing deeply and steadily,” Óin handed the cloth to Frán who was watching him with narrowed eyes. “Would you hold this beneath the hand to keep the foul matter coming from the cut from dropping onto the floor?”

Frán accepted the cloth without comment. She was a warrior; she had seen worse.

The fine Elven blade seemed like a mere sliver in his large hand as he carefully but steadily sliced into the infected area. At once a thick yellow substance started oozing out of the cut. Bifur closed her eyes briefly and her face became tense but she gave no other sign of discomfort. Bofur wrapped his big arms around her, keeping her immobilised, while Inga kept her arm still.

After a short while the oozing stopped but Óin did not seem satisfied just yet.

“There is still much of this foul stuff inside the wound,” he said. “We need to get all of it out, or else you could get blood poisoning, and I do not need to tell you what that would mean, do I?”

Bifur shook her head. She had seen people dying from blood poisoning and had no intention to end that way.

Óin nodded tightly and began massaging her forearm with his thumbs, down from the elbow towards the incision. More foul-smelling matter seeped from the cut at that; fortunately, Dwarven stomachs were strong. More sensitive people might have keeled over from the sight… or the smell. Óin continued pressing the hand and the arm from different angles, cleaning the wound of all traces of the yellow substance, and Bifur endured it in the laconic manner Mahal’s Children tended to bear all hardships.

When the draining was finally complete, Óin asked for a fresh bucket of hot water. In that, Bifur had to soak her hand again for a while. Óin then cleaned the wound with the woundwort tincture again and looked at his handiwork in satisfaction.

“That went better than I would expect,” he said. “See, the swelling is greatly reduced, and the skin is no longer taut and shiny. I will have to stitch up the wound, though, and that might be more painful than when I made the cut.”

“Do what you must,” replied Bifur tiredly. “I never knew the wound had taken such a turn to the worse. It appeared to me to heal well enough while we rested in the Angle.”

“Aye, but the leeches of the Rangers have kingsfoil; an herb that only ever grows around their settlements,” Óin re-washed his hands and selected a needle from his healer’s chest, cleansing it over the flame of the candle as he had done with the knife. “Kingsfoil has a cleansing effect that wears off infections like no other herb can. Alas, ‘tis very hard to come by; but I shall do what is within my modest skills to help you.”

He asked Bofur and Inga again to keep Bifur immobilised; then he threaded a long strand of horse hair through the needle and began stitching up the wound. If the cutting and draining had been unpleasant, the stitching was downright painful; there were moments when Bifur thought she might pass out. Only Bofur’s solid presence behind her kept her grounded.

She realised that she had unforgivably neglected the wound on the way from the Angle to the Forsaken Inn. Dwarven hardiness – and the ability to ignore pain by sheer willpower – was not always an advantage, it seemed.

“Here we go,” Óin finally said, snipping off the rest of the horse hair and bandaged the wounded hand again. “I fear this is all the good I can do for now. When we reach Bree, I shall visit the herbalist’s shop there and look for more and better healing herbs. What happened to you anyway?”

“We were attacked on the Road, at our last night camp before reaching the Angle,” explained Bofur grimly. “By a large band of Mannish outlaws; Dunlendings, by the looks of them, although they must have lived rough for years and seemed not much better than Goblins… or wild beasts. In the end, we managed to fend them off, but they slew Órn and Skeggi; and Bifur here is not the only one wounded, although her injury is by way the most serious one.”

“That is odd,” said Óin with a frown while collecting his herbs and putting his tinctures away in the healer’s chest he had obviously taken to carrying with him on his journeys. “The Dunlendings were always friendly with our people; why would they turn against us, all of a sudden?”

“Outlaws have no friends,” reminded him Frán, quoting the old Wanderer saying. “Less so when they are starving and desperate, both of which this band clearly was. Perchance hunted by the Rangers of the Angle, too.”

Óin nodded in grim understanding. Attacking a caravan of Wanderer Dwarves was courting death for everyone – even for a numerous band of Mannish outlaws. Dwarves were fiercely protective of everything they considered theirs; and as Wanderers could call but very few things by that name, they fought what little they had like demons. 'Twas often a question of life and death for them and their families, so they know no mercy in such fights.

But, as the case of the two dead Dwarves of this small caravan showed, neither did the outlaws. ‘Twas a true ‘them or us’ situation for both parties.

“I am sorry about Skeggi,” said Óin to Bofur. “I know you were friends. I wish I knew him better; but he looked like a decent enough Dwarf to me.”

“Aye, that he was,” replied Bofur with a sad nod. “And good travelling company, too. I have known him since we were both but mere striplings; never had so much fun with anyone else. He was so full of mischief, always could make you laugh, no matter what.”

“And he was deadly with his battle-hammer, too,” added Bifur with a dejected sigh. “We shall miss his strength on our travels greatly.”

“So will the merchant-wives in Lake-town, too,” commented Tyrgg with a grin. “That red-haired widow in particular, the webestre… she was awfully fond of him. Would have taken him into her house in a heartbeat, had be been willing,” he winked at Bofur. “And that little slattern of her handmaid could barely take her eyes off you.”

“I thought it was you who dallied with her the whole time we spent in Lake-town,” he answered. “The two of you seemed inseparable.”

“Aye, but only cause you showed no interest,” returned Tyrgg, laughing. “I was only her second choice, as always.”

That ridiculous assumption made everyone laugh, for it was always Tyrgg who would catch the eye of the daughters of men first. The way he pulled his hair back from his face and wore it in two tight braids, plaited behind his ears, gave him a general look of tidiness that women found very attractive. His handsome, slightly exotic features and his honeyed tongue also helped to make him much sought after, whenever they visited a Mannish settlement.

“You see what I have to put up with?” Bofur said to Óin in mock exasperation. “The young ones today have no respect for their elders. That is the thank for teaching him how to wield a pick-axe when he still could not tell his left hand from his right one.”

“Aye, ‘tis hard when all he ever had were two left hands,” a deep, amused voice said and Bávor, who had been on guard duty and got just relieved by his baby brother Gellir, entered the Common Room.

The third son (and fourth child) of Bombur looked very much as his father had at the same age, Óin found, only with his mother’s much darker hair, which he wore in multiple braids, fastened with golden clasps. A trained warrior as well as a skilled merchant and a passable ironsmith, he was Bifur’s right hand at leading and protecting the caravan, and he radiated a natural authority his father also used to have once but appeared to have lost after the death of his beloved Maren.

Broadly built like his father, in his hard leather jerkin and thick cloak of heavy wool Bávor made the impression of being massive and incredibly strong – which he actually was – instead of looking simply fat. A quick glance at him could help imagine Bombur as a warrior who had fought at Azanulbizar, however involuntarily.

He exchanged the obligatory head-butt with Óin, whom he could only fleetingly greet before, asked about the state of Bifur’s hand – which seemed to worry him seriously – and then sat down to the table to eat. He had his own folding spoons of silver and a beautifully cut drinking glass of crystal, both of which he wore in their own hard-leather cases around his neck, together with the small silver key on its chain that opened the lock of the lidded case of his glass⁽¹⁾.

No other Dwarf present had such utensils. Bávor was clearly one who respected his own status – and expected others to do the same.

“That glass is one excellent piece of work,” commented Óin. “Made of rock crystal, is it not? Where did you get it?”

“From Nori Orinsson⁽²⁾,” replied Bávor. “He was just finishing learning of his craft the last time we returned to the Blue Mountains and made several such drinking vessels as his masterpieces. This one he liked less than the rest, so I could afford to buy it off him. Fródi,” he nodded in the direction of one of the youngest members of his caravan, one with light brown, almost blond hair and a distinctive forelock over his right eye, “made for me both cases.”

“He does beautiful work,” said Óin, taking a closer look at the excellent leatherwork.

Bávor nodded. “That he does; and he earns honest coin with it, whenever we visit the marketplace of some Mannish village – Men like his designs very much.”

“Just cause we live on the Road, it does not mean that we have to live like barbarians,” replied Bávor with a shrug. He finished his stew and yawned. “Speaking of which, you can have my place in the wagon tonight, Óin. I have not slept with my family for some time and we have much to discuss. I am sure Bifur shan’t mind the company,” he added with a wink and avoided a punch in the upper arm from Bifur with surprising nimbleness for a Dwarf of his heavy build.

“And I shall take poor Skeggi’s place to make sure Tyrgg behaves,” said Bofur, grinning.

Bifur rolled her eyes at their transparent efforts to give her and Óin some privacy but made no attempts to protest. It would be good to catch up with her old friend and lover, she decided. Even if the passion that had once burned between the two of them had long turned to ashes.

The wagon in which Bifur – and before her her parents – lived and travelled did not change much since Óin had last seen it from the inside… which had been quite a few years – nay, decades! – earlier.

It was large, with four small windows on one side and one large, shuttered shop window on the other one, which made it possible to turn the wagon into an actual shop whenever they visited a market or a fair. The walls and the roof were made of wood, giving the inhabitants proper shelter from the moods of the weather and from the arrows of any possible attackers.

Half the wagon’s floor was covered by thick fur rugs, made of bearskins of different colours, all beautifully curried; having several leather-workers travelling with the caravan was clearly an advantage. It was on this half where the family would sleep, under thick blankets. Óin still remembered how safe he had felt as a young Dwarfling in the warm nest of blankets and bodies, where he, his brother, Bifur and Bofur had slept together as children.

On the other side was a small, low table that served both as dining table and as Bifur’s working bench, with cushions and pillows scattered about. There were several large chests along the wall that held clothes and valuables, as well as various types of wood and rope and the tools that Bifur would need for her craft.

Two lamps hung from the ceiling, with various bunches of dried herbs, some of them left behind by Old Tyrfingr when he had chosen to return to the Blue Mountains; even a small medicine cabinet, holding what was left of his tinctures, was nailed to the wall.

There were weapons within easy reach everywhere in the wagon, and even a trap door in the floor, in case of an emergency. Life on the Road was never easy. Óin remembered that Kuoni, Bifur’s father, had always slept by the trap door, to shield the rest of the family with his own body. He had been a brave one; and a deadly warrior, too, despite having lost a limb at Azanulbizar.

Bifur and Bofur’s entire life consisted of what could be found in this wagon. ‘Twas not much; even less so compared with the relative comfort of Óin’s own home in the Blue Mountains. Or rather Glóin’s home, which he happened to share in the rare occasions when he actually spent time there. But this was the only life the two cousins knew, and they did seem more or less content with it.

Bifur led him to the table, leaving the wagon’s main door open to allow the starlight and the night sounds of singing insects to come in. She left the lamps unlit. They were running out of oil, which was hard to come by when one lived on the Road, not to mention costly. Besides, the starlight was more than enough for the keen Dwarven eyesight.

“You can put your clothes here,” she said. “We are eating in the Common Room while resting here; and ‘Tis not so as if I could work any time soon – if ever again.”

“That remains to be seen,” replied Óin. “Hopefully, we have stopped the infection, and I shall see what I can get in Bree to treat your wound better. But you should be mindful of your health, Sigrún. The others cannot afford to lose you… and neither can I. I may not be the one for you, but you have always been and will always be the one for me. And I have missed you greatly.”

Bifur smiled sadly, though it was too dark in the wagon even for the night-eyes of another Dwarf to see it.

“No-one ever calls me by my true name anymore,” she said, a little wistfully. “Not even Bofur and Bombur.”

”Understandable,” said Óin, his voice revealing that he was smiling, too. “For them, you are first and foremost their leader. For me, you will always be the girl I fell in love with.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Óin. “You are a proper Dwarf-dam now; have been for quite some time. But the respect I feel for you does not lessen my older feelings.”

He reached out to caress the fine down on the side of her cheeks, the only actual beard female Dwarves would grow⁽³⁾.

“Even without suffering from the true effects of the love-longing, there was never and will never be anyone else in my heart,” he added quietly.

“But how can you say that if you never experienced the full onslaught of the longing?” asked Bifur doubtfully.

Óin shrugged. “Love must not always be something stormy and wild. Sometimes it can come with a gentle spring breeze – but that does not make it any less binding. I shall always miss you, whenever we are apart – which happens far too often for my comfort.”

Bifur sighed again and leaned against him, comforted by his solid presence. She was a tough one, even as Dwarf-dams go, but the harsh life on the Road had taken its toll on her recently, appearances notwithstanding. Being reunited with her old friend who still saw her as she had once been eased her burden a little.

“I missed you, too,” she confessed. “’Tis hard work to lead a caravan in which most people are older and more experienced than I am. I hoped Niping would take over after poor Maren’s passing; he comes from a long line of successful merchants, with contacts just about everywhere; and Dagrún would make a good wise-woman. So would Frán, for that matter, and she is more of a warrior than I ever wanted to be.”

She nodded. “They did, and I am not one to shirk my responsibilities, you know that. Bofur and Bávor are a great help, but they have their own concerns – Bombur, mostly, who still has to get over Maren’s death – and in the end, it all comes down to me, although I never wanted this. All I ever wanted was to make the best toys that can be sold on the market.”

“I know,” said Óin, “and if it is in my power, I shall make sure that you can work again, sooner or later. I promise.”

“Make no promises that you cannot keep,” she replied, shifting positions so that she could learn more fully against him. “For now, I am just glad to see you again. How long do you intend to stay with us?”

“It depends on how long you are planning to stay in the Forsaken Inn,” said Óin. “I am to meet Thorin in Bree in four days, at the latest. That means I must leave this place behind in three day’s time, unless I want to ride my poor pony to the ground. Can you and the rest of your people be ready to move by then?”

Bifur nodded. “Sterday is market day in Bree. As we have missed the fair in Michel Delving already, we were planning to try our luck on the Bree market anyway. We have to move on the day after tomorrow for that, though. Our wagons are not as fast as a sole rider.”

“I shall ride with you, then,” decided Óin. “If I may store my bags in your wagon, that is. My poor steed would be relieved if he had to carry my weight alone.”

“Of course you can,” Bifur smiled in the darkness. “It will be nice travelling with you again… like in old times.”

“Like in old times indeed,” Óin echoed, kissing the top of her head. “Shall we turn in then and sleep side by side like old friends once more?”

(1) John Howe originally designed those items for Bofur, who was supposed to be a bit of a snob at that time. As far as I know, the utensils were never actually made, and neither was Óin’s travelling chest, originally designed (also by John Howe) as Ori’s toolbox.

(2) The name of Nori’s father is not given in canon, so I invented it. Remember, the Nori in my tales is not the same one as in PJ’s film.

(3) Well, yes, this is compromising between the Professor and myself, based on the film design of female Dwarves. I found them very pretty.

Author’s notes: The layout of Bree is based on Karen Fonstad’s Atlas of Middle-earth.

The stalls with the horizontal shutters are described and illustrated in “Live in a Medieval City” by Frances & Joseph Gies.

The looks of the individual OC Dwarves are based on the early Dwarf designs for the first “Hobbit” film.

The healing herbs and their uses are taken from “Brother Cadfael’s Herb Garden”, as before.

The caravan of BroadBeam Dwarves (plus Óin) rested in the Forsaken Inn for the next two days – but that did not mean that they would lie around idly. The younger ones went a-hunting – if one can call laying traps to ensnare rabbits for even more rabbit stew for dinner could be called hunting – or foraged as far as the Midgewater Marshes to collect the eggs of the water fowl for a little variety in their diet.

In his eagerness young Gellir – who had clearly inherited his father’s appetite – had even fallen into a bog and nearly drowned. Fortunately, Nídi and Nidud were close enough to hear his terrified screams (as he could not even swim) and pulled him out with the help of a length of rope the practical-minded Nídi always carried on him.

After that incident Bifur flat out refused to allow Gellir out with the hunters and gatherers again. The youngster grumbled and pouted a lot, of course, but Bifur was not moved by his display of unhappiness.

“Your clothes stink – it will take a thorough washing to get the stench out of the fabric, once we reach the washing spot of Bree,” she said sternly. “You will have to wear sour other set; and I shan’t have you get your better clothes ruined, too. Besides, you have more important things to do. I cannot finish the last set of toys we have prepared for the Bree marked with my bad hand, so ‘tis up to you to finish them for me.”

Bifur nodded. “Of course. I taught you everything I know; and even if you have not quite reached my level of skills yet, your work will still be better than that of any Mannish toy-maker.”

Mollified, Gellir sat down to work at once, and Óin watched him with interest. The toys were similar to those he had seen in Lake-town, where some of the surviving toy-makers of Dale – the best ones in Rhovanion – had settled: wooden figures of people and animals with moving parts that could be manipulated by hidden strings and made funny noises in the process, wooden dolls in pretty clothes and board games as they were beloved among the Northmen and their cousins in Rohan.

One in particular caught his interest. It was a butterfly, fastened on the top of a long stick. When a child ran with it, as Gellir readily demonstrated, the butterfly flapped its brightly coloured wings – the faster the child run, the faster they flapped, creating a buzzing noise with their movements.

“’Tis a new design,” explained Bifur. “Bofur helped me to figure out the mechanics; he is very good at such things and likes experimenting in his spare time. Had he not had to labour in the mines all his life he could have become a skilled artisan, too.”

“Oh, I would get bored very soon, had I to do such minutiae work all the time,” laughed Bofur, catching the tail end of their conversation on his way out. “Mining coal, now that is work that makes you properly thirsty and teaches you how to appreciate a pint of good ale.”

“He is jesting, of course,” said Inga who just came back from spreading out her little brother’s clothes for airing.

Not that any amount of that could take the stench of the bog water out of the fabric, but at least they did not have to smell them from close up. Dwarves had a sensitive nose.

“The truth is, Father could never make enough coin to feed us all properly,” she continued, sitting down to them for a moment. “And Mother was ailing most of the time since Gellir’s birth, so she could not work much as an herbalist anymore. Uncle Bofur worked in the mines, double shifts, for many years to help feeding and clothing us children. Without him…” she trailed off but there was no need for her to finish.

“He has always been like a second father to us,” agreed Bávor. “A shame that he never had the chance of a family of his own – he is so very good with children.”

“Not many of us have that chance,” said Veig, the harness-maker, with a shrug.

He was one of the older members of the caravan and – like quite a few BroadBeams – balding and greying prematurely. He balanced out that fact by wearing his hair in a wild mane on the back of his head (where it was still growing) and covering his bald crown with elaborately patterned blue tattoos. His forked beard and his long moustaches swept naturally outward, giving him a distinguished look, as if he were some venerable chieftain instead of a modest craftsman.

The fact that he was currently utilizing what was still left of the counter of the Common Room as a workbench, punching holes in some piece of unfinished horse-gear, did ruin some of the effect, of course. But Dwarves were practical people, and not using such a handy working surface while they were resting here would have been stupid.

It was a fairly personal question but Veig was thought to have been related to his mother from afar – too remotely even for Dwarves to count – and thus counted as family. Therefore Gellir could hope to actually get an answer instead of a reprimand.

Veig shook his head. “Nay; I never found one who would truly stir my heart. Not everyone does, you know. But,” he added with twinkling eyes, “I used to dally with the widows of the Bree-land in my youth. You see, they are of the same stock as the Dunlendings and very friendly to everyone. I was a comely lad once and always minded my manners, so their women liked me a lot. I could have settled in Bree if I wanted; they take in everyone with an honest trade, be them Big or Little as they call it. A remarkable people, the Bree-folk are.”

“That they are indeed,” Óin agreed. “I never heard of a place where Men and Hobbits would live together in peace, and the Men not even trying to lord it over the Halflings. You could have fit in well – why did you not give it a try?”

“Settled life is not in my nature,” confessed Veig. “I was born on the Road and have been living on the Road all my life. ‘Tis good enough for me.”

Dagrún, who was sewing up some very pretty purses of soft leather next to him, nodded in agreement.

“So it is,” she said. “I am still glad that we shall have a few days’ rest in Bree. We are running out of basic supplies, and I honestly could do with something else than rabbit stew for a change.”

The others felt very much the same and so it came that they left the Forsaken Inn behind at dawn on the third day. The way to Bree was not very long – merely a day’s walking distance – but, as Bifur had assumed, for their tired ponies it took almost twice that time pulling the heavy wagons there.

Thus they rested for the night on the roadside, at about the height of Staddle, one of the smaller villages of the Bree-land that nonetheless lay too far from the Road for them to spend the night there, and reached the village of Bree in the late morning of the fourth day. Which happened to be Sterday – or Sterrendei as the local Hobbits liked to say, being a conservative lot that stuck to older names.

Sterday was also market day in Bree. One of the market days, to be more accurate, and the more important one, as it followed Highday, the weekly holiday celebrated with opulent meals by both Hobbits and Men. Consequently, the cellars became somewhat emptied on that day and needed to be refilled.

Therefore farmers from the other three villages of the Bree-land – Staddle on the south-eastern slopes of the Bree-hill, Combe in a valley on the eastern flanks and Archet in the Chetwood, north of Combe – came to Bree to offer their wares. Cattle and pigs and sheep were driven to the market by foot, the rest of the various goods, mostly fruit, vegetables and diary products, were carted down from the villages by small, two-wheeled carts, pulled by a singly pony or horse.

The predominance of Bree as the central market of the area stemmed from its location. This most ancient of Mannish settlements lay at the intersection of two major roads: the Great East Road and the North Road. The latter had fallen out of regular use and into disrepair since the fall of the North-kingdom of Men, but the Great East Road still saw much traffic, being the one that led across the Last Bridge to the passes of the Misty Mountains and beyond them to the Great River and the Wilderland in the East.

This was the road that the Dwarves followed, as it passed right through the village. The crossing of the two roads was just west of the Bree-hill, and the Men of Bree, understandably enough, had attempted to protect their village with such fortifications as they could come up with.

They did not have the means to build high walls or great ramparts as seen in even the small towns of Gondor. But they dug a deep trench – they called it a dike – with a thick, thorny hedge on the inner side. Three sturdy gates were cut into the hedge – constantly tended – in the places where the Road entered and left the village: in the North for the Greenway and in the West and the South for the Great Road.

It was the South Gate where the Dwarves passed the hedge, driving their wagons through the causeway that had been built across the dike at the Road’s entry. This being a market day, the gate-keeper let them pass without asking any questions; besides, they were well-known in Bree for many years and usually welcome, too.

Inside the village the Road curved gently northwards ‘til the Prancing Pony Inn, where it met the Greenway and made a sharp turn to the West. About a hundred houses made of sturdy oak beams and whitewashed wattle were built east of the Road on the slopes of the Bree-hill, inhabited by local Men. Only a handful of them stood on the gently sloping are between the Road and the semi-circular dike. Those mostly belonged to shepherds and pony-breeders that lived there with their herds.

The market square, too, was situated on the eastern side of the Road, between the Prancing Pony and the lane that curved in a great bow to the East, climbing the crest of the hill, while another branch of it led through a small opening in the hedge for a shorter route to Combe and Archet. This was the street along which the Bree Hobbits lived in their hillside smials. Their numbers were slightly lower than those of the Men but not by much. Bree was the oldest surviving settlement of Hobbits, after all, far older than the Shire itself.

The market square was very obviously the most important place in the village… and perhaps in the entire Bree-land. It was enclosed by the largest, best-kept houses, most made of oak-beams and wattle and covered with shingled roofs. They were two or three storeys high mostly, belonging to the respected craftsmen of the village who were selling their goods from stalls outside the houses, the ground-floor interior being used rather for the production of said goods.

The western side of the market square, the one with direct contact to the Road, was left open for merchants and paddlers from outside the village, so that they could spread and offer their wares comfortably. This was where the Dwarves arranged their wagons, too, this time in one long line to build a united shop front.

Well, four of their wagons anyway: those of Bifur, Dagrún, Veig and the one inhabited by Mötsognir, Jörundr and Egill, for only they had wares that could be offered. The wagons of Bombur and Frán were left on the opposite side of the Road, together with all the ponies; within easy reach in case of an emergency, but there was no reason for paying the market fee for them – good coin that they could not replace by selling anything.

Once the wheels of the wagons had been safely wedged, the Dwarves opened the horizontal shutters of their shop windows. These, just like the ones on the local craftspeople’s stalls, opened upward and downward, top and bottom. The upper shutter, opening upward, was supported by two posts that basically converted it into an awning, protecting the goods from too hot sunlight or from the rain. The lower shutters dropped to rest on two sturdy legs, serving as the display counter.

Across these counters the Dwarves displayed their goods, sorted by their various crafts. Dagrún and Niping’s wagon, being the largest and best-kept of all, offered the most valuable things: earthenware pots of wild honey, made by the Woodmen of the North, jewellery from the Iron Hills, Dorwinion Red, the finest wine known in Middle-earth, purchased from the wine-sellers of Lake-town, animal hides cured and perfected by their own leather-workers, pieces of amber that enclosed captured insects, and so on.

Niping, knowing the importance of appearances, did his level best to impress his potential customers. For this, he dug out his best clothes, the likes of which his forefathers, a clan of wealthy and influential merchants used to wear in the heyday of Erebor.

He was wearing a knee-length, short-sleeved tunic of dark burgundy red brocade, seamed with the fur of the grey squirrel over a shirt of fine blue linen, and a heavy royal blue cloak. His wrist-guards were adorned with bronze applications and so were his heavy boats and his broad belt. His six-edged belt buckle, a particularly beautiful piece of smithcraft, was Inga’s handiwork.

He had his thick ginger hair, beard and long moustaches in multiple, decorative plaits, with the hair braids forming a topknot before falling onto his broad back. The plaits were decorated with bronze rings and clasps that would alone have a Mannish bronzesmith gaping in utter awe.

In short, he was very good at looking much wealthier than he actually was, which enabled him to demand higher prices for his goods – and actually get away with it! His sons, so alike each other in everything but their colouring and hairdo that one would think they were twins, served as both shop assistants and guards. They behaved most politely with the customers yet were armed to the teeth, just in case.

Bifur shared her display counter with Egill, their wood-worker. They displayed a great variety of toys, some of which young Gellir had finished on their last day at the Forsaken Inn, and many different wooden bowls, spoons, combs, brushes, small chests and boxes, all decorated with carvings of stars, flowers, leaves or animals very popular among the Bree-folk – even folding stools for children. Everything small enough to be made and transported in a wagon.

The wagon of Mötsognir and his brother Jörundr also served to display Inga’s amazing spread of small bronze items: buttons, belt buckles, hairpins, clasps, brooches, small drinking cups, drinking horns tipped and adorned with bronze applications, eating utensils and much more. Each piece was unique – unless part of a set of matching items – some of them gilded, some had small designs hammered into them, others were set with small gemstones like the bracelets or earrings for women. She even had wooden covers for books, decorated with bronze filigree and gemstones – a joint product with Egill.

Mötsognir offered small household tools mostly, as he was an ironsmith; but also decorative candlesticks and lanterns of wrought iron. He was flaxen-haired and broad-faced, so he and Inga (who once again was wearing a fake beard) seemed almost like siblings. But Mötsognir was also short and very broadly built, even by the measure of his Clan, barrel-chested, short-limbed and incredibly strong due to his craft. His hair and beard were almost shockingly short, as they had burned off by an accident and were still growing back. In his rough woollen tunic and sleeveless leather jerkin he looked fairly intimidating, so that they did not need any guards for their wagon.

Veig's wagon was chosen to display the wares of all leather-workers, including those of Dagrún and young Fródi. The inside of it – what was visible through the shop window – looked very much like a proper workshop, with a genuine workbench at the far wall and pieces of horse gear hanging everywhere. Dagrún, also wearing her fake beard, offered purses, gloves and even slippers, aside from pieces of clothing as leather vests, belts and wrist-guards, while Flói’s goods were mostly sheaths, pouches and cases for valuable and easily breakable items – like Bávor’s drinking glass.

Dagrún’s brother Draupnír, who had the same sandy, almost reddish colouring as his sister but exceptionally large ears and a very big nose, even for a Dwarf, had dragged his wheel out of their wagon and offered his services as a cutler, whetting everything his customers wanted sharpened, from kitchen knives to scythes. He could have tended to swords, too, but somehow swords did not seem to be much in use among the Bree-folk.

That left Frár and her family free to stroll all across the market and buy much-needed supplies like smoked and dried meats, smoked cheese, various kinds of fabric for repairing their torn clothes and much more; things they had run out of during their long journey.

Óin used the time while his newfound travelling companions were occupied to visit the herb-mistress of the village. He had never been to her shop, which stood at the upper end of the market square, but he heard of her skills with herbal medicine and was eager to meet her, one healer the other.

The herbalist’s shop was a low, flat-roofed building with its narrow front to the market square. It had two round, grated windows on one side, with an oleander bush between them and a wide wooden front door. Above the door hung a sign that announced to everyone who might care that this was Missus Sandheaver’s Herbs and Tinctures shop.

The door stood open, inviting the potential customers in, so Óin knocked on the doorframe and entered, without waiting for an answer. As a Dwarf, he passed through the low doorframe easily but he imagined that even the Bree-Men, fairly short for their race, had to bow their heads upon entering.

The reason for that became clear as soon as he got into the workshop. It was a single room, long and a little narrow, pleasantly smelling of the various drying herbs that hung in bunches from the low ceiling. Between the windows, where it got the most light from the outside, was a long table, serving as counter and as workbench at the same time.

There were cabinets and open shelves all along the walls, full of small vials, glass bottles, clay pots, wicker baskets and countless other means to store herbal oils, tinctures, ointments, pills, syrups, bandage material and only another herbalist could have told what else.

The back half of the room was clearly a distillery with its large copper cauldron that could take at least twenty gallons of water, surrounded by a steam jacket into the bottom of which the steam was introduced through a copper tube. At the moment it was not in use, as they were at the end of winter, but at harvest time it must have been very busy, seeing the amount and variety of tinctures kept in the cabinets.

Behind the workbench/counter a prim and proper young Hobbit lady stood, barefooted as all her people went all the time, but clad in a fine moss green jacket over a full skirt that reached her mid-calf and was bell-shaped due to the multiple petticoats worn under it. It had a cheerful pattern of lavender flowers scattered all over it, as well as a pale green border. The Hobbitess wore a ruffled bonnet of the same pale green fabric on her curly head.

She was filling lavender oil from a big, rotund glass bottle that had a small tap near its bottom into small flasks but closed the tap and set her work aside as soon as Óin entered.

“How can I help you, Master Dwarf?” she asked in a high, pleasant voice that went well with her cornflower-blue eyes. Clearly, she was used to all sorts of people visiting her shop.

Óin bowed respectfully. “My name is Óin son of Glóin, Mistress. I am looking for Missus Sandheaver, the herbalist.”

“You found her,” she smiled and curtseyed. “Betony Sandheaver, at your service.”

“That cannot be,” said Óin, frowning. “I was told that the herb-mistress would be someone rather… elderly.”

She laughed, delighted and carefree. “Oh, they must have meant my mother-in-love. As you can see, she is no longer in business… other than curing her grandchildren from small illnesses. I have taken over a couple o’ years ago. But worry not; she taught me well. What is it you need?”

“I am something of a healer among my people,” he explained, “and one of my patients has an infested wound… a nasty cut that somehow got inflamed. I cleaned it to the best of my abilities but I would need better herbs to keep the infection from spreading, or else they could still lose the injured hand.”

“Festered wounds can be dangerous,” she agreed, “’specially for the blood poisoning as they could case. What have you used so far?”

“Juice of adder’s tongue and a tincture of woundwort,” replied Óin. “I had to cut and drain the wound, which I then dressed with a paste of figwort before bandaging it.”

“A good start,” nodded the herb-mistress in appreciation, “but those will be hardly enough to stop the infection from speeding. I shall see if I can find something better for you.”

She hurried over to the large wooden cabinet in the corner with a rustling of skirts and began to sort through her supplies. After a short while she returned to the counter, carrying with her bunches of dried herbs and several wood-stoppered vials, similar to the ones that Óin had in his own healers’ chest, as well as some clay pots.

“These are silverweed leaves,” she explained, waving at him with one of the dried herb bouquets. “They are very good for healing fevers, whether caused by infections or some pestilence. Steep them in boiling water and then lay them directly on the wound while still hot. They will draw the evil from cut wounds. And these leaves of the beech-tree,” she waved another bouquet, “will alleviate the swelling.”

She carefully wrapped the herbs in pieces of soft white cloth, laid them onto the counter and then carried on.

“This,” she put a clay pot next to the wrapped herbs, “is an ointment made of harebell roots. It will reduce inflammation in no time. Now, this,” she shower him one of the vials with some thick fluid in it. “is another ointment, made of bracken roots, boiled in hog’s grease. Use it to dress the edges of the wound; it will soften them and cause the wound to close much faster.”

“I am more worried about the possibility of blood poisoning,” admitted Óin.

“You should,” she replied seriously, “as it is always the greatest threat by cut wounds. But that is what chickweed wintergreen is for. There is nothing better to heal blood poisoning – or to prevent it from happening in the first place. Seven drops in a cup of boiled and cooled water from this chickweed oil should do the trick. It tastes beastly, but it does help.”

She fetched a small wicker basket from under the counter and stacked everything neatly in it. Óin saw that the basket had been cushioned with dry leaves to keep any breakables in one piece; a good practice for such sensitive goods.

“You do not have to give me a basket, though,” he said. “I may appear rough and heavy-handed to you, but I do know how to handle breakable things.”

“Oh, I am quite sure you do,” she replied cheerfully. “But I always give away my medicines like this. It keeps Matti Underhill in business – he is our basket-maker, you know – and it is included in the price.”

“Six silver pennies,” she said, after calculating for a moment in her head; then, a bit apologetically, she added. “I know ‘tis not cheap, but some of those herbs are not easy to come by. I have to comb through half Chetwood for them.”

“Nay, ‘tis fine,” Óin opened one of the numerous small pockets of his broad utility belt and counted the required amount of coin into her outstretched palm. “I know running a still is hard work; and you must be labouring here day and night, Mistress, seeing how many different oils and tinctures you keep in storage.”

“And I brew excellent cordials, too, if you would care to sample some of them,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Some of them can knock strong Men off their feet in no time at all.”

Óin hesitated for a moment, but it had been far too long since he had last tried a truly fine drop and so he let himself be talked into a little testing. He did not regret it. Missus Sandheaver truly made the best cordials east of Lindon, and she had an amazing variety to offer. He ended up buying several small flasks that could be used as medicine and a considerably larger flask of juniper liquor that an Elven king would have found more than palatable, and he was most satisfied with the results.

“‘Twas pleasant to make business with you, Missus Sandheaver,” he said, his cheeks burning with the heat of the cordials he had tasted. “Could you, by chance, tell me where I can find some linseed? I have another patient with a bad knee and I thought I should try a hot linseed package.”

“That would do it a wealth of good,” she agreed. “Go to the dry good shop across the market square, right next to the food vendors’ stalls. My husband runs it, and he has all sorts of seeds and grains one might need. I see to it that the supply shed is always full.”

Óin thanked the gregarious little lady and, following her instructions, he crossed the market square – deciding to go to the food vendors first. ‘Twas almost time for elevenses as the Hobbits called it, and he began to feel the effects of the generously sampled cordials on a near-empty stomach. Breakfast had been at daybreak, ere they would leave their night camp, and Dwarves had a healthy appetite – almost as much as Hobbits.

Fortunately, finding food in great quantities and variety was an easy task in a village at least particularly inhabited by Hobbits. The cooked food vendors mostly sold various sorts of pastries, filled with minced meat and vegetables (with the usual Hobbit preference of mushrooms), brought forth hot and fresh from the bakery that stood right behind theirs stalls. Most of them belonged to the family of the village baker anyway – or worked for him.

On the other side the owner of the Prancing Pony had his lads arrange a number of low benches in front of the inn, so that people could sit there and have a pint or two – or more – with their pastries. Quite a few of those benches were already occupied by Hobbits or Men who seemed to have no problem with mingling. Only those Hobbits who were indulging in some pipeweed sat a bit aside, so that the smoke would not bother the others.

Buying four different sorts of meat pastries, Óin threw a Hobbit lad a brass to bring half of them to Bifur’s wagon, knowing that she would not leave her shop for a meal as long as she could hope for customers. Then he headed towards the benches, too. He had spotted Hjalli and his family having an early luncheon there and decided to join them.

Only moment later Bofur popped up, too, with a large slice of mince pie in one hand and a big chunk of cheese and a pint in the other one.

“By my beard,” he enthused, not the least bothered by the fact that he was talking with his mouth full, “the food here is delicious. Halflings are the best cooks, ever! We should hire one to travel with us and feed us like this all the time.”

“Don’t let Jörundr hear you say that,” warned Hjalli. “Or your brother, for that matter. Besides, no Halfling would survive a journey in the company of Dwarves.”

“Hobbits,” corrected Óin. “They are called Hobbits; we should not offend them while in their own village. They are a bit sensitive about such things. But you are right; a journey with Dwarves would not be the right thing for them.”

“Who knows?” argued Bofur, his mouth still full. “Our people were made by Mahal himself; but perhaps the Half… the Hobbits were made by his lady wife, seeing how close they are to the fertile soil and all that grows on it. And if Mahal and the Earth-lady can get on well enough…” he shrugged and kept chewing with obvious delight.

“Let’s hope there shan’t be any need to put your theory to test,” Óin, too, bit into a pastry with great relish. “Hobbits are a kind-hearted folk; I would not wish the hardships of the Road upon them.”

The others nodded in agreement, even Bofur, and for a while they enjoyed their luncheon in silence. Bofur finished his first, and then looked at Hjalli and his family askance.

“I see Óin here has brought half the herbalist’s shop,” he said. “But what were the three of you up to? Found any work?”

Frán shook her head. With her bushy fake beard that she had in decorative braids, her iron-grey hair worn in a simple topknot and her large, bent nose no-one would guess that she was a female. No-one but another Dwarf, that is. The only sign of her gender were the fine silver rings decorating the seam of her left air; but again, only another Dwarf would have been able to recognise those as the customary wear of a family matriarch. A thin, zigzagged black line of tattoo followed the arch of her cheekbones to distinguish her as a warrior, already blooded in battle. Discussing such mundane matters as work-hunting with her was slightly amusing, Óin found.

“There is no demand in Bree for stone-masons at the moment,” she said in her deep voice. “The people here build of wood and wattle, mostly, and none of their wells seem to be in need of repairing. We shall have to wait ‘til we are back in the Blue Mountains again – and hope that the others are having more luck.”

“The market seems to be lively enough,” commented Óin. “Have you been able to get the supplies you needed?”

Frán nodded. “Oh, aye, we found everything rather quickly. Foodstuffs are packed and stored away; and I happened to find a cloth vendor who was desperate to get rid of his last bolt of rough linen cloth. ‘Tis very good, strong fabric, woven in the Angle. Not fine enough for the locals, it seems, but just the right thing for us. I barely had to bargain to get it for half the price. And we got some new canvas sacks, too. All we still need is salt.”

“Then, by all means, let us go to the dry goods shop,” suggested Óin. “I have been told by good authority that the owner has all sorts of seeds, grains and weeds one might wish for.”

“And just who told you that?” inquired Bofur, clambering to his feet already. The mere thought of pipeweed invigorated him greatly – they had run out of it a couple of weeks ago.

Óin smiled. “Why, the herb-mistress, of course. I understand that the shop is run by her husband. ‘Tis the neat little one right next to the food vendors.”

The dry goods shop, just like the herbalist’s, stood with its narrow front to the market square and had two round, grated windows looking to the South. The counter stood at the first window, while the major part of the long, narrow room served as the storage shed, with canvas sacks, earthenware pots, wooden chests and wicker baskets of various sizes line dup along the wall in a neat order, filled with a great variety of dry goods, from nuts, almonds, beans, pears and all sorts of seeds through spices, salt and even honey bread, cut in little square pieces and pre-packed for travellers.

The owner of the shop was standing behind the counter, clearly used to serve his customers personally, although two curly-headed Hobbit lads were lurking in the background in case he needed help or to run errands. They both looked a great deal like him, so they were probably his sons or younger brothers.

The vendor was quite tall for a Hobbit (though still half a head shorter than the Dwarves) and broadly built like those of Stoor blood in their veins; he had dark hair and blue eyes. He also had to be at least moderately wealthy, for his olive green jacket and knee-length breeches were made of fine wool, and he wore a double-breasted waistcoat of figured gold silk and a fine linen shirt with frilled cuffs underneath. The high collar of the shirt was bound with a red silk scarf. The high-topped black hat currently resting on the far end of the counter probably completed the outfit of the well-to-do salesman when he left his shop.

He appeared just a bit frightened when the five Dwarves entered all the same time and filled the front part of the shop. Óin could not truly blame him. Even if somebody was used to Dwarves as customers – as a Bree Hobbit ought to be – the five of them at once must have seemed like an invading army.

Bofur was a friendly enough fellow not to put the fear of Mahan into people (unless they attacked him, that is, in which case he could turn into a berserk), but Óin knew that he was fairly intimidating himself, and Hjalli and his family could make even other Dwarves a tad wary. Most of all Hunbogi, who had inherited a mix of his parents’ features, which resulted in a rather wild-looking face. The fact that he liked to wear his dark hair and beard unbraided (unless while working) did nothing to soften his looks. Not to mention his long, upswept eyebrows and moustaches, which were truly spectacular.

Nonetheless, the Hobbit knew what he owed his customers and got a grip on his nerves quickly enough.

“Welcome to my humble business,” he said with a polite bow. “Andy Sandheaver is my name. How can I be of service, my good Dwarves?”

“Thank you. Well, Master Sandheaver, I am looking for some linseed. Your wife said you would have them in storage here.”

The Hobbit’s eyes flickered at the wicker basket under Óin’s arm, and he grinned.

“I see she talked you into buying half her shop,” he commented. “She is good at that, my missus is. Of course I have linseed here! People ask for it all the time, as it has many uses. Do you need them for baking or for making healing wraps?”

“For the wraps,” replied Óin dutifully, although he did wonder why that would matter.

The Hobbit came forth from behind the counter and took the lid off one of the earthenware pots that were large enough to reach him to the waist. He dipped a large wooden spoon into it and showed the Dwarf the shiny brown seeds.

“Then you will need these; the larger ones,” he said. “They cook faster and keep the warmth longer. The smaller ones are for the baking.”

“I bow to your expert knowledge, Master Sandheaver,” and Óin did bow indeed. He never knew that linseeds of different sizes can serve different purposes. But again, one always learned something new.

“Four pounds would suffice, I suppose,” answered Óin after a moment of consideration.

The asked one of the lads for the ‘two-pound-bags’, which turned out to be small canvas sacks designed to take exactly two pounds of dry goods. He filled them with the wooden spoon, and then put them on the balance scale to check the weight. When he found everything in due order, he handed the bags to Óin. They only cost the Dwarf five copper pennies, each.

Bofur in the meantime decided that he wanted some of the honey cakes, so he bought six of the small packages: four for Bombur and his children, one for Bifur and one for himself – then he asked for pipeweed.

“Oh, certainly we have pipeweed,” said the Hobbit, slightly scandalised by the mere idea that a fine shop like his would lack something so important. “There is Southlinch, the most common strain grown here in Bree; but I can also offer Longbottom Leaf, Old Toby or Southern star. Those are the best strains, coming directly from the Southfarthing in the Sire, but they also cost more, of course.”

The BroadBeam Dwarves all chose the local strain. Southlinch might not reach the quality of true Shire leaf but was still a lot better than anything grown in the Blue Mountains by the Dwarves themselves. Óin, feeling that he deserved to do something good for himself, purchased a small pouch of Longbottom Leaf, which he intended to share with his friends later. Frán then bought a few pounds of salt for the use of the entire caravan, and they returned to the wagons to store their newly acquired goods away.

“I need to re-dress Bifur’s hand, soon,” said Óin when they were done. “She still seems to be quite busy in her stall, though.”

“I shall relieve her, so that you can do your healer thing,” offered Bofur. Óin smiled at him.

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Bofur waved off the compliment. “You can always buy me a pint in the Pony afterwards.”

They agreed to meet in the Common Room of the inn once the market had closed and went after their respective business.

Author’s notes: The title if this chapter was inspired by The Tolkien Ensemble’s album, An Evening in Rivendell. No actual connection, I just liked the sound of it.

“Batti” is the original Westron form of the name “Barliman”, according to the Professor himself. However, this Butterbur is not the same one Frodo and his friends met decades later, of course. It is probably Barliman’s father or grandfather. I just wanted an authentic-sounding name for him. It is said in the Books that the Pony had been owned by the Butterbur family for “many generations”, after all.

Thorin’s conversation with Gandalf at the end of this chapter is a modified version of that which can be found in the Appendices of “The Lord of the Rings”. I changed a few things and added some to fit it with my Dwarf settings.

About an hour before sunset the market began to show signs of running out. The farmers from the outlying villages had all sold their taters, carrots, winter apples or livestock and were now packing up what was left, ready to load their small, two-wheeled carts and to return home. Considering how small the distances within the Bree-land were, it should not take them long.

The BroadBeam Dwarves, too, closed the shutters on their wagons but they were not yet about to pack up everything.

“We have made good coin today,” said Niping, having counted their earnings and stored them away in the shared strongbox.

He was back in his simple everyday clothes again. The fine garb was just for the show and had to be used sparingly, as they had no means to replace it.

“Now that people have seen what we have to offer, perchance we may sell some more in the next two days. We should not wait for the next market day, though. By then, everyone who wanted to buy anything would have done so.”

Bifur nodded in agreement. “Two more days would be enough, I suppose. After that we shall go on to the Blue Mountains. It will be good to spend some time among our own kind again.”

Bifur shook her head. “Nay; it would be a profitless detour. They would not want anything after the fair at Michel Delving. Not for a while.”

“Unfortunately, that is very true,” said Dagrún. “A shame, though. We always made good coin in the Shire. Had we not been late…”

“Aye, I know, but that cannot be helped,” replied Bifur grimly. “We had to give Skeggi and Órn a decent burial; and I am not the only one who was – and still is – wounded. We needed that rest in the Angle desperately.”

“And we made good business with the Rangers, too,” added Bombur. “They may not have as much coin to spend as the Hobbits but they know and value good Dwarven handiwork. Small wonder; they are descended from the Sea-Kings, whose ancestors found alongside our King Azaghâl in the great battles of Beleriand that now lies forgotten under the waves.”

“And a fat lot of good that has ever done for us,” snarled Frár. “Azaghâl is gone, his line all but died out; our great city now lies under the Sea, too, our people scattered all across Middle-earth, and the only King Mahal’s children still have is crownless and lives in exile. How comes that the Powers never thought to give us a safe refuge as a reward after the War of Wrath?”

“Perhaps they thought we were grown up enough to take care of ourselves,” replied Bofur with a shrug. “Speaking of Thorin, though, did he not want to meet you in the Prancing Pony tonight?”

Óin, at whom the question had been directed, nodded unhurriedly. “He did and he will. In fact, why don’t we all go over to the Pony and have a pint? You say you made good coin today. Surely a pint of ale is something even you can afford?”

All eyes turned to Bifur expectantly. They could have gone to the Pony, all on their own, of course, to buy themselves a pint or two. But only she, the caravan leader and ultimately responsible for their shared wealth, could authorise a few rounds paid by the ‘Treasury’, as they jokingly called their strongbox.

Bifur nodded in agreement. “I think we all deserve it. Let us secure our stalls and go over to the inn.”

“Should we not leave somebody behind to keep an eye on the wagons?” asked Jörundr. He was not quite as massive as his brother, the ironsmith, but came close enough. “I can take the first watch. The Bree-folk are good people but all sorts of travellers cross the Road here: why take any risks?”

“Are you sure you won’t mind?” Bifur felt a tad guilty for leaving one of them out but she had to admit that Jörundr was right.

The young cook shook his head, his short flaxen braids flying. “Nay, ‘tis all right. One of you can relieve me later.”

Jörundr took up position on top of his own wagon from where he could keep an eye on their entire camp, now divided by the Road itself, his knives and throwing axes within easy reach just in case. The others got to their feet, ready to cross the market square, heading for the inn.

The Prancing Pony – said to be the best inn within the borders of the Bree-land – looked inviting to the tired customers indeed. It had a front on the Road, made of whitewash and sturdy oak beams, and two wings running back on land partly cut out of the lower slopes of the Bree-hill itself. As a result the second-floor windows at the rear were level with the ground.

There was a wide arch leading to a surprisingly spacious courtyard between the two wings; wide but just high enough for the Bree-Men to walk under it upright. Definitely not so high as to make Hobbits, who disliked great, towering buildings, uncomfortable. Which was understandable, seeing that they were the most regular customers.

On the left under the arch there was a wide doorway reached by a few broad steps. The door stood open, as it led directly to the Common Room of the inn, and light and smoke streamed out of it. Wisps of laughter and even singing could be heard through the open door; the locals had clearly begun to celebrate a successful market day already.

Above the arch there was a lamp, and beneath it a large signboard was swinging gently in the evening breeze, making loud squeaking noises: a chubby white pony reared up on its hind legs. Over the door the inn’s name was painted in big white letters; in the same common cirth the Dwarves, too, used when doing business with other races.

Impatient to finally get a taste of the Pony’s excellent beer, Bombur barrelled forward, leading them into the Common Room, which was surprisingly large, even if one considered the fact that part of it reached well into the hill. The light they had seen from the outside came chiefly from the blazing log-fire in the massive stone hearth, for the three wrought iron lamps hanging from the beams were dim and half veiled in smoke.

The innkeeper – as broad and fat for a Man as Bombur was for a Dwarf, which was saying a lot, and easily recognisable by his long apron – was standing talking to a couple of Dwarves and some odd-looking Men. Those were almost shockingly tall, dark-haired and looking rather weatherworn in their stained cloaks of heavy dark wool and mud-caked boots – unmistakably Rangers, returning from a long patrol.

On the benches surrounding the long tables were various folk: Men of Bree, several groups of local hobbits sitting together, chattering excitedly – Óin spotted Master Sandheaver in the company of similarly clad fellow vendors and craftspeople, while their ladies were busily chatting and crocheting by tea in one of the side parlours – a few more Dwarves, mostly StiffBeard Wanderers by the look of them, and other vague shapes that were difficult to make out away in the shadows and comers.

Bifur and her company, however, had only eyes for the two Dwarves talking to the innkeeper. One of them was a big, burly BlackLock (well, big for a Dwarf anyway) and clearly a warrior, if his scarred face was any indication. Like Veig, he only had hair on the back of his head while his bald crown was covered with elaborate indigo blue tattoos that included some of his old scars, one of which cut straight through a bushy eyebrow.

He had runes tattooed onto his large hands, too, half-covered by dangerous-looking brass-knuckles (or rather iron-knuckles in his case), fastened to his wrist-guards by short chains that sprang lethal spikes when he closed his fist. He had the usual, bluish-black hair and beard and indigo eyes that gave his kindred its distinctive name and a torn ear as the mute witness of some old battle, adorned with a beautifully made silver clasp. His well-made tunic of fine, patterned wool and his fur-rimmed cloak did not match his otherwise rough appearance but he was clearly a Dwarf of a certain standing.

A Dwarf whom most of the BroadBeams found vaguely familiar but did not quite recognise. Not ‘til Óin spotted him, too, and hurried over to greet him in delight.

The warrior Dwarf clearly recognised him, too, for he laughed uproariously. It sounded like the distant thunder of a far-away storm.

They were, in fact, first cousins, which was hard to guess at first sight, as both came after their respective mothers’ kindred, in looks as well as in their interests.

Nonetheless, they were honestly glad to see each other after which had to be a very long time, and the heartfelt head-butt with which they greeted each other could be heard in the farthest corner of the Common Room. Only then did Dwalin’s companion turn around to greet Óin, too, and all BroadBeam Dwarves fell in respectful silence at once when the piercing blue gaze of Thorin Oakenshield swept over them.

Thorin son of Thráin, the crownless King of Durin’s Folk in exile, was a Dwarf in his prime, with nary a few silver threads mixed in his ink-black hair and beard, despite the tragedies he had survived and the terrors he had faced from a very young age on… the coming of the Dragon and the Battle of Azanulbizar being only the main ones of them.

He was unusually tall for a LongBeard – probably due to the fact that his ancestors had frequently intermarried with the royal Clans of the other kindreds – strong, though not as broadly built as even Dwalin or Óin, and of regal posture. His sharp, noble features could have put any hawk-faced Ranger to shame; in fact, he could have passed as one of the Rangers, had be been another foot or so taller.

His travelling clothes would not make one think of an exile, either. His knee-length tunic of fine, shadowy grey wool harmonised well with his silver-washed, short-sleeved mail shirt that only reached to his waist and was girdled with a broad belt that had a finely wrought silver buckle of the size of a Dwarf’s palm and held a richly adorned scabbard. His long, sleeveless coat of heavy, midnight blue velvet had the same pattern as the grey tunic and was lined with the fur of the grey mole – an extremely rare luxury item that could only be acquired in Rhûn for a high price. His black leather gauntlets reached above his elbows – though left his thick fingers bare – and were adorned with silver applications. With silver rings – set with blue opals – were the multiple plaits of his long hair and beard fastened, too, and he had a clasp in his right ear, similar to Dwalin’s – only that his was made of mithril.

In short, Thorin Oakenshield, hero of the Battle of Azanulbizar and lord of Durin’s Folk under the Blue Mountains might be crownless, but he was definitely every bit of a King.

A fact that the BroadBeam Dwarves recognised at once, even though some of them had never seen him face-to-face before. Thus they all bowed to him respectfully – not out of respect towards his legendary ancestors alone but because he had long earned every single Dwarf’s respect by his own deeds – and accepted his generous invitation to a somewhat quieter table near the door, just becoming free as a group of StiffBeard Wanderers chose to turn in for the night.

The innkeeper, whom the locals simply called Batti – while all other customers respectfully addressed him as Master Butterbur – came with some Hobbit servants in tow and distributed pints of excellent beer among them, alongside of fresh pastries, seed cakes, bread, cheese, ham and other simple foodstuffs for a light supper. Then he reminded them to call him should they need anything else and left them alone.

For a while they were all busy with eating and drinking – Dwalin in particular showed a healthy appetite that almost matched Bombur’s on a good day – listening with one ear to the conversations going on at the other tables. For the news the Men and other Dwarves were exchanging within their earshot were disturbing.

There was trouble away in the South, and it seemed that more Dunlendings were coming up the Greenway, looking for lands west of the River Hoarwell; lands more fertile than their own, where they might find some peace and a decent livelihood. But the Lone-lands, partly eroded by earlier great floods, soon turned all their hopes to ash, and after some struggling many of them reverted to a life as ruffians and footpads.

“Just like the ones that attacked you,” said Óin softly, with a worried look at Bifur’s hand. He had again cleaned and re-dressed the wound earlier but was still not satisfied with the rate at which it was healing.

“They must have been desperate to attack a caravan of armed Dwarves,” he growled. “Desperate and foolish.”

“They were both,” replied Frán grimly. “But they were also numerous and battle-hardened. And now Skeggi and Órn are dead, although both were skilled with the axe and the battle-hammer, and we had to leave them behind to sleep among strangers.”

“Such is the fate of the homeless,” said Veig philosophically. Thorin gave him a grave look.

“You shall always be welcome in the Blue Mountains; you know that,” he said in his deep, rumbling voice. Veig nodded.

“We know and we thank ye, Thorin Oakenshield, but that is not our way. We are Wanderers, like our fathers and their fathers had always been, ever since the fall of Gabilgathol, our great city, after the War of Wrath. Even in its heyday, the merchants of our Clans travelled the roads between Mount Dolmed and Khazad-dûm and to all the other kingdoms from the far North to the South… and we are needed, even now. Who else would keep the trade among our people alive, scattered as we are all over Middle-earth, if not us, Wanderers?”

“True enough,” said Óin. “Yet you might have to consider changing your route in the near future – unless you can put together a much larger caravan, protected by armed and trained warriors. The South is not the only place where trouble is brewing, and soon the trade routes in the North may become too dangerous for you to travel.”

There was shocked silence around the table for a moment, although neither Thorin nor Dwalin seemed particularly surprised. As if they had expected black news like that; Bifur wondered what strange places they might be returning from.

“You have news,” Thorin finally said. It was clearly not a question but Óin nodded nonetheless.

“Aye, and some of it are not good,” he replied. “My last journey led me on a similar path as yours,” he added with a brief glance in Bifur’s direction, “but my main agenda was to gather tidings about the passes of the Misty Mountains and the condition of the Greenwood. Therefore, when I passed the Mountains, I went straight to the Old Ford, crossed the Great River and followed the northern path that leads to the Brownhay.”

All others, with the exception of Thorin and Dwalin, gave him bewildered looks, obviously not familiar with that name.

“I mean Rhosgobel, the home of Radagast, the Brown Wizard,” he explained with a somewhat impatient sigh. “That is how the Woodmen call the place, after its master.”

Frán snorted. “Oh, him! The old Brown Fool, with his badly patched-up tree-house and a bird’s nest under his hat and birds’ droppings in his filthy beard! You keep strange company, son of Glóin.”

Óin gave her a sharp glance, well aware of the fact that the BroadBeams had rested in Radagast’s hall, too, and that she was just being mean-spirited. Elderly Dwarf-dams tended to do that.

“I know not who told you such ridiculous tales about Radagast the Brown, but I assure you that he is a very great wizard in his own way,” he said.

“And what would that be?” asked Frán with a derisive snort. “Hugging trees? Taming birds? Talking to fireflies? Eating mushrooms ‘till they cloud his mind completely?”

“’Tis true that he is more concerned with the trees and birds and beasts than he is with people,” allowed Óin. “But that also means he knows those better than anyone else. And he has lived long enough in the Greenwood to notice the smallest changes, much easier than even the Woodmen would.”

“Did you find him at home?” asked Dwalin, knowing that the Brown Wizard tended to wander around in the forest for weeks apiece. Óin nodded.

“Aye, I did; and he does not live in a tree-house, as you well know,” he added with a sidelong glance at the still grumbling Frán. “That is merely his look-out place and supply shed. He dwells in a wide wooden hall, like his friends, the Beornings, whom he taught the art of building such halls himself a long time ago. In any case, he was at home when I visited, and the news he had for me is not good.”

“Tell me,” ordered Thorin with quiet authority and Óin bowed his head in respect.

“Radagast told me that the Greenwood is sick. Many of the trees in the southern forest have been poisoned: they look strong and healthy on the outside but are rotten from within. And their hearts have apparently gone back, whatever that is supposed to mean.”

“Poisoned by what?” asked Thorin, ignoring the part about the blackened heart of the trees. Such nonsense was too Elvish-sounding for his comfort.

Óin shrugged. “I cannot be sure and neither was he. But he seems to suspect that the Great Spiders that had begun to spread around the Naked Hill in the south again since the Necromancer returned to his tower might be migrating northwards. If that is true, then the Greenwood is in great danger indeed.”

“Have you seen any of those foul beasts with your own eyes?” asked Dwalin doubtfully.

Óin shook his head. “Nay, I have not; but I did see great swaths of cobwebs hanging from the lower branches of the trees.”

“Perhaps not,” allowed Óin. “But these cobwebs were as thick as rope and hard to severe, even for a Dwarf-made axe. I know. I tried. So far they do not seem to have spread beyond the Old Forest Road, but south from that, the forest has become very dark indeed. The Woodmen have taken to calling it Mirkwood, and the name seems very fitting.”

“Well, as long as they stay off the Road, the spiders are hardly our concern,” said Niping with a shrug. “Let the Wood-Elves deal with them. They can hit a bird’s eye in the dark from a hundred paces; a spider of the size of a hound should be an easy target for their wicked arrows.”

“Aye, but what if they do cross the Road?” asked Bifur in concern. “Spiders breed very quickly. Who can be sure they are not in the northern forest already?”

“And we would know about it… how exactly?” returned Bifur. “None of us has as much as talked to an Elf for decades, even though we sometimes run into them in Lake-town. As much as we know the entire forest could be full of spiders, and ‘tis only a matter of time ‘til the Old Forest Road would become too dangerous to use.”

“We can always travel along the edge of the forest,” suggested Veig. “At the southern outskirts of the Grey Mountains there are still many small settlements of the StoneFoot and FireBeard Clans that would welcome us.”

Bifur shook her head. “Nay; a route like that would bring us dangerously close to the Withered Heat; and who can be sure that Smaug was truly the last of the Great Worms dwelling there?”

“Not to mention Mount Gundabad,” supplied Óin. “The Orcs are spreading again like the plague in the Misty Mountains; getting too close to their northern fortress would be foolish, unless you have an army to protect you.”

“Which we have not,” Bifur finished the thought. “Even a rag-tag band of Dunlendings was able to cause us painful losses. We cannot afford to go that way; and I am not even speaking of the time and resources it would cost us… which we cannot afford, either. We have chosen the route across the forest for a reason, and that reason still stands.”

The others grumbled a little but she was right and they all knew it. They did not like it, of course, and neither did she if she wanted to be honest, but there was nothing they could do about the hard facts save for accepting them and adapting to them as they always had done.

“If only the heirs of Thrór would still reign under the Mountain,” muttered Veig. “My people never lived in Erebor but the roads were much safer for us Wanderers back then.”

“Do you think I am unaware of that?” he growled. “Do you think I have forgotten about the humiliation of my House; about the revenge on the Dragon, inherited from my father and grandfather and still unfulfilled, to the great shame of my Clan? Do you think I am content to live in the Blue Mountains like some lowly merchant or a mere smith?”

“And what is so wrong with that?” asked Frán, not the least impressed by the flaring temper of the crownless King. “You have beautiful halls under those mountains, full of riches; and you have respect. Many of Durin’s wandering Folk have sought you out when they heard that you were dwelling in the West. You have built a good life for them; a life in peace and plenty – and they rightfully respect you for that. You are their King, even without a crown, in all that matters.”

“Nay, I am not,” hissed Thorin. “A King has weapons and armies and alliances to take revenge on his enemies and to take back that which is his rightful heritage – do I seem to have any of those? The armies are scattered, the alliances are broken, and the axes of our people are but a handful.”

“Aye, but they are still sharp,” commented Dwalin, his dark indigo eyes bright with battle-lust. “’Tis a good thing you have chosen to become a smith. At least you can take out your anger on the red-hot iron, instead of letting it eat you up from the inside; and the hammer keeps your arm strong.”

“My anger is of little use for me,” replied Thorin darkly. “As long as I cannot turn it against my enemies, it remains a burning fury without hope,” he looked at Óin. “Unless you have brought at least some good news from the East.”

“It depends on how much you are willing to believe in the portents,” said Óin slowly.

“What kind of portents?” asked Bombur eagerly. He was as superstitious as any Dwarf could ever get – which was not much, to tell the truth, but more than his fellow kinsmen usually would admit.

“Well, Radagast told me that ravens had been seen flying back to the Mountain,” replied Óin.

Óin rolled his eyes. “You really do not care much for tradition do you, Bombur? ‘Twas foretold by Ónundr, the blind Seer of Durin’s House: When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the Beast shall end.”

“I thought Ónundr was quite mad,” commented Bávor, a lot less impressed by such things than his gullible father.

Óin nodded in agreement. “He was… most of the time. Strangely enough, all his prophecies have come true sooner or later.”

“True. But we have never heard of the ravens returning to the Mountain before, have we?”

“So you believe the portents say ‘twould be time to return to Erebor?” asked Bávor doubtfully.

Óin shrugged. “I did not say that. I merely gave you the facts: what you do with them is up to you.”

“The task would be difficult enough with an army – nay, several armies – behind us,” pointed out Bávor reasonably. “And as both Thorin and Bifur reminded us, we do not have any armies. Such an undertaking could only get the rest of us killed – and for what? For a dream that should better be forgotten?”

“Enough!” growled Thorin. “If we have read the signs, do you not think others might have read them too? Rumours have already begun to spread. The Worm has not been seen for nigh sixty years, or so our cousins in the Iron Hills tell me. Eyes look at the Mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risks. Perchance the vast riches of our people now lie unprotected…”

“Hardly,” said Dagrún with a snort. “You know as well as the rest of us that dragons don’t simply die of old age… or give up their hoard willingly. The Worm is likely still lying on his bed of gold and sleeping… ‘til somebody proves foolish enough to challenge him.”

“What if they do?” asked Thorin. “What if they get lucky? Do we sit back while others claim that which is rightfully ours?”

“Rightfully yours, you mean,” said Hjalli. “None of us ever lived in Erebor, save for Niping’s Clan.”

“And I would gladly return to the home of my forefathers, but I am no Dragon-slayer,” said Niping. “I am not even much of a warrior; and neither are my sons. We consider ourselves fortunate if we can protect our caravan from footpads – as we have recently seen, not even that goes well all the time.”

Dwalin gave him a glare that was half pitying, half disgusted and shook his bald head.

“Aye, I cannot see you taking part in such a quest either, unless there is some coin to make by supplying an army,” he said dismissively. “Fortunately, there are still warriors among us whose hearts are burning with the need to fulfil our curses on the Worm. I have sworn a solemn oath to my King at Azanulbizar and I intend to follow him wherever he leads.”

Dwalin nodded. “Including that, aye. No-one of my Clan has ever gone back on their oaths.”

“And we shan’t do so now, either,” said Óin quietly. “But you should lower your voice a bit, cousin. Drinks and fire and chance-meeting are pleasant enough, but we are not in the safety of our halls. There are queer folk about; no need for them to get wind of any long-term plans that we may be forging here.”

With a barely visible tilt of his head he nodded towards a lone, weather-beaten Man sitting in the shadows near the wall, who seemed to be listening to their talk with interest. The Man had a tall tankard before him and was smoking a beautiful, long-stemmed pipe of pumice stone that, curiously enough, looked like some of the best Dwarven handiwork they had seen for a long time. A travel-stained cloak of rough grey wool was drawn tightly about him, long enough to hide the rest of his clothing save his heavy black boots, and – in spite of the heat of the room – he wore a pointy, wide-brimmed blue hat that overshadowed his face. Only the gleam of his eyes could be seen as he watched the Dwarves; that and his long grey beard, several shades lighter in hue than his cloak, that spread over his front, down to his knees.

“Who is that?” asked Óin the innkeeper who was just coming back to refresh their drink. “I do not believe I have ever met him but he appears strangely familiar somehow. He is not from Bree, is he?”

“Him?” the innkeeper asked back in an equally low voice without looking over to the grey-clad Man. “No, of course not. He is a wandering conjurer of some sort, always coming and going, poking that long nose of his into everything, meddling with other people’s affairs. The Shire-Hobbits call him Gandalf and say that he is a wizard, for he often entertains them with fireworks and other little tricks, but I don’t believe it myself. I mean, wizards are supposed to be powerful and frightening and all that, not ragged old Men in weatherworn garb, ain’t they?”

With that, Master Butterbur hurried off to serve his other customers, leaving twenty-three stunned Dwarves behind.

He had heard of the Grey Wizard, of course; they all had, although none of them had met him in person yet. He had not had any dealings with Durin’s Folk, but there were many tales about him in the North, where he was said to have been a great help to the StoneFoot Clans in their times of dire need.

The StoneFoots had been the ones giving him the name Tharkûn, for the gnarled staff he used to keep with him all the time and which could supposedly glow in the night like a torch. The Men of Dale, though, whom he was said to have often visited before the coming of the Dragon, had called him Gandalf, like the Halflings of the Shire, and it was also said that he had taught their toy-makers the one or other useful trick.

To the Mountain itself, tough, he had never gone, and thus he was little more than a fairy tale for the Dwarves of Erebor.

“’Tis odd that he would visit Bree at the same time we do,” murmured Thorin. “They say of the wizards that they are never early; nor are they late. They arrive at the very time when they want… or are needed. Perhaps our meeting here is no coincidence at all. Perhaps it was meant to happen, so that we could speak with him.”

“They also say: don’t meddle with the affairs of the wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger,” reminded him Bombur, clearly a bit uncomfortable with the idea. Resting in the hospitable halls of Radagast the Brown was one thing; but Tharkûn had a fearsome reputation.

“Aye, but Thorin ain’t about to meddle with his affairs,” pointed out Bofur with endearing simplicity. “He wants to ask him to meddle with ours, it seems.”

“Ours?” echoed Frán with an unfriendly glare. “Who says that we want to have anything to do with this? Erebor was never our home; it was never yours, either.”

“Nay, it was not, but it could be one day,” replied Bofur. “I am fed up with the Road, I really am. I am a miner, meant to work in the heart of the mountains; this is no life for me. I would like to have a place again where I can live and work as our forefathers did in Khazad-dûm,” he looked at Bifur. “You were right, you know. The Kings of Durin’s line always ruled us fairly. Like you, I would be glad to call Thorin Oakenshield my King.”

“So would I,” said Bávor, “but going back to Erebor would be foolish. King Thráin tried it and has been missing ever since,” he looked at Dwalin. “You and your brother were there with him. You know how hopeless this is. It was hopeless a hundred years ago, and ‘tis just as hopeless now. The only thing you are likely to find there would be your deaths.”

Bofur shrugged. “Dying quickly and honourably in battle or dying slowly, piece by piece on the Road, where is the difference? I know which I would choose if I had the chance,” he turned to Thorin and gave him a deep bow. “If you will have me, I will go with you.”

Thorin nodded with great dignity. “I will gladly have you, Bofur son of Bávor the Older. Loyalty, Honour, a willing heart… I can ask no more than that.” He rose from his seat. “And in order to lead you well, I shall go and speak with Tharkûn now.”

He walked over to the grey-clad figure sitting in the shadows, stood in front of him and spoke to him without preamble.

“Master Gandalf, I only know you from hearsay, but now I should be glad to speak with you. For you have often come into my thoughts of late, as if I were bidden to seek you. Indeed, I should have done so, if I had known where to find you. For the people of my sister’s husband speak highly of you and the help you used to give them in olden times; and I was wondering if you would give us the same aid as well.”

The wizard looked up from his pipe and, as the light fell onto his deeply lined face, something akin to wonder could be seen upon it.

“That is strange, Thorin Oakenshield,” he said. “For I have thought of you also; and though I am on my way to the Shire, it was in my mind that is the way also to your halls.”

“Call them so if you will,” replied Thorin bitterly. “They are but poor lodgings in exile, in truth. But you would be welcome there, if you would come. For they say that you are wise and know more than any other of what goes on in the world, and I have much on my mind and would be glad of your counsel.”

The wizard gave him a long, piercing look as if he wanted to read his very heart; a heart that was hot with brooding on his wrongs, and the loss of the treasure of his forefathers, and burdened, too, with the duty of revenge upon Smaug that he had inherited.

“I shall come,” Tharkûn finally said. “For I guess that we share one trouble at least. The Dragon of Erebor has been on my mind for quite some time lately. And I do not think that he will be forgotten by the grandson of Thrór.”

Author’s notes: To tell the truth, I originally considered having Thorin & Co dwell among the ruins of Nogrod (=Tumunzahar). The geology of the Ered Luin is vague enough that I might have gotten away with it, but in the end I went for an ancient colony instead.

Uruktharbun is a name Tolkien considered for Moria but rejected later in favour of Khazad-dûm; I thought it would fit Thorin’s city. Zirakinbar means Silverhorn and was usually meant to be the name of the peak that became Zirak-zigil in the end. Uzban means “Lord” in Khuzdul. Without a kingdom to his name, I assumed that Thorin would not be called “King” by his people just yet.

Lofar is a semi-canon character. In the earlier manuscripts of LOTR he was one of the Dwarves helping Bilbo packing his things after the Party and moving to Rivendell.

The willingness of the wizard surprised them all, though they did their best to hide their surprise. And thus plans were made for them all to meet in Thorin’s halls under the Blue Mountains, although they would get there at different times and on different ways.

Thorin and Dwalin intended to right straight forth in the next morning, making only short rests until arriving at home. Gandalf wanted to make a detour for the Shire, where he had some business to look after, but promised to follow them soon enough. Dwalin tried to persuade his cousin to ride with them but Óin refused.

“I shall travel with the caravan,” he explained. “I must keep an eye on Bifur’s hand; and others also have injuries I need to treat. I shall be with you in a few days’ time.”

“We shan’t stay here longer than two more days,” added Bifur, “and then follow you on the shortest possible route. With the wagons it will take us a bit longer than for you, though.”

“It matters not,” said Thorin. “Our counsels will take some time as it is. And now that Bofur chose to join us, we shan’t begin without him.”

That earned him a few disapproving looks from the older Dwarves – a king was a king, with or without a kingdom to his name, after all – but Thorin just laughed, clearly not taking any offence. They parted ways then and there, as Thorin, Dwalin and the wizard had rooms in the inn while the BroadBeams and Óin returned to the wagons to sleep.

The following two days were spent in blessed peace. Thorin and Dwalin left at daybreak indeed – when the wizard had vanished no-one could tell – but the BroadBeams rested and recovered from their respective injuries. Aside from Bifur’s hand there was Fródi’s leg wound (a lot less severe), the one or other cut or bruise. Óin tended to all of those with great care, and they healed nicely, thanks to his newly acquired herbal supplies. In the meantime, the others sold a few more other items to the locals; mostly iron tools and leatherware.

In the third morning, though, they were all ready to move on – which they did eagerly. The hope of a long rest in the Blue Mountains gave them the strength to continue their journey, despite their still lingering weariness.

Having gained enough supplies in Bree, they chose the shortest route along the southern borders of the Shire and the Tower Hills, even though the roads there were not so well tended to, and the ponies had to struggle a bit with the heavy wagons. To ease the burden of the faithful beasts, those who were hale enough walked along with them rather then riding the wagons. Even Bombur was willing to drag his considerable weight on foot, much to the ponies’ relief; although, truth be told, he had lost some of said weight lately, his appetite not being what it once used to be.

That worried his children (and Bifur and Bombur) a lot. Not that he would not be still way too fat, even for a BroadBeam Dwarf, but the loss of appetite showed that he was still having inner troubles. Grieving, too, most likely. And while Dwarves did not die from broken heart, as it was said of the Elves, grief could do them great harm, eventually reducing them to pale shadows of themselves.

Meeting his old friends had brought him out of his grey mood, at least for the time being, and Bifur hoped that staying in the Blue Mountains for a while would be good for him. But he had accepted Bofur’s choice to go to Erebor with Thorin way too easily, she found. As a rule, Bombur was very protective of his younger brother, even though in truth Bofur had always been the stronger, more resilient, more practical-minded one. ‘Twas strange and disquieting for Bombur to let him go without protest.

“He has been our stalwart support and shadow for too long,” was all he said when Bifur asked him. “He deserves to seek out a life for himself; one that would make him content. Now that the children are all grown, we shall manage without him.”

Which was true, of course, but it did not put Bifur’s mind to rest. Thus she kept watching Bombur quietly, unobtrusively, and she could see Bávor and Inga, even Gellir do the same. Regardless of his brave words, Bombur had rarely been separated from his brother in all his life; losing Bofur, after having lost his beloved Maren, would be a hard blow for him.

Unfortunately, there was nothing any of them could do about it, and thus they continued their slow progress to the Blue Mountains, Dwarves and beasts of burden alike fighting their bone-deep weariness, and finally, several days later, they reached the outskirts of the mountain range. Or, to be more accurate, those of the southern range. For the once unbroken chain of ancient rock and stone had been cloven in two at the end of the War of Wrath, when Beleriand was swallowed by the Sea and the Gulf of Lhûn cut deeply into the very bones of the mountains.

When the Powers had to break Middle-earth in the order to break the reign of the Great Enemy.

The colony of Durin’s Folk did not consist of Thorin’s Halls alone, of course. In fact, it had been founded among the ruins of an earlier Dwarven settlement: in the abandoned caverns and tunnels of an ancient underground city that had been uninhabited since the early Second Age.

“We still keep discovering new tunnels and caverns from time to time,” explained Óin. “Or rather old ones, I would say. The method of the carvings and the motifs make us assume that this had once been a FireBeard colony; perhaps an outlier of the great city-kingdom of Tumunzahar. ‘Tis entirely possible that the halls of that city became crowded after a time and the inhabitants chose to migrate to the South. This colony was likely never as huge as its mother colony perhaps but still quite large.”

Like most of their caravan, he had only ever visited the outer halls and the roofed market. Only Bifur and her kin had been in Thorin’s own halls – until they got banned, that is.

“’Tis difficult to tell,” replied Óin thoughtfully. “The part that is currently inhabited is roughly twenty miles in length and spreads across seven levels: the one where Thorin’s Great Hall is situated, three levels above and three below. But, as I said, new caverns are found as we keep building the place, and not even we know how far the old city once reached. Thorin’s Halls lie closer to the East-gate than to the western exit. After them, the upper levels take turns further up into the mountain, and the lower ones fell deeper. At the western end, the distance between the upmost and the lowest levels is almost twice of that at the eastern end.”

“By Mahal’s hammer!” muttered Hjalli, impressed. “You most have worked like moles in the last hundred years!”

“Most of it we found ready for the taking” admitted Óin, “although it had to be cleaned of the rubbish that had piled up for an Age or so. But aye, we have laboured long and hard to give back the city at least some of its earlier glory back. You can judge our success yourself; for we are come to the gates of Uruktharbun.”

They had been following a fairly wide mountain road – originally perhaps a natural cut between two raised spurs if the Zirakinbar, as the southern range of the Blue Mountains was called – that had been widened enough to allow two carts to pass each other – or four mounted Dwarves to ride abreast. It was also pawed with large, flat stones that might once have been white but had become grey and withered with age. Here and there a few of them were broken, but even now, the BroadBeams could see a group of stone-carvers working on repairing them.

The road led directly to the East-gate, which was basically a stone arch, cut into the living rock, and served as the main entrance of the city. It was guarded by the huge stone figures of Dwarf warriors, only half-cut from the rock, in old-fashioned armour widely worn in the early Second Age. On their breastplates a lion’s head was carved in high relief: the ancient heraldic symbol of the FireBeards, as the raven was for the LongBeards, the wolf for the BlackLocks or the widder for the BroadBeams. This supported the theory that these caverns must have been a FireBeard settlement once.

“I cannot remember the statues,” murmured Bifur. “Last time I was here this was just a shapeless rock, overgrown by the forest.”

Óin nodded. “Aye, they were found while we were clearing up the area around the Gate to allow us better sight at the road. It took years ‘til we cleaned away all the trees and bushes and dirt. But it was worth the effort, was it not?”

“Impressive stonework,” agreed Hjalli. “’Tis what Erebor must have looked like in its heyday, if one can believe the songs.”

“’Uruktharbun is older than Erebor, though; much older, even if it lay empty and forgotten for an Age or more,” replied Óin. “’Tis not back yet to what must have been its former glory; that will likely take another hundred years or two, but it is very beautiful already, as you soon shall see.”

He stepped closer to the heavy, iron-bound oak door under the arch and greeted one of the grim-faced Dwarves who were standing on each side of it, clad in full armour, their halberds – larger than themselves – crossed before the door to block the way.

“Greetings, Haugspori,” he said. “These good Dwarves are here on the invitation of Uzbad Thorin himself. They have travelled long and are now in need of some rest. Would you give the way free for us?”

With matching broad grins, the guards, uncrossed their halberds, and the one Óin had called Haugspori laid a hand upon the door. At the slightest push, the great oakwood wings swung inward noiselessly, revealing a wide tunnel behind – one wide enough for the wagons to pass it, one after another.

“You have been away a long time, friend Óin, “Haugspori then said. Judging by his flaming red beard, which he had in two thick braids and doubled over, he was a FireBeard, too. “Your brother and his family were getting concerned. They will be glad to have you back.”

“’Tis good to be back,” admitted Óin. “Even if I have not run into any kind of trouble myself this time. Now, can you find someone to lead my friends here to the guest halls? They have never visited the deeper parts of the city.”

“You will find Lofar at the first juncture,” said Haugspori. “He is in charge of the guest hall in this moon; he will help you with everything you may need.”

Bifur thanked the guard in the name of the others, and so they passed the East-gate, driving their wagons down the well-tended passage that, according to Óin, ran across the entire colony, connecting the two farthest ends on the east and the west side of Zirakinbar, respectively.

This was clearly one of the older tunnels, its stone floor rubbed smooth by the countless feet (and hooves and wheels) that had trodded it during the long millennia of its existence. The walls of the tunnel had been richly carved once. By now, only the vague outlines of the once vivid scenes could be seen. Here and there somebody had obviously been working on restoring them, for the one or other figure – strange animals, exotic trees and other plants and even oddly-shaped buildings – were well-visible again. They all seemed to have a certain Southron flair, making one wonder if the original builders of the city had some connection with Harad once… or with other, long-gone and forgotten southern realms.

At the first junction they came to a circular stone chamber, in which an elderly-looking Dwarf was sitting. He had a bold face with a very high forehead, a short but crooked nose, large eyes and a jutting, cleft chin. His forked beard, carefully plaited in two thick braids that were looped together on the nape of his neck, with their ends fastened to his topknot, revealed him as a LongBeard and the ink stains on his fingers revealed him as a clerk.

His tunic of fine, earth brown wool and his fur-lined, sleeveless coat showed, however, that he was not just any common clerk. The gemstones he wore on his throat spoke of a Dwarf of a certain standing. And he had to have seen at least some battle in his days, for his left eye was missing, his empty eyehole covered by a leather patch.

He obviously knew Óin, for he greeted him by name and with a respectful bow, which said a lot of Óin’s status in Thorin’s halls. Then he welcomed the BroadBeams in a friendly enough manner, asked about their needs and soon found them comfortable quarters in the guest halls as well as fitting places for their wagons and ponies.

“Agde here will take you to the First Deep,” he said. “That is the first level below us, where your ponies can be brought to the grazing patches and your wagons to the caves that serve as sheds. There are also guest quarters with access to the common baths. Food will be served in the common dining halls; or you can visit one of the inns if that is more to your liking. Agde will give you directions.”

Agde was a young lad obviously still before his last growth pains; as-yet beardless and clearly enjoying his tasks as an errand runner very much. There were a few other beardless youths kicking their heels nearby; Bifur assumed that they, too, were running errands for the clerk – who now turned to her.

“As for you and your family, Lady Sigrún, I was told that you are Uzban Thorin’s personal guests. He gave orders for you to be given his own guest chambers. Óin and his brother dwell nearby, he can show you the way.”

“Oh, don’t fret so much!” interrupted Frán. “We shall see after your goods and your beasts; and those of Bofur’s, too.”

“That shan’t be necessary,” said Lofar. “We have skilled StiffBeard grooms and shepherds here. They look after all our beasts, even the hill sheep and the mountain goats. Your ponies will be in good hands.”

“You have livestock here?” Frán was surprised, almost shocked to hear that, and who could blame her for it? Ponies were one thing, even Dwarves needed steeds and pack animals, but keeping herds? That was a very un-Dwarflike thing to do.

Lofar shrugged. “There are but a few Mannish settlements on this side of the Blue Mountains, and even those are farmsteads mostly. We cannot run to the shire every time we need food. We had to make allowances, at least where the meat is concerned. It takes a lot of food to feed several thousand Dwarves.”

“Several thousand?” repeated Niping in surprise. “Your colony has grown in numbers considerably since our last visit.”

“Oh aye, that it has,” replied Lofar contentedly. “Once they heard that we found what was all but a ready-made city to take, many of our people have come to dwell here with us; and not Durin’s Folk alone. Our FireBeard cousins were eager to re-claim their heritage,” he grinned at Óin in a friendly manner, “and as the meadows are good for keeping herds, more and more StiffBeard Wanderers drifted closer and decided on a settled life. By now we breed the best hill ponies west from the Riddermark, and the fleeces of our sheep are much sought after by the Men of Eriador, for they are thicker and warmer than what they get from their own beasts. Weaving and leather-working has become quite the flourishing trade among the StiffBeards.”

The BroadBeams shook their heads in bewilderment, for such crafts were seldom practiced among Dwarves. Well, leather-working was, of course – they needed endurable clothing and good horse-gear for the ponies – but certainly not spinning and weaving and breeding anything but ponies. In the goode olden days they had got all sorts of fabric from Men and Elves through trade.

“Times change,” commented Dagrún thoughtfully, “and we must change with them if we want to survive.”

Frán just kept shaking her head morosely. As the oldest Dwarf-dam among them – and a warrior at that – she felt more strongly about the old ways than most. But though quarrelsome she might be, even she realised that this was not the time for such debates, and so they followed the lad named Agde to the quarters assigned tot hem, taking the wagons of Bifur and Bombur with them.

Óin indeed led his friends to the guest chambers of Thorin’s Halls. Those were fairly large rooms on the same level as the East-gate, with easy access to a shared bath. They also got real sunlight through the shafts cut into the ceiling, which was a relief. Dwarves they might be, made to live in the heart of the mountains, but they were also Wanderers that had spent most of their lives on the Road and grown used to the great outdoors.

“I would miss feeling the warmth of the sun upon my face,” admitted Inga, and Bifur nodded in agreement.

The two got to share one of the chambers, with Bofur and Bombur sharing the other one and Bávor getting the third one with his brother Gellir.

“I fear it will be hard on me to get used to a life under stone,” continued Inga. “Save for the time when I learned my craft in the Iron Hills – and that was difficult enough at times – I never knew aught but the Road in all my life.”

“You don’t have to stay under stone all the time,” said Bifur. “There are always markets and fairs; and from the Iron Hills ‘tis easy to visit Lake-town.”

“Aye, but I wonder what Yngvildr would say if I started wandering around instead of sitting in my workshop and working like a good craftsman,” replied Inga with a sigh. “’Twould not be easy to have a legendary hero as one’s Clan matriarch.”

“Perhaps not,” allowed Bifur. “But you shall have to stand up for yourself, child, or you shan’t have any respect at all. Not from your life-mate or from his mother.”

“Stand up to the Raven Lady?” asked Inga with a hollow laugh. “A fat chance I would have to succeed with that. She is not only a living legend, she is a Forge Guard, too; and the only living descendant of King Azaghâl himself.”

“And as such she will know to value strength and integrity above all,” pointed out Bifur. “Grovelling at her feet would do you no good. If she is being unreasonable, you can always remind her that – according to ancient custom – you could demand from Nár to leave the Iron Hills and live on the Road with you.”

“Aye, and get myself expelled from the King’s halls as you did?” returned Inga. “Nay, I cannot do that to Nár, as I doubt he would be up to sharing my life as it is now.”

“Then he is not worthy to you binding your life to his,” said Bifur harshly.

Inga shook her head. “You are unjust, Cousin. Not everyone is fit to live on the Road; nor is it a way Mahal’s children were meant to live. You can see how the older ones grew weary of it, one by one. Old Tyrfingr, my father… even Uncle Bofur has had enough.”

“I shall not miss fighting Wargs or footpads… or trying to outwit people intent on cheating on us… or the often uncomfortable lodgings and the foul weather,” she confessed. “But I shall miss the freedom of it, the great unknown of the lonely roads, the wonders we got to see, the good people we have met… aye, I shall miss all that very much. And I fear what may become of Father once I shan’t be here for him.”

“I shall never leave Bombur alone,” answered Bifur. “I promised to Maren on her deathbed that I shall always be there to take care of your father.”

“I know you will,” Inga touched her fingers to her forehead, her lips and her heart as a sign of gratitude, “and we who are his children thank you for that. Yet my heart tells me that living on the Road would be the death of him, sooner or later. His mood has been heavy and dark lately. It lifted somewhat upon Óin’s arrival, and I hope that staying here for a while would do him good, but I cannot believe that he has the strength to remain a Wanderer much longer. Not with Uncle Bofur gone, too.”

“Nay, I do not believe so, either,” agreed Bifur. “Which is why I have been thinking about handing over the caravan to Niping and his family and staying in Uruktharbun with Bombur.”

“You would give up the caravan?” asked Inga in chock. “But… but it is your inheritance! He only thing your parents could leave to you!”

“That is true,” admitted Bifur. “However, I find that I am growing weary of the Road myself. ‘Tis not something I would ever have chosen for myself; ‘twas a necessity. But now… now I do not have to live on the Road any longer. This city houses thousands of Dwarves; surely it can house two more.”

“And what if Dís Thráinsdóttir protests against you settling here?” asked Inga seriously. “The two of you never got on; and she has already got you banished once.”

“Then I shall find us another place to live,” replied Bifur with a shrug. “We can go on to Lindon, to the Grey Havens. The Elven shipwrights of Lord Círdan have always been friendly with our people. ‘Tis said that there are still Dwarves working in the forges of Mithlond. And there are Men living with them, too. Where there are Men, there are children. And where there are children, a cook and a toy-maker can always eke out a living.”

“You would live among Men or even Elves, rather than among our own kin?” Inga was clearly scandalised.

“I would live with Orcs ere I would allow Dís Thráinsdóttir to lord it over me,” she said coldly. “And if you asked your father, he would tell you the same. Maren had much to suffer from that contemptuous bitch too. Ask old Tyrfingr if you do not believe me.”

“I fear that Sigrún is right,” said a deep voice that sounded a bit hollow with age from the open door behind them. “However, right now I would rather occupy myself with your injured hand, my dear.”

They turned around and saw with great delight their old leech standing on the doorstep, the long apron of a healer bound over the quilted surcoat of brown velvet that he was wearing, the sleeves of his fine linen shirt rolled back above his elbows.

Tyrfingr, with whom Bofur was still cross for leaving their caravan a couple of years before, was a very old Dwarf indeed. Hi wispy hair and beard were snow white and so were his bushy eyebrows that almost met above the long, thick blade of his nose that almost curved down deeply enough to touch his thin mouth. Only the very ends of his forked beard were braided and his moustache was short and thin, too.

His eyes might have been the usual beetle-black of most BroadBeams once. Now, however, they seemed pale, almost red through the thick white membrane that appeared to cover both eyes like cloudy glass. He also had heavy bags under his eyes, and Inga suddenly understood the true reason behind his sudden decision to leave the caravan and settle down in Uruktharbun as Balin’s personal healer.

“Don’t worry off that pretty head of yours, child. Bofur is a decent chap who takes family obligations very seriously. I don’t blame him for that. Besides, he could not know. I never told anyone that my eyes were weakening. It had gone on for years and no-one of you ever noticed. I stayed with you as long as I still could be of use; but I never wanted to become a burden.”

“Is there no way at all to give you back your eyesight – or, at least, stop you losing it even more?” asked Bifur.

She could feel her heart clench in sympathy. She had always liked their old leech very much, and Tyrfingr had treated her like a daughter. She had even learned a great deal of herbcraft from him, which proved very useful after his departure.

“Being out of the harsh sunlight helps,” explained Tyrfingr, “and there are some herbal tinctures I use to clean my eyes regularly. And then, of course, there is this.”

“This” was a golden amulet in the shape of a trefoil, each leaf set with a different gemstone: a pale blue crystal called the sky-stone⁽¹⁾, a greenish blue ylâma gem⁽²⁾ and a finely cut mica flake that glittered like golden fish scales. Tyrfingr wore the amulet on a short golden chain around his neck, above his heart.

“’Tis a healing charm,” replied the old healer. “We have a wise-woman among us: an ancient FireBeard dam with great knowledge about crystals and gems. Not only can she heal maladies of the body, heart and mind with their help, she can also use them to predict the future. Well… the various possibilities of the future anyway.”

The old leech smiled. “And I cannot offer you any proof. Not for the part about predicting the future, that is, but I have seen her heal wounds and illnesses and heavy melancholy with the help of her stones, though.”

Bifur was still shaking her head in doubt and Old Tyrfingr made no attempt to persuade her just yet.

“Let me take a look at your hand now,” he said. ”Óin told me about the treatment you have already received; I wish to see how much it helped.”

“’Tis healing all right,” replied Bifur defensively. “The wound was infected a bit at first, but Óin cut it open and drained it and has been tending to it ever since. It’s much better now.”

“That is not what Óin says,” said the old leech reproachfully. “He says the wound is still inflamed somewhat and heals way too slowly. Something must be done about it, and sooner rather than later.”

“And he is a good enough healer for one who has come to the craft late,” answered Old Tyrfingr. “But I saw more injuries than he probably ever will and know a tad more about such things. So why don’t you come with me to my workshop so that I can see it for myself as long as my old eyes still serve me?”

“Go on,” encouraged her Inga. “I shall take a proper bath while you are away and finally way my hair. I will help you with yours later.”

Having been cornered by them, Bifur sighed and followed Tyrfingr over to Balin’s mansion where he lived in these days.

Bifur did not truly feel like meeting either Balin or Dwalin just yet – or anyone from their families, to be honest. The meeting with Thorin in the Prancing Pony had been enough for her for a while. She was not used to be around royalty much.

Dís, who was an infuriatingly haughty, condescending bitch did not truly count, no matter of her birth.

She knew, of course, that Óin and Glóin were of royal blood, too, just as closely related to Thorin as Balin and Dwalin. But Óin had travelled the Road with them in his youth and – aside from their affair – he was almost family. HE could never intimidate her, no matter what; and neither could Glóin.

Balin, however, and even more so his warrior brother, could and did. Besides, they were both married to Dwarf-dams of considerable standing – Balin to a respected BlackLock warrior and Dwalin to a StoneFoot artisan – compared to whom Bifur had no standing whatsoever.

To her relief, Tyrfingr led her in through the side door that opened to the chambers of the servants. At the moment only Balin’s old valet was present, a StiffBeard named Loki whose bristling beard and wiry hair made the Clan name full honour.

He was a short, ancient Dwarf with terrible burn marks that all but covered the left side of his face. Not everyone had survived the coming of the Dragon unscathed, even of those few who had managed to escape. But apparently, the scarring did not bother him the least. On the contrary, his button-like dark eyes were full of mischief.

He greeted them merrily, clearly aware of the arrival of the caravan. News spread fast among servants, it was said. Then he returned to his work, namely putting the cloaks of his masters into the clothes press so that they would look presentable on the next day.

“The young masters are in conclave with Uzban Thorin,” he mentioned to Tyrfingr absent-mindedly.

Bofur needed a moment to realise that the old manservant was actually meaning Balin and Dwalin! But again, Loki had already served Fundin in his capacity as a valet, so he perhaps still saw his former master’s sons as mere striplings, no matter how old and how venerable they had become.

Tyrfingr gave Bifur an ill-concealed grin as he guided her over to his workshop. It was a small but well-equipped one that also served as his bedchamber if the cot in the farthest corner was any indication. A cold-lamp⁽³⁾ – one of those once used in Khazad-dûm that generated light due to the vibration of a particular crystal in their centre – gave the room enough illumination to even read by it, but the light was not so bright that it would hurt Tyrfingr’s weak eyes.

He had her sit on a stool at his workbench and carefully removed the bandages with which Óin had dressed the wound. He bent close to see its condition better, even poked it at certain points… then he shook his head unhappily.

“Something is wrong with this wound of yours,” he murmured. “’Tis still inflamed a bit and slightly swollen. Either Óin had not drained it properly, or there is some evil force working deep within yet.”

“Do you know how to drive it out?” asked Bifur, truly frightened now. She did not want to lose her hand; but she know that if any infection from the wound spread to her bloodstream, she might even die from it.

“Nay, I do not,” he confessed. “But Mother Edhla, the wise-woman I spoke about, might. I can send a messenger and ask her to see us if you would let me.”

After some inner struggle Bifur gave in fairly quickly. She did not have much of a choice, after all; not with herbal medicine failing to heal her properly.

“I hope so,” answered Tyrfingr seriously, “for otherwise I have truly come to the end of my rope.”

(2) labradorite; both these and the mica crystal are supposed to help with eye problems

(3) Cold-lamps are supposed to be the Dwarven version of the Fëanorian lamps. I assumed that the Dwarves of Moria had learned their making from Celebrimbor and his smiths in the Second Age.

Author’s notes: The use of healing stones and crystals is based on what I could find via internet research. I apologise, should I have got anything wrong. But using stones and crystals to heal people seemed a very Dwarven thing to do. The moonstone used here looks like the real item but has very different powers, of course.

My heartfelt thanks to Glîrnardir, to my generous canon beta, for fact-checking and proofreading.

Tyrfingr sent a messenger to the wise-woman at once and got a positive answer in return. She could see them now if they wanted to come over.

“Nay, I do not,” admitted Bifur bluntly. “Not now and not later. I do not trust hedge witches and their dabbling in magic, no matter what their intentions may be. Such things rarely end well. But right now, I would try just about everything to be able to keep my hand.”

Tyrfingr interpreted her answer as willingness to go, and so he told the messenger lad to go back to Mother Edhla and give her their gratitude and the answer that they would go at once.

He did not need to warn him not to telling her anything else. No boy-child in their right mind would be foolish enough to tell a wise-woman that she had been called a hedge witch, and messenger lads were usually rather bright. Otherwise they would not have been entrusted with such an important task.

“All right, then,” he said. “Off with us. It would do no good to make Mother Edhla wait.”

“Mahal forbid!” muttered Bifur sarcastically, but she followed her old friend without further protests.

She had to admit that she was relieved when they finally reached the chambers of Uruktharbun’s resident hedge witch, as she still thought of the wise-woman. To be perfectly honest, she had expected to find a filthy, half-mad old hag in a dank, smelly cave, like the oracle witches of the Easterlings in Rhûn. Fortunately, what she found was nothing like that.

Mother Edhla’s chambers were located on the First Rise, just one level above the East-gate and Thorin’s own Halls. This was a level populated by FireBeards, at large – unlike in the great Dwarf cities of old, the population of this colony seemed to be organised by Clan rather than by occupation, although there certainly were similarities.

The FireBeards dwelling here were mainly craftsmen – smiths of different sorts – and merchants; and well-to-do ones at that. They also considered the original tunnels and caverns their heritage and were rightly proud of the achievements of their forefathers. Thus the other Clans accepted their claim to the second-best level of the city with a minimum of grudge; only a handful of other master artisans – StoneFoots mostly – were allowed residence here.

This pride made the FireBeards a mite haughty perhaps, and they were fiercely jealous of their privileged status (such as it was), but one had to admit that their dwelling place was beautiful. In almost all corridors that led to their mansions, the faded carvings had been reconstructed and enhanced with artfully wrought gems and crystals that caught the sunlight streaming down the shafts and broke it into multiple rainbows that reflected off the patches of wall deliberately kept smooth like mirrors.

Most of the mansions and even some of the smaller houses – like that of the wise-woman herself – had open courtyards, with pillars shaped like trees, perfect right down to the leaves of malachite, and seamed by narrow beds of flowers, all carved of some sort of crystal or precious stone. Many had fountains in their middle, fed by the underground stream that flowed perhaps fifty yards away in its deep stony bed.

Not two of these fountains were alike, their water bubbling and dancing merrily ere it would fall back to its bowl to eventually rejoin the stream. The one in the wise-woman’s courtyard was shaped like a crested sea-serpent, the water shooting three feet high from its open maw towards the ceiling.

Entering the house behind, they found themselves in a surprisingly airy room that seemed to serve as workroom and supply shed at once. It was dominated by a large workbench in the foreground; one that might have belonged to a jewel-smith, based on the trail of fine tools on one end. Next to it a most interesting cupboard was leaning against the all, its countless little drawers filled with an amazing assortment of crystals and gemstones. Again, it would make one thing more of a jeweller than of a healer.

“My father was a goldsmith and taught me his craft, ere I would discover a different use of the stones,” said a deep female voice, and as they looked around, an old, broad-hipped Dwarf-dam entered the workshop through a side door.

She was short, even for one of the FireBeards (who did not belong to the giants of their race) but powerfully built, with a barely wrinkled face and very bright, gold-flecked brown eyes that looked like they had seen a lot of things in their time, good and bad ones alike.

Her long, iron-grey hair still had some reddish highlights and was tied away from her aged face in a series of simple braids and into a knot on the nape of her neck. Her golden earrings were set with yellow topazes hanging from multiple chains and jingling at the rhythm of her movements – it was oddly soothing.

She had strange runes and patterns tattooed on her hands and the lower part of her cheeks, in dark red and pale blue. The tattoos seemed to continue down her body as well, though that could not be seen with her clothes in the way. She was clad in the fashion of well-to-do craftspeople: in an ankle-length, sleeveless tunic of earth-brown velvet, with gold embroidery along the seam, the neckline and the armholes. It was split right under her flat breasts to reveal the long-sleeved undergown of fine yellow wool underneath, embroidered with dark red runes on the cuffs and the high collar.

She must have been a much-respected person indeed, by the way Old Tyrfingr bowed to her.

“Mother Edhla,” he said. “’Tis good of you too see us at such short notice.”

“Nonsense,” she replied. “We are healers. When people need us, we respond to their calls. How can I be of service?”

“My friend here has a stubborn wound that does not answer to herbal treatment as it should,” explained Tyrfingr.

“Hmmm,” Mother Edhla tilted her head to the side and scrutinised Bifur as if reading her heart. “You look troubled, child. You need to regain the balance of your heart and your spirit, just so that your body can focus all its energies on healing the wound. This should help.”

She fetched a small copper dish from a small niche in the wall; one of those used to burn incense. She filled it with some amber-coloured gravel that looked like chopped resin… and then snapped with her fingers. Small red flames appeared on her fingertips for a moment, before springing over to the dish and making the incense in it glow gently.

“Why are you so bewildered, child? Have you never seen the fire-touch of our Clan at work?” turning to Tyrfingr, she added. “The vapours of copal resin help to restore the balance of spirit and mind. Combined with copper they also have a cleansing effect on the bloodstream.”

The old leech nodded thoughtfully. “I have heard about that, aye. “Tis hard to come by them, though; and rather costly, they say.”

“Not if you have your own sources,” replied Mother Edhla. “The Khimmer jarls of Nimvarkinh have it brought from Harad in great quantities to cleanse the air in their caves, as they have little skill in making proper air shafts. I get some through my kin that still dwells in the lower caverns too narrow for Men to enter.”

She went on with her description but Bifur paid the tale no attention. Quite frankly, she was still in shock. She knew that FireBeards had always had a unique sense for fire not even other Dwarves shared; everyone knew it. That peculiar sense made them the best smiths, even among their own kind.

And she knew that Óin and Glóin, though of mixed blood, could make fire under just any circumstances. They could make dripping wet firewood burn. She had seen them do it. But all that had not prepared her for… well, for this.

“Mahal has made us of earth and fire, child, just as Elves were made of air and water, or so ‘tis said,” she explained. “Tis only so that my Clan happened to get a bit more of the fire than the others. Long ago, after the Awakening, when our ancestors did not have all the fine tools we use now, the fire-touch was much stronger and more common than in these late days. But it still resurfaces in full strength sometimes, like the ability to draw strength from the earth itself. My grand-dam was a Rune-smith, the last of her kind as far as I know. I inherited my powers from her.”

She then walked over to the cabinet and began to pull out various drawers, muttering under her breath as she selected the stones she needed.

“Here we are,” she then said, placing her selection on the workbench, one by one. “Chrysopraze will help healing the wound itself.”

The selected stone was about the size of a dove egg, its colour a beautiful, silky grass green shade.

“Amethyst is for cleansing the blood, should the infection have already spread,” she laid a deep purple stone next to the pale green one.

“Snowflake obsidian will draw the poison out of the wound, should there be any,” the small black stone, not bigger than the first digit of her thumb, had indeed a distinct white pattern like captured snowflakes within.

“And jet, just in case your liver and kidneys may need cleansing,” she finished. “You have lived with this wound for weeks by now, and yet it has failed to heal properly. We cannot know what inner damage it might have caused already; better safe than sorry.”

“I shall make a healing charm for you, similar to the one your friend and mentor is wearing,” explained Mother Edhla. “Only that yours will be of copper rather than gold, which helps to keep the bloods stream clean. You will have to wear the charm ‘til your wound has fully healed; and afterwards, whenever the memory of the wound may haunt you.”

“Why would that happen?” Bifur frowned. “I have been wounded before but never with such lasting effect.”

“This wound of yours is no ordinary injury, or it would have healed better,” said Mother Edhla grimly. “There is some evil power working within; I must draw it out, or you still might lose that hand… or your life.”

“How is it possible?” asked Old Tyrfingr. “Dunlendings are not a people meddling in witchcraft.”

“They must have found new allies then,” replied the wise-woman. “Or they had taken weapons from other, more evil creatures. ‘Twould not be the first time that Orc bands roamed the empty lands between the Old North Road and the Greyflood. Whatever the truth may be, this wound was definitely caused by a cursed or poisoned blade, and I must pull out that evil ere it gets too deep. I dare not say what could happen if it reached your heart,” she said to Bifur.

“Can you do it?” asked Bifur, more frightened than she had ever been in her life.

Orcs and footpads and other dangers she could deal with. But witchcraft was beyond her understanding, and the mere idea of it scared her witless.

“I can try,” the old one replied honestly, “but I cannot promise that I will succeed. It all depends on how strong the evil power is and how far it has already spread. Do you allow me to give it a try?”

“We always have a choice,” said Mother Edhla sternly. “More than just one, in fact. But we have to weigh them carefully, so that we may make the right one. What is your choice, then?”

“I ask you to try whatever can be done,” sighed Bifur. “I would like to live.”

The old Dwarf-dam nodded. “Very well then. Take this stool and lay your wounded arm on the workbench. And you,” she looked at Tyrfingr, “remove the bandages. I shall need free access to the wound.”

Old Tyrfingr obediently – albeit a bit regretfully – removed the bandages that had changed less than an hour ago, while Mother Edhla rummaged in her drawers again. Finally she found what she had been looking for: a semi-translucent, opaque white stone, about the size of her thumb, wondrously smooth and shaped like a teardrop.

“Here it is,” she said. “The most powerful healing stone of all; a crying shame that they no longer can be found in Middle-earth. In the olden days, they were harvested on the Star Isle of the Sea-Kings of Men; for all other ones had gone to the bottom of the Sea when Beleriand was broken.”

“Moonstones!” breathed Old Tyrfingr in awe. “Where did you find one? They say some have been buried with the ancient Kings and Queens in the haunted barrows that rise between Bree and the Old Forest but no-one dares to go there in these days.”

“And they do well not to go there,” said Mother Edhla with emphasis. “Those barrows are evil and cursed, and the creatures dwelling there tolerate no living thing among them. This stone does not come from there, either. I got it from my grand-dam. Her longfathers had once dealings with the High Elves of Eregion, so it had to be either a generous gift or the result of some very hard bargain. I tend to believe the latter, for I cannot imagine even an Elf to part with such a powerful stone willingly.”

“Not many of them truly understand the power of stones,” said Tyrfingr. “They like gems and crystals for their beauty but hardly ever use them as we do… well, the few of us who still can, that is.”

“’Tis ‘cause the stones won’t work for them the way they work for us,” explained the wise-woman. “Their elements are air and water and thus they seek aid and healing in the living things that are here today and gone tomorrow. Mahal’s children seek their strength from the things that prevail: from rock and stone and the roped veins of metal weaving through stone. It would take a wizard, and a powerful one at that, to use a moonstone on any other creature under the sky the same way I can use it on another Dwarf. See and learn!”

She put the white gem onto the wound, right where the cut had begun to heal but its edges were angry red and inflamed again. It felt cool and smooth, and Bifur let out the breath she had not been aware that she was holding. Perhaps the stone could help indeed. She held not much about magic, but – like every Dwarf – she knew of the power of stones and that her own race could harvest them – in theory at least. This theory was being put to test at this very moment.

Mother Edhla held her knotted old hands above the stone, closed her eyes and began to murmur something that sounded like Khuzdul but was not. It was older, much older – the ancient version of the Dwarven tongue perhaps, the one spoken at the dawn of time, when the Seven Fathers awakened from their cribs of stone.

The moonstone was growing gradually warmer. Bifur winced, but watched with morbid fascination as its heart began to glow gently. Then the glowing dulled as some infinite darkness seemed to rise from the wound, sluggishly like black oil and was drawn into the white stone ‘til the whole of it became clouded and dark.

Mother Edhla ceased her chanting and opened her eyes, looking utterly exhausted.

“That must be enough for today,” she said. “As you can see, there was much darkness in that wound of yours; but the moonstone is now full and cannot absorb more of it. You shall have to come back tomorrow, when I have cleansed the stone, and keep coming ‘til it remains clear during treatment.”

“And how will you clean the stone?” asked Bifur, staring at the once white gem with utter repulsion. That darkness had all been inside her?

Mother Edhla gave her a tired grin. “Why, with fire, of course,” she replied.

“Are you sure the fire-touch will be enough to clean the stone from the stain of evil?” asked Óin doubtfully later on that day after Mother Edhla had explained him what she intended to do.

“Of course not,” she replied with a rather un-ladylike snort. “Which is why I need your help.”

“My grasp on the fire-touch is a lot less secure than yours, I fear,” admitted Óin. “I know not how much of help I could be.”

“I know all about your abilities,” she said. “I am the Eldest Mother of our Clan in Uruktharbun, after all. I have no need of your abilities. I have need of your brother. Or rather of his forge. ‘Tis said to be the best one here; it requires a very hot fire to destroy such evil. My little fireplace cannot do it.”

“You can simply request access to his forge,” reminded her Óin. “’Tis your right as the Eldest Mother.”

“True,” she replied. “But Nei is your family matriarch, and she is a force to be reckoned with. I don’t wish to tread on her territory. Nay; ‘tis better for us all if I go through you. I shall also return the favour if you can find the means for me to do so.”

“So, Thorin Oakenshield has set his mind to face the dragon, then,” she finally murmured. “And you have already decided to go with him. Why? Erebor has never been the home of our Clan; Tumunzahar was. And Uruktharbun is closer to our home of old than any other settlement ever was. Why would you want to leave?”

“For I am also of Durin’s line, and I have an obligation,” replied Óin simply. “Thorin will need the support of his kin. Besides, I am a scholar and a healer. Whoever else is going with Thorin, they will need me in both capacities.”

“And have you no obligation towards your mother’s Clan?” she asked, her voice heavy with accusation. “The Lady Frey was the only one in whom the line of Telchar survived; do you not feel that you owe this place, the one closest to a home our Clan had since the First Age?”

“I do,” admitted Óin, “and I do not deny that my heart pulls me in opposite directions. Thorin is more than just a kinsman for me, though; he is my King, with or without a crown, and my mother saw it the same way. She went to war with Thráin to take revenge on the cursed Orcs who had defiled the Eldest of our race, and she gave her life at Azanulbizar to see it done. ‘Tis her heritage, too, that I fulfil by going with Thorin to Erebor.”

“As you wish,” she said. “I shall do it. You know, though, that whatever I might see in the stones shan’t necessarily come true. I can see things that may happen. But the outcome always depends on the decisions of the people involved. We all shape our future, with every single choice we make.”

“I know,” replied Óin. “Yet I prefer to know the choices available to me ere I would choose one way or another. Whatever you may see, it won’t stop me from doing what I believe to be the right thing to do.”

“I know it won’t,” she said. “Frey has taught her boys well. Sit down then; I shall bring forth the rune-stones at once.”

“Now?” asked Óin in surprise. “I thought you would need to prepare yourself first; and you have just spent a great deal of your strength on healing Sigrún’s hand.”

“Reading the stones does not require strength; only knowledge,” answered Mother Edhla, taking the moonstone with a thong and placing it onto the glowing embers of her small bronze brazier. “Here; the heat will keep the darkness enclosed until I can put the stone into much hotter fire. Now for the rune-stones.”

She brought forth a beautifully carved malachite casket containing a great number of different stones that were cut like sliced bread: encrusted with crystal on the rim, smooth like the surface of a mountain lake on their face… a face that was written over and over with runes, following the natural pattern of the stone. Not with the Angerthas used in the present day but with the forgotten, most intricate ones of Ancient Khuzdul, said to have been taught to Mahal’s Children by their Maker himself.

Each stone had a small hole in its upper part, through which gold or silver strings of various lengths were threaded. By those strings she hung them onto an intricate bronze frame in a pattern Óin could not even begin to understand, muttering under her breath.

“Tiger-eye for confidence… garnet for commitment…. Aquamarine for courage… azurite for finding the right way… jade for fidelity… green aventurine for luck… rubies for wealth… malachite for awareness… turquoise for travelling the dream fields… thunderegg for farsight…”

Finally, she hung up the thusly adorned frame above the small copper dish in which the copal resin was still burning… and waited.

As the thin smoke rose from the incense burner, the stones began to sway gently in the hot air. Some turned halfway, showing their thin, encrusted side to the waiting Dwarves. Others turned around wholly and Óin could see that their back side was covered in ancient runes, too. Others again remained in the same position, swaying a little but never actually turning either way.

Óin could not tell afterwards how long he had been sitting there in Mother Edhla’s small workshop, staring at the barely moving stones as if bewitched. He could not understand the importance of the position of the individual stones or the meaning of the pattern they formed, either. He only hoped that the wise-woman could.

After an indefinite length of time the movement of the stones stopped. Mother Edhla watched them for a while yet, ‘til she could be sure that the final pattern had been formed. Then she looked at Óin.

“It seems that Mahal approves of your undertaking,” she said. “But it won’t be an easy quest. You will have to learn to accept help from the most unlikely sources, all of you. And even so, the outcome is uncertain. In any case, success – if it comes at all – will come at a high cost.”

“Are you telling me that I should try talking Thorin out of this Quest?” asked Óin doubtfully.

Mother Edhla shook her head. “Nay; he is set to go and ‘tis not for us to hinder him in following his destiny. ‘Twould be good, though, if you could see that he chooses his followers carefully; and that he accepts help that he would reject if it were up to him. He is way too proud for his own good; he needs someone with common sense to keep him grounded.”

“I am not sure that anybody but Balin could do that,” said Óin with a rueful smile.

“Then you will have to talk to Balin and prepare him to step in if needs must be,” she replied. “I am deadly serious about this, Óin son of Gróin. If Thorin Oakenshield does not learn to listen to the words of wisdom, even if they come from the mouths of strangers, he shall lead you all to your deaths and nothing shall be accomplished.”

She was not willing to say more, no matter how much Óin was urging her. Instead she turned deliberately away from him and began to collect her rune-stones and store them in their malachite casket again.

Óin was old enough to recognise the dismissal. He bowed deeply, thanked the old Dwarrow-dam for her help and promised once more to speak with his brother about the use of his forge. Then he left.

But he did not return home; nor did he go to the forge that had once belonged to his father, the late Gróin, and was now his brother’s. Instead, he went to see how Bifur was doing after her highly unusual treatment.

“I am much better now,” she assured, showing him her unbandaged hand. The redness along the edge of the wound had lessened considerably and the swelling, too, had gone down quite a bit.

“’Tis not so hot anymore, and I can bend my fingers more easily,” she added. “I must admit that I was full of doubt at first, but I cannot deny that the stone worked. It pulled a great deal of darkness out of the wound… though not all of it yet. I must go back tomorrow; and perhaps the day after, ‘til it is fully cleaned.”

“And I must talk to my brother about using his forge to clean the healing stone,” said Óin. “I am grateful that we have finally found a way to help you. Thorin said something about wanting the three of you on his next council, and it would be preferable if you were healed by then.”

“’Twould make it easier to pay attention at least,” she agreed. “When will that council take place?”

“Hmmm,” said Bifur a little grumpily. “And when will that happen, pray tell?”

Óin shrugged again. “Who could tell? He is a wizard, and, as Bofur likes to say, he comes and goes as he pleases. But he will come. He has promised.”

“And just how reliable are the promises of a wizard?” asked Bifur doubtfully. Her dealings with the often distracted Radagast did not make her feel very hopeful in that area.

Author’s notes: This chapter is largely based on the short scene in “Unfinished Tales”, where Gandalf tells the Hobbits of the Fellowship about his role in the Quest of Erebor. Some lines of the original dialogue have been included.

The Lesser Hall, with its raised desk for the scribe, was inspired by a room I saw in the Hradschin Castle in Prague. Not exactly the same, but similar. Oh, and Balin, Glóin, Dori and Ori are emphatically dissimilar to their movie counterparts. I used various early Dwarf designs of Weta for visuals.

My heartfelt thanks to Glîrnardir, my generous canon beta, for fact-checking and proofreading.

The Grey Wizard arrived at Uruktharbun a few days after the BroadBeam caravan – not that any would have taken notice of him. Visiting Men were not all that unusual in Thorin’s Halls, and besides, he went into seclusion with Thorin and his closest counsellors at once.

Bifur knew about it, of course, but that was mostly due to Óin. Who, in turn, was a cousin of Thorin and thus part of all his counsels. Not to mention his unofficial task of travelling all over Eriador and Rhovanion on Thorin’s behalf. He was not just a kinsman; he was a trusted kinsman and thus knew everything that was going on behind the closed doors of the Lesser Hall.

Most of which seemed to revolve around the possible return to Erebor, of course, about the method of which Thorin and Gandalf appeared to disagree very much.

“I am beginning to despair if they would ever come to an agreement,” admitted Óin, shaking his head in forced tolerance. “Thorin keeps talking about armies and weapons and a direct attack at the Mountain, while Tharkûn is trying to persuade him ‘to put aside his lofty designs and go secretly’, as he keeps putting it.”

“The opinions seem to be diagonally opposite,” said Bifur in agreement. “Though I for myself tend to believe that the wizard is right. Even with he armies of Dáin Ironfoot backing us, what chance would we have against the Dragon?”

“Oh, aye,” supported her Bofur. “Such Worms have teeth like razors and claws like meat hooks; and they are airborne, too, raining fire down upon you. The Iron Hill Dwarves would be cooked alive in that heavy armour of theirs.”

“Well, that shan’t be a problem, seeing as they are not coming,” replied Óin dryly.

That made Bofur frown unhappily. Despite his teasing, he had actually counted on marching to the Mountain in a company of grim Iron Hill warriors, armed to the teeth.

Óin nodded. “Quite sure I am afraid. Thorin had travelled to the Grey Mountains recently to meet with Dáin in all secrecy. They had negotiated for a time, and then Dáin returned home to discuss the matter with his own counsellors. His final answer arrived last night – and it is not what Thorin had hoped for.”

“What does it say?” asked Bofur, still frowning. “Why are they not coming?”

Óin shrugged. “They say that this quest is ours and ours alone. But if you ask me, I think they wish to wait and see how we would succeed. If we get eaten by the Dragon, they will now that the time is still not ripe for reaching out for our gold. If we survive… well, they probably count on the fact that we would need their help to keep that which we had won back.”

“I cannot imagine Dáin being so selfish and calculating,” said Bifur in disgust. “Is he not a cousin of both you and Thorin?”

“He is,” replied Óin. “But he is also the chieftain of the Iron Hills and has to look into the interests of his own people first. And don’t forget that his mother comes from the IronFist Clans; and so does his wife. The IronFists are warriors, every single one of them. Long were they shoved back to second place behind the old Clans like yours and mine. But now that the great cities of old had fallen, the warriors have risen in power and reputation and they like this new order. They would not wish one of the old realms rise again, methinks. Even less so when there might be ways to get rid of the Dragon and lay hand upon its hoard.”

“And yet they came to fight for Durin’s Folk at Azanulbizar,” reminded him Bifur. “Dáin himself flew Azog, the defiler of King Thrór; they all came and bled for the Eldest of our race, and Dáin promised they would do so again. Even though they had to return home without the promised wergilds and rewards.”

“Aye, but that is it exactly,” said Óin. “I doubt that they had quite forgotten that they had returned empty-handed the last time they raised their axes for Durin’s Heir. That is why they refuse to do so now; more so if they can hope to get to our treasure later, without great losses.”

“I still find it hard to believe that Dáin would refuse to support the eldest of Durin’s line,” she said. “He went to Azanulbizar when barely more than a stripling.”

“Oh, but that was different,” said Óin. “The war that resulted in that terrible battle was one for vengeance. By defiling Thrór’s body, the Orcs have insulted our entire race. Compared with that, the fate of Erebor is a much smaller matter.”

“For them, perhaps,” replied Bofur angrily. “It ain’t no small matter to any of us! Even if Thorin, Balin and Bombur are the only ones who had actually seen Erebor, it used to be the home of our families for hundreds of years.”

Óin nodded. “True. Which is why Thorin wants you – all three of you – to take part in today’s meeting with the wizard.”

“Us?” repeated Bifur in surprise. “Why us? I understand that he would want Bofur to be present, who had sworn to follow him, after all, but why Bombur and me?”

“I have no idea,” confessed Óin with a shrug. “Perhaps he just wants a different perspective.”

For her part Bifur doubted that very much, but when Thorin Oakenshield summoned, one obeyed. Especially of one was a guest in his Halls.

And thus after the midday meal Bifur, Bofur and Bombur obediently followed Óin to the Lesser Hall as Thorin’s council chamber was called, compared with the Great Hall, in which feasts and other important gatherings were held, and which was basically a throne room in all but its name.

They crossed the Great Hall in order to reach the lesser one and Bifur had to admit that it deserved its name. Aside from being huge indeed, it was also very beautiful, pawed with white, green, red and black marble in a repetitive pattern of stylized flowers and mythical beasts. The green marble pillars holding the roof were carved in the likeness of bundled reed, and upon the ceiling the constellation of Durin’s Crown, its seven stars encrusted in colourful gems.

Right under it stood Thorin’s high chair upon a dais of three steps. It was a smaller, modest version of his grandfather Thrór’s throne in Erebor, carved from a large block of onyx and with a flat, gilded and pressed leather cushion on its seat against the cold of the stone. In the upper part of the chair’s back a multifaceted white diamond was sitting in the centre of the knotted pattern of crystal where in Thrór’s throne the Arkenstone had been.

The Great Hall was illuminated by dozens of narrow shafts that also let in fresh air from the surface. Large crystal globes hung in silver nets under each shaft, breaking the light into multiple rainbows, just like in the corridors of the First Rise.

The door to the Lesser Hall opened right behind the high chair, so they had but a short time to admire the truly magnificent sight. Bifur only knew Thráin’s Hall in Erebor from the tales of her elders but she could hardly imagine it being more beautiful or more imposing.

Despite its name, the Lesser Hall remained behind its counterpart in size only. ‘Twas still large enough for a long, low table around which twenty-four Dwarves could be seated and which had been carved from a single, enormous block of black marble, its surface set with crystals and gemstones of many colours, depicting the heraldic symbols of all Seven Kindreds. The floor had the same pattern as in the Great Hall, yet the ceiling presented the stars of the Midsummer Day sky.

The walls were covered by thick wooden panels, each as large as a Dwarf was tall and masterfully carved with scenes of ancient legends. As a rule, wooden panelling was not something Dwarves would use a lot, but it made sense for a King’s council chamber as it muted the voices within and made spying on the council more difficult.

Behind the head of the table, on a raised podium was the writing desk of the scribe who would dutifully write down any decisions made in council. ‘Twas one of the old-fashioned ones where the scribe had to stand while writing.

The one standing behind it now, however, was not somebody one would expect from a clerk, not even from a Dwarven one. It was a large BlackLock, roughly of Óin’s age, with very thick, bluish-black hair twisted on top of his head and a heavy beard, which he had artfully braided with gold filaments and beads. He had the usual indigo eyes of his Clan, thick eyebrows and handsome, chiselled features. His broad golden earloops and purple tunic of fine wool showed that he could not be a simple clerk; rather a trusted kinsman or ally who had taken over scribe duties for such a confidential meeting.

Not all seats around the table were occupied at the moment. There was Thorin, of course, looking more kingly than ever in the fine garb he wore at home; and Dwalin, as intimidating as always. Glóin, a few years younger than Óin, still had a marked resemblance to his brother, save for his darker colouring; his hair and beard were bronze rather than copper and richly adorned with silver loops and clasps.

Balin, Dwalin’s older brother was sitting on Thorin’s right, as it was his privilege as the oldest male relative. While he was a little younger than his King, he looked considerably older, with his snow white hair, long, braided moustaches and enormous beard that lay unbraided all over his broad chest like a silver cloud, with its forked end swept upward naturally. A thin line of fine black tattoos went up from his bushy eyebrows along his temples, and he wore a rhombus-shaped black opal upon his brow, set in mithril and held in place by a short mithril chain.

His gold-embroidered tunic of red velvet and his long, woollen surcoat of a slightly darker hue of the same colour emphasized his wealth and influence in Thorin’s court. Truly, he had very little in common with his warrior brother, at least to the naked eye.

Next to him another BlackLock sat; a very large one, even for one of his Clan, all but towering over everybody save Dwalin. He had the same thick, ink-black, almost blue hair and elaborately braided beard as the scribe, the same dark purple clothing; even their features bore some resemblance, so Bifur supposed that they had to be brothers, or at least close kin. She had never met them before, though.

On Thorin’s other side – the heart-side, the most important place of all – a very young Dwarf sat. He had Thorin’s proud bearing and the usual sharp features of Durin’s Line, but blue eyes and golden hair, which he wore mostly down, save for a couple of thin, decorative braids above his ears, adorned with beautifully wrought loops and clasps of mithril, just like his braided moustaches. Bifur had never seen him before either but assumed that he would be Fíli, the firstborn of that bitch Dís, and Thorin’s heir.

Speaking of the hag herself… of course Dís Thráinsdóttir would never miss such an important meeting. She was sitting on the gallery opposite the scribe’s desk, together with a few other ranking females of which Bifur only recognised fire-haired Nei, Glóin’s lady and the mother of his five children. Two of the others were BlackLocks and the last one a StoneFoot, given her golden hair, but she did not know them.

Dís, however, she would have recognized among thousands, even though there was no likeness whatsoever between her and Thorin.

As it was often the case among LongBeards, Thorin’s sister stood an inch or two taller than the males of her Clan, was more broadly built and had a rather blunt face. Her sideburns and facial down – more prominent than by other Dwarf-dams, giving the name of her Clan all honour – were long enough to be actually plaited and tucked behind her ear where they were woven together with the countless thin braids of her hair. Both her hair and her beard would have been the usual earth brown of most LongBeards if not bleached and powdered with finely crushed gold, so that it would gleam and glitter most flatteringly.

The upper section of her hair was not even braided but arranged on top of her head in artful rolls and curls like a coronet, decorated with an excessive number of gold chains and gemstones. She even had fine gold chains with jingling charms woven into her plaited sideburns and attached to each of her elaborate earrings.

Her whole appearance, heavy read brocade robe, golden embroidery and all, was apparently meant to be queenly. Bifur simply found it cheap, despite the actual worth of gold and jewels she was wearing. No finery could make her broad face, small eyes and large ears look truly attractive; ‘twas hard to believe that she had such handsome males as Thorin and Fíli as brother and son.

And besides, she was not and would never be the Queen of Durin’s Folk. She was not even the family matriarch of Durin’s Line. Both those titles would go to Thorin’s lady, had he had one. But even though he had not, Dís had no means to step into that empty space (to her everlasting upset, no doubt). LongBeard customs were more complicated than those of the other Clans. Had she been Thráin’s firstborn, at leas she could claim the rank and title of royal matriarch. But she was a younger sister, and as such would never become anything else.

Unless she lived to see the day when Fíli would indeed inherit kingship from Thorin. But there were decades, maybe centuries between Dís and that chance. And a Dragon, of course, that still dwelt among the ruins of their kingdom and jealously guarded their robbed treasure.

‘Twas mildly ironic that Bifur, albeit merely the leader of a caravan of lowly Wanderers, had more authority in her own circle than the sister of the crownless King. For her achievements, moderate though they might be, were her own and not given to her out of generosity and familial obligations.

When Bifur and her cousins entered the Lesser Hall, Thorin was already having a heated discussion with the wizard, who seemed to be losing patience with him. A feeling that was very obviously mutual.

“Well, what have you got to say that you had not said already?” Thorin demanded, just when they came in.

“Only this,” replied the wizard tiredly. “Your ideas are those of a King, Thorin Oakenshield; but your kingdom is gone. If it is to be restored, which I doubt, it must be from small beginnings.”

“We may be few in number, but we're fighters,” added her son, his blue eyes blazing with battle-lust. “All of us, to the last Dwarf.”

“Be quiet, princeling, while the grown-ups are talking,” he growled. “Far away here, I wonder if you fully realize the awesome strength of a Great Dragon.”

The wizard nodded, clearly grateful for the support. “Quite right, Dwalin. But that is not all: there is a Shadow growing fast in the world far more terrible. They will help one another.”

“I assume you are speaking of the new, dark power growing again in Dol Guldur,” said Óin, guiding Bifur and her cousins to some empty seats at the end of the table.

Óin nodded. “Aye; I was recently in Rhosgobel and held council with your fellow wizard, Radagast the Brown.”

“The more important it is, then, that we deal with at least one of the threats in order to re-gain what is rightfully ours,” said the huge BlackLock whom Bifur did not know.

“Open war would be quite useless,” he emphasized; “and anyway it is impossible for you to arrange it. You will have to try something simpler and yet bolder, indeed something desperate.”

“More desperate than attack a Great Dragon face to face?” asked the BlackLock in dark amusement.

The others smiled grimly and the wizard sighed, getting more impatient by the minute.

“There are different kinds of despair,” he explained. “Some of them might actually result in actions with at least a slim chance of success.”

“You are both vague and disquieting,” growled Thorin. “Speak more plainly, for I have neither the time nor the patience to play riddles with you.”

“A shame,” replied the wizard. “Riddles can be more useful than you might believe. But have it your way; I shall speak plainly. For one thing, you shall have to go on this quest yourself, and you will have to go secretly. No messengers, heralds, or challenges for you, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“What?” cried Dís, scandalised. “Should he creep back to the realm of our ancestors like a beggar or the thief?”

“That is the very thing he should do if he wants to survive such a mad adventure,” the wizard turned back to Thorin with a clear warning in his deep eyes. “At most you can take with you a few kinsmen or faithful followers. But you will need something more, something unexpected.”

Yet the wizard was not done yet, and he took his own time to come to his goal, proving to all and sundry that his kind had the well-deserved reputation of being, well, subtle.

“One moment!” he said. “You hope to deal with a Great Dragon; and he is not only very great, but he is now also old and very cunning. From the beginning of your adventure you must allow for this: his memory, and his sense of smell.”

“Naturally,” replied Thorin dryly and rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Dwarves have had more dealings with Dragons than most, and you are not instructing the ignorant.”

“Very good,” answered the wizard; 'but your own plans did not seem to me to consider this point. My plan is one of stealth. Stealth; and also a scent that cannot be placed, at least not by Smaug, the enemy of Dwarves.”

The wizard turned to him. “Smaug does not lie on his costly bed without dreams, Dori son of Orin. He dreams of Dwarves! You may be sure that he explores his hall day by day, night by night, until he is sure that no faintest air of a Dwarf is near, before he goes to his sleep: his half-sleep, prick-eared for the sound of – Dwarf-feet.”

“You make your stealth sound as difficult and hopeless as any open attack,” said Balin in dismay. “Impossibly difficult, in fact!”

But Bifur was only listening to him with half an ear. Her eyes were glued to the big BlackLock. So, this was Dori, eldest of Orin Glowhammer’s three sons? The one who had won the heart of Aurvang, the greatest female warrior of their Clan? That had been no small feat, not even for one distantly related to Thorin Oakenshield by the way of a female ancestor somewhere way up their respective family trees.

Aurvang, better known by her nickname Lady Ai of the Lightning-hand, was a legend among her kin. Only Yngvildr, the Raven Lady could be compared with her; and even though Dori was the son of a legendary hero himself and a distant kinsman to the King-in-exile, the true authority lay by his lady, the matriarch of their Clan – the only female to beat Dís Thráinsdóttir in single combat and get away with it.

Dwarves valued personal achievement greatly. Mere birth did not elevate one above a warrior who reached fame due to his or her heroic deeds.

Bifur watched the Lady Ai with interest. She was large and clearly of great strength, for sure, but she was also very beautiful, with her glossy blue-black hair in one long, intricately woven braid that touched the floor when she was sitting, her simple gown of dark red velvet, elegant yet practical. She wore no jewellery at all, save for the silver beads and clasps fixing her hair in place and the girdle of multiple silver chains that cinched her robe on the waist.

She must have felt Bifur’s eyes upon her – most warriors had that instinct – for she turned to the smaller Dwarrow-dam and gave her a quick smile.

This is what being knighted must feel among Men, thought Bifur, while inclining her head in greeting. Most females who outranked her due to their wealth or status – meaning practically all non-Wanderers, even of her own Clan – would not give her such courtesy. Her respect for the Lady Ai went up another few notches.

The debacle went on during their brief, wordless encounter, of course. Dwarves and wizard being equally stubborn, it promised to go on all day. And for several more day to come, if they were very lucky.

“Yes, it is difficult,” answered Tharkûn to Balin’s comment. “But not impossibly difficult, or I would not waste my time here. I would say absurdly difficult.”

“Therefore you are going to suggest an absurd solution to the problem, are you not?” asked Balin who, unlike the others, had known the wizard from earlier encounters and known him well.

“You know me too well, Balin my friend. Yes, that is exactly what I am doing. My suggestion is: take a Hobbit with you! Smaug has probably never heard of Hobbits, and he has certainly never smelt them.”

“What!' cried Glóin, clearly flabbergasted. “One of those simpletons down in the Shire? What use on earth, or under it, could he possibly be? Let him smell as he may, he would never dare to come within smelling distance of the nakedest dragonet new from the shell!”

Idiot, thought Bifur angrily. Why could males never see beyond the surface? She doubted that – unlike her – Glóin would have had much dealing with Halflings and could not resist the urge to put him in his place, even if Nei would be mad at her afterwards.

The fact that her parents used to have Óin and Glóin in their custody for a while did give her that right, after all.

“You speak like a fool, Glóin son of Gróin,” she declared. “And you are being unfair. What do you know about the Shire-folk anyway? Or about the Halflings of Bree, for that matter? You think them simple, I suppose, as they are generous and do not haggle; well, there are worse things in Middle-earth than that. And you think them timid for you never sell them any weapons. Well, you are mistaken. I saw them take down hungry wolves, armed with a slingshot and a couple of stones only; and at least the Tooks are deadly accurate with their arrows.”

Most Dwarves present stared at her in shocked surprise. They had probably forgotten about her presence the moment she got seated. Few had met her before to begin with and took even less kindly her dressing down somebody of Durin’s own line.

“Quite right, Bifur,” he said. “Quite right. Anyway, there is one that I have my eye on as a companion for you, Thorin.”

“Oh,” said Thorin, less than pleased. “One with a magical slingshot that can kill a Dragon with a single stone?”

“He is neat-banded and clever, though shrewd, and far from rash,” he continued. “And I think he has courage. Great courage, I guess, according to the way of his people. They are, you might say, brave at a pinch. You have to put these Hobbits in a tight place before you find out what is in them.”

“That test cannot be made,” answered Thorin with a derisive snort. “As far as I have observed, they do all that they can to avoid tight places.”

“Very sensible of them,” muttered Bifur, and the wizard gave her a conspiratory wink.

“Quite true, my dear Bifur,” he said. “They are a very sensible people. But this Hobbit is rather unusual. I think he could be persuaded to go into a tight place. I believe that in his heart he really desires to – to have, as he would put it, an adventure.”

“Not at my expense!” Thorin rose and began striding about angrily like a caged lion. “This is not advice, it is foolery! I fail to see what any Hobbit good or bad, could do that would repay me for a day's keep, even if he could be persuaded to crawl out of his hole to begin with.”

“Fail to see! You would fail to hear it, more likely,” giggled Bofur, and the wizard nodded in agreement.

“Right you are, Bofur. Hobbits move without effort more quietly than any Dwarf in the world could manage, though his life depended on it. They are, I suppose, the most soft-footed of all mortal kinds. You do not seem to have observed that, at any rate, Thorin Oakenshield, as you romped through the Shire, making a noise (I may say) that the inhabitants could hear a mile away. When I said that you would need stealth, I meant it: professional stealth.”

“Professional stealth?” echoed Balin with a frown. “Do you mean a trained treasure-seeker? Can they still be found?”

The wizard hesitated, giving the vague impression that Balin might have taken up his words rather differently than they had bean meant. For a moment he even looked a tad unsure how to take this new turn.

“I think so,” he finally said. “For a reward they will go in where you dare not, or at any rate cannot, and get what you desire.”

Thorin's eyes were burning with the memory of the lost treasure of his House. He clearly was not liking the idea. Being a thief was an accepted – if not particularly valued – trade among Dwarves, they even had their own guild, but that did not mean that anyone in high regard among their people would wish to be associated with any of them.

Even less so an exiled Dwarf King who had dreamed of taking back his lost kingdom leading vast armies against the Dragon, not having some of his forefather’s treasures stolen back by thieves. Yet, if one thought about it, they truly did not have many chances, considering that the Dwarves of the Iron Hills had refused to help them.

“A paid thief, you mean,” Thorin said scornfully at last. “That might be considered, if the reward was not too high. But what has all this to do with one of those villagers? They drink out of clay, and they cannot tell a gem from a bead of glass.”

Bifur fought the urge to laugh the haughty LongBeard lord in the face – and lost the fight spectacularly. So did Bifur and Bombur, for that matter, and even Óin’s moustaches were trembling ever so slightly. They all had visited the Thain – the head of all Tooks – in his Great Smials that came close to a small underground town, as well as the Master of Buckland in his home that stood not much behind. They were probably the only ones present who knew how well of at least some of the Halflings were, even if their wealth was in lands and crops and livestock.

They had different values and shared more readily, but that did not make them simpletons or beggars, no matter what certain Dwarves might think. Usually the ones who always took food for given and never bothered to actually produce it, ignorant of the hard work it required.

The wizard was likely well aware of these things, for he was glaring daggers at the haughty Lord of Uruktharbun.

“I wish you would not always speak so confidently without knowledge,” he said sharply. “These villagers have lived in the Shire some fourteen hundred years, and they have learned many things in the time. They had dealings with the Elves of the Wandering Companies, and with the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains, a thousand years before Smaug came to Erebor. None of them are wealthy as your forefathers reckoned it, but you will find some oftheir dwellings have fairer things in them than you can boast here. The Hobbit that I have in mind has ornaments of gold, and eats with silver tools, and drinks wine out of shapely crystal.”

“Ah! I see your drift at last,” said Balin. “He is a thief, then? That is why you recommend him?”

Bifur exchanged meaningful looks with her cousins. Those of Durin’s line were always so sure that one could have or make anything of value save their own kinfolk, and that all fine things in other hands must have been got, if not stolen, from the Dwarves at some time. The Wanderers and other merchants – those who got to deal with other races more closely and on a more equal level – knew it better, of course, but Bifur had more sense of self-preservation than to start lecturing the stiff-necked royal Clan about their ridiculous ideas.

The wizard must have come to the same conclusion, for he laughed, although more in dismay than in true mirth.

“A thief?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm, although Bifur doubted that Thorin or Balin would realise that. “Why yes, a professional thief, of course! How else would a Hobbit come by a silver spoon? I will put the mark of the Thieves’ Guild on his door, and then you will find it.”

Bifur looked at her cousins again and they shook their heads as one. A Hobbit as a member of the Thieves’ Guild? That was about as likely as a Dwarf dancing with Elves on Midsummer Night. The little folk were notoriously honest, and even if there were one or two among them with long fingers – such people were everywhere – they would not make a profession of it; or publicly acknowledge their choice.

I am so looking forward to see that encounter! Bofur signed to her under the table in Iglishmek⁽¹⁾ and all three of them snickered again.

Had the more important Dwarves catch their wordless amusement at their lord’s expense they might have taken offence on his behalf. Fortunately, they were all focused on the wizard who was getting up, too, and spoke to them with great emphasis.

“You must look for that door, Thorin Oakenshield! I am serious,” then, turning back to the others, he cried in clear exasperation. “Listen to me, Durin's Folk! If you persuade this Hobbit to join you, you will succeed. If you do not, you will fail. If you refuse even to try, then I have finished with you. You will get no more advice or help from me until the Shadow falls on you!”

Bifur looked at her cousins who shook their heads. No-one of them could imagine why the wizard would find it so desperately important that Thorin would take the Hobbit with him but they could see that he spoke in hot earnest indeed. ‘Twas not a joke, this queer notion of his; he actually meant it.

Thorin turned around and looked at the wizard in astonishment, as well he might.

“Strong words!” he said with a scowl. “Very well, I will come. I know your fame; I can only hope it is merited. Some foresight seems to be on you – if you are not merely crazed.”

Bifur winced and could see her cousins – and even Óin – do the same. Taunting a wizard was never a wise thing to do. Even mild-mannered Radagast could react rather… temperamentally to what he called ‘the stiff necks of bearded fools’, whenever any Dwarves happened to raise his wrath, and Tharkûn was said to have an even shorter temper.

Still, at the moment he seemed to be holding said temper on an exceptionally tight lash.

“Good!” he said. “But you must come with good will, not merely in the hope of proving me a fool. You must be patient and not easily put off, if neither the courage nor the desire for adventure that I speak of are plain to see at first sight. He will deny them. He will try to back out; but you must not let him.”

“Haggling will not help him, if that is what you mean,” said Thorin. “I will offer him a fair reward for anything that he recovers, and no more.”

The wizard’s expression revealed that it had not been what he meant, but it seemed useless to him to say so.

“There is one other thing,” he went on. “You must make all your plans and preparations beforehand. Get everything ready! Once persuaded he must have no time for second thoughts. You must go straight from the Shire to the East on your quest.”

“He sounds a very strange creature, this thief of yours,” said the young Prince, Fili, laughing. “What is his name, or the one that he uses?”

“Hobbits use their real names,” replied the wizard. “The only one that he has is Bilbo Baggins.”

“He thinks it very respectable, said the wizard. “And it fits well enough; for he is a middle-aged bachelor, and getting a bit flabby and fat. Food is perhaps at present his main interest.”

“There is nothing wrong with that,” commented Dori Orinsson, and Bombur nodded enthusiastically.

The wizard suppressed a smile. “So he would think, too. He keeps a very good larder, I am told, and maybe more than one. At least you will well entertained.”

“That is enough,” said Thorin, giving the happily grinning Dwalin and Dori, both quite fond of food, a warning look. “If I had not given my word, Iwould not come now. I am in no mood to be made a fool of. For I am serious also. Deadly serious, and my heart is hot within me.”

“Look now, Thorin,” he said. “Rethe⁽²⁾ is passing and Spring is here. Make everything ready as soon as youcan. I have some business to do, but I shall be back in a week. When I return, if all is in order, I will ride on ahead to prepare the ground. Then we will all set off to visit him together on the following day.”

And with that, the wizard took his leave with all the formality required in the presence of high-born and/or respected Dwarrow-dams, getting off the door in a great hurry. Somehow Bifur could not shake off the impression that he did not wish to give Thorin the chance of getting second thoughts about the whole undertaking.

Selecting the ones who would accompany him on the Quest promised to be a heated affair anyway. Bifur wondered who – aside from Bofur and Dwalin who had already declared their intention to go and were accepted – would be selected and by what criteria they would be chosen.

The next few days promised to be interesting – and not necessarily in a good way.

(2) Rethe is roughly equivalent with our March. I did mess up the original timeline a bit here, simply because the timeframe given in the book seemed a bit too narrow to me.

Author’s notes: Lóni is a canon character; he’s one of the Dwarves joining Balin’s ill-fated quest to re-conquer Moria. His family background, however, is entirely mine. The events of Thráin’s disappearance are canon and can be found in the Appendices of LotR.

Again, I work with the bookverse Dwarves; therefore Nori is the youngest of the three brothers. Their ages are not given in canon, but “Nori” literally means “little scrap”, so I assumed that he would be the youngest of the three.

My heartfelt thanks to Glîrnardir, my generous canon beta, for fact-checking and proofreading.

The following days were spent with negotiations, Thorin trying to select the best-suited people for his quest. It was decided from the beginning that Dwalin, Óin and Bofur would go with him, as they had already declared their readiness and been accepted. Balin was next to offer his axe and his scholarly knowledge.

“My brother and I were among the few who accompanied King Thráin on his desperate attempt to return to Erebor, a hundred years ago,” he explained in the Headless Goblin, one of the popular inns of the First Deep. “As Lóni is the only other one of us still alive, Thorin shall need my knowledge of the paths across the Misty Mountains and the great forest of the Wilderland; for those paths are perilous. Wargs may follow us, Orcs may waylay us, evil birds may spy upon us. The further north we get, the more danger we can count on.”

“Is that what happened to you?” asked Bifur with interest. Unlike Óin and Glóin, she and her cousins had never heard the full tale of King Thráin’s doomed attempt to re-claim the Mountain; this was something the members of the royal Clan preferred to keep to themselves. “That is how you lost the King?”

“We did not lose him,” replied Balin a little indignantly. He was a venerable Dwarf, very conscious of his reputation. “He either wandered off on his own – he had not been right in his head since Azanulbizar, you know; that blow to his head, the one that cost him his eye, perchance dislocated something within his brain, too – or he was taken. We never found out.”

“How could that happen?” Bofur frowned. “Surely you posted watches around your camp on such a perilous quest!”

“We did not build a camp in that night,” answered Balin slowly, his mind clearly walking down the vast hall of his memories, few of them pleasant. “’Twas a dark and stormy night. We were wandering the empty lands beyond the Great River Anduin when an infernal black rain forced us to take shelter under the eaves of Mirkwood. We huddled together under the trees as well as we could to warm each other in that merciless downpour, and after what seemed eternity, we fell in exhausted sleep, one by one…”

“Dwalin must have been greatly ashamed of that,” commented Óin, knowing well how much pride his cousin took in his own hardiness.

Balin nodded sadly. “He still feels shame over it. He was the King’s honour guard, after all; a warrior born and bred. It wasn’t till much later that he would show any interest for lore. I still believe, though, that it was no fault of any of us. I believe a spell of the Dark Lord was cast upon us, making our limbs heavy and clouding our minds.”

He was asking it more for the sake of Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, of course, as the sad tale of Thráin’s loss was part of their family legendarium. Mostly for Bofur’s sake, in truth; the BroadBeam had chosen to follow Thorin on his quest, he deserved to know the perils that may awaiting them.

Balin shrugged in defeat. “When we woke up in the morning, the King was gone from our midst. We called for him in vain. We searched for him many days, but the heavy rain had washed away all the tracks and not even Lóni could find them, although he was the best at woodcraft of us all.”

“Aye, that is true. But even his skills were not enough to find any trace of our King, and thus at last we gave up hope and departed, coming back at length to Thorin, empty-handed and in shame. For with Thráin lost, Thorin Oakenshield became the Heir of Durin. He was ninety-five at that time; a great Dwarf of proud bearing but an heir without hope.”

“He seemed content enough to remain here, in the Blue Mountains, though,” commented Bifur, “and the works he and his people completed here are very grand indeed. Why he would want to give up all this and go on a mad quest that had already killed his father is beyond me. But I guess I am too common of birth to understand such things.”

“You would not wish to return to Khazad-dûm, your Clan’s home of old?” asked Balin.

Bifur shook her head. “Why would I? It was never my home; nor was Erebor. I was born on the Road; if I can adapt to a settled life, here or anywhere else, I shall be content.”

“We thought the same, once coming here with Thráin,” said Balin. “In fact, I hoped Thorin would see it the same way. For, as you said yourself, rebuilding Uruktharbun has been gargantuan work and a great accomplishment, and we can rightly be proud of what we have built here. But the embers in Thorin’s heart grew hot again lately and he began to brood on the wrongs our House had suffered and the vengeance upon the Dragon that we inherited. ‘Tis a great anger without hope burning inside him that would consume him unless he does something about it. And as he needs to do this, we who are his kin will follow him – and die for him if needs must be.”

“Unfortunately, that is a strong possibility,” said a gruff voice and an iron-grey Dwarf clad in heavy leather stepped to their table. “Which is why I wish I could go with you. On a quest like this a good archer could come in handy.”

Balin grinned at the newcomer fondly. “I wish, too, that you could come with us, Lóni. A few among us do have some skill with the bow – Thorin above all – but no-one could compare himself with you and that deadly weapon of yours.”

Bifur glanced up at the old Dwarf with interest. So, this was Lóni, the grandson of Nár, King Thrór’s old companion? The one who had secretly followed Thrór and his grandsire to the gates of Khazad-dûm and witnessed the abysmal deeds of Azog the Defiler?

He was older than she would have thought. And he had a marked resemblance to the one-eyed Lofar, Uruktharbun’s head clerk. Could they be related somehow? They had the same squat, powerful frame, the same rugged features and the same very long, very impressive, forked grey beard that marked them as proud members of the LongBeard Clan. Only that Lóni’s beard was tugged into his broad belt.

He must have guessed what was going through Bifur’s head – or else he must have been asked about this many times – for he gave her a grim smile.

“Quite a bit younger, in fact,” said Balin, grinning. “Enough to be your son, almost.”

“That would have made me an awfully young father,” replied Lóni placantly. “Beardless striplings have no business raising a family.”

“I cannot remember you being beardless at any time after your final growth pains had passed,” he said. “And if memory serves me well, it wasn’t that much after Lofar’s birth that you started courting the fair Dalla, may she rest in peace in the Halls of Waiting. Your brother must have been an endearing child to make you wish to have a family of your own so soon.”

“That he was,” agreed Lóni,” though it is hard to imagine now, grim and fierce as he has become. He would go with you himself, had his aim not become askew due to the loss of his eye. He can read and write well enough with just the one he has left, but his vision becomes blurred when he has to look in the distance, and riding makes him dizzy – not the best things in a fight.”

“A shame,” said Balin. “I can remember his skill with the axe; he was a great warrior. Still, he can call himself fortunate. Most of those who had to face dragonfire have lost more than just one eye. And he is of key importance when it comes to the running of our colony… even if he might prefer wielding the axe rather than the pen.”

“Is it certain then that you shan’t be able to come with us?” asked Balin.

Lóni shook his grizzled head. “As much as I wish I could, I cannot. My daughter Katla will be coming down with her fourth child around Durin’s Day; and as her husband has just died in a mining accident less than a moon ago, she will need her father’s support.”

“What about your sons, though?” asked Balin. “Can they not support their sister?”

“They could,” replied Lóni, “but they have both gone to Dunland after Yule to negotiate about the using of some copper mines near the Swanfleet. Even if I sent for them now, they could not get back in time. Beside, they do important work there. I would loath to call them back from it. We need those mines.”

“Whom could you suggest to take your place, then?” asked Óin. “We will need a skilled archer with us. Thorin himself is quite good with the hunting bow, but that is not the same.”

“Nay,” agreed Lóni. “A longbow used in battle is a very different weapon. I can select someone from my best pupils if the King orders, though.”

“No need for that; we already have a volunteer,” said a gruff voice, and Dwalin dropped onto the last empty seat at their table like a loosened boulder.

Balin’s silver brow climbed high in surprise. “Have we now? And who, pray tell, would that be?”

“The younger of the royal pups,” admitted Dwalin unhappily; a feeling that mirrored on his brother’s face at once.

“That’s not good,” muttered Balin. “If one of the young princes is allowed to go, the other one would not bear being left behind. We could lose the eldest line of Durin’s blood entirely.”

“Aye, but how do you suppose we can keep them here against their will?” asked Dwalin. “They are both of age…”

“They are of age, Brother. And they are both trained warriors. Besides, ‘tis their inheritance, too; they have every right to go.”

“And not a hint of common sense,” muttered Óin. “I cannot understand how Dís can allow this. She is their mother; the only one who could forbid them to go.”

“She is every bit as mad as her sons,” commented Bifur. “She wants to become the spoiled Princess of Erebor again, and for that, she would even risk her children.”

“Peace, Sigrún,” Óin laid a placating hand upon her clenched fist. “We all know that you are not a friend of the Lady, but don’t be so harsh on her. Erebor was her home; she saw it burn in dragonfire. ‘Tis understandable that she would want it back.”

“Besides, Prince Kíli is my best pupil,” added Lóni. “His skill with the bow amazes even the Rangers, and they learn their skills from Elves. He will be a great asset to Thorin’s company.”

“’Tis still madness, to put every surviving son of his line at risk,” said Balin. “Who will rule in Uruktharbun if we all perish? Regin Frerinsson cannot; his weak health was the reason why he’d been taken out of the line of succession, and his only child is a girl. As precious as our women are to our hearts, there was never a Queen sitting on Durin’s throne.”

“I am sure that Dís would be happy to break that tradition,” said Bifur dryly, but Balin shook his head.

“She cannot. It has been set in stone from the Awakening of the Seven Fathers: mothers rule the family and fathers rule the realm. There is no way around that.”

“But she can rule as Princess Regent in her brother’s name until the next in the line of succession grows into his power,” reminded him Óin. “And since it will take decades for young Vigdís Reginsdóttir to find a mate and bear a son, that could be a long reign.”

“But only in Uruktharbun,” said Balin, “as this is not truly a kingdom. Should we re-claim the Mountain but lose the eldest line, kingship would shift to the closest bloodline.”

“And whose is that?” asked Bifur; unlike the others, she was not familiar with – or overly interested in – the rules of succession within Durin’s line.

“Dáin from the Iron Hills,” replied Dwalin grimly. “Which, if you ask me, explains his reluctance to support our Quest. Whatever the outcome, he can only win.”

“That is very true, I fear,” sighed Balin. “And the more reason for at least Prince Fíli to remain behind.”

“Perhaps,” began Bifur cautiously, “perhaps if you asked Mother Edhla to read the rune-stones for you, you may get some insight… what?” she snapped angrily, seeing Óin’s amused grin.

“Growing respectful towards her skills, ain’t you?” asked Óin teasingly. Bifur shrugged.

“She has healed my hand; it would be unfair to deny that. And she made a charm for Bombur, too, to help him with his grief and melancholy.”

Bofur grinned at him like a loon. “Have you seen my dear brother eat lately?”

They all laughed, for the return of Bombur’s ferocious appetite was a good sign indeed. The large, friendly BroadBeam had been a shadow of himself for too long; knowing that he was on his way to get better al last lifted their hearts… and spoke highly of Mother Edhla’s skills with her healing stones.

“Perhaps it would be beneficial to ask her indeed,” said Dwalin thoughtfully. Warriors like him tended to believe in portents; and he had some small knowledge about stone-lore, too.

“I already have,” confessed Óin, “but not much has come out of it. Only that Mahal looks kindly at the Quest, but it won’t be an easy one, and the outcome is uncertain. You don’t need to be a seer to know that.”

“Nay; but oracles are always more than a little vague,” agreed Balin. “What else did she say?”

“That we shall have to accept help from unlikely sources,” replied Óin slowly. “And that success will come at a high cost – if it will come at all.”

“Nay, ‘tis not,” admitted Balin. “But Thorin is set to go on this Quest; therefore it is our duty to follow him. He is our King; here or under the Mountain, we owe him our allegiance. And we shan’t fail him like we failed his father.”

He said this with a simplicity that made any possible argument useless. And his brother, still haunted by the loss of Thráin, nodded in grim agreement.

After the meeting in the tavern, the closest circle of Thorin was buzzing with activity like a nest of angry hornets. Although not all members of the Company were selected yet, preparations for the long journey were already been made. Supplies were needed: food and pack ponies before everything else, as Thorin did not want wagons to slow down their progress; and minted coin, of course, which they needed to pay for accommodations as long as there were any, and to restock their supplies as they went.

Fortunately, Dwarf-minted coin was accepted everywhere in Middle-earth, as it contained exactly the amount of copper, bronze, silver and gold that was marked on the surface… unlike some Man-made ones.

Thorin did not find it beneath him to ask for help with the preparations, since the Wanderer Dwarves had much greater knowledge about the Road and the necessities for travelling it than any warrior could hope for. Thus he came to see Bofur from time to time to consult him. The rest of the family was also present during those visits, and they were most forthcoming with both advice and practical suggestions.

It was during one of those visits when – to everyone’s shocked surprise – Bombur asked Thorin’s permission to join the Quest.

Needless to say that the first reactions were… mixed at best. Bávor was the most shocked by the mere idea – and the first to protest.

“Nay, Father! If one of our family goes with Uncle Bofur, it should be me! I’m young, I’m strong and I’m a trained warrior!”

“A trained warrior!” Bombur snorted. “Lad, you learned to wield the axe on the Road, fighting Mannish footpads and the occasional stray Orc. What has that to do with warrior training? You have never seen a proper battle in your whole life! I, on the other hand, fought with Thorin and Balin in the Battle of Azanulbizar and lived to tell the tale.”

“You were a beardless lad, Father, helping the cooks and taking care of the pack ponies,” returned Bávor with a snort of his own.

“And what if I was?” Bombur’s otherwise so friendly eyes started blazing with anger. “I still was there and slew my fair share of Orcs. And I did not survive by hiding behind the cauldrons in fear.”

“Nay, you did not,” said Thorin and there was a rare warmth in his gruff voice; a warmth Bifur could not remember having heard before. “You were as brave as the rest of us; braver even, since you were not a warrior. It would be an honour to fight on your side again, but… are you certain that you are up to it, Bombur? You are not the youngest anymore; or the fittest.”

“Oh aye, I am very sure,” replied Bombur. “And I shan’t be a burden, I swear. Look at me: I have never been so light since… I cannot even tell for how long. I can do this, Thorin! Allow me to be useful one last time, I beg you!”

Thorin did not answer at once, seizing up the older Dwarf, who was trembling with eagerness, thoughtfully. Bombur had not appeared so excited, so… so alive since the passing of his Maren, and Bifur would hate to see his rekindled light fall to ashes again.

“You will need to eat during the Quest, all of you,” she said to Thorin. “What better than take a cook with you then? One who is used to the life on the Road and can whip up a meal where others would find nothing to cook with?”

“She is right,” Bofur supported the idea. “And I can always keep an eye on my brother if needs must be.”

“Nay, you cannot; you will be needed for other things,” said Bifur. “You are a miner, not a minder. That is my task.”

“Yours?” Thorin looked at her in surprise. “You want to come with us?”

“Nay; that is the last thing I would want,” replied Bifur honestly. “But if both my cousins go, I, too, will go. We always travelled the Road together, the three of us; this time should not be different.”

“Having a Dwarrow-dam with us would be a good omen,” said Balin. “No Quest should be started without one; or could you talk the Lady Ai into coming with us?”

Thorin laughed mirthlessly, leaving little doubt about the outcome of that particular conversation.

“The Lady Ai explained to her husband in no uncertain terms that while Dori might feel obliged to join us due to some misled family obligation that is so common in Durin’s line, I think she phrased it, she for her part will not follow some stuffy old fool – that would be me, in case you were wondering – on a mad adventure to certain death. And neither would any of their children.”

“But Dori is with us, ain’t he?” asked Bofur a bit anxiously. Dori was probably the strongest Dwarf in the Blue Mountains; a strength like his would be needed on a dangerous journey.

Bofur laughed. “Mahal wept, the raving scribe is ready to leave his books and scrolls behind, and they would even take the little scrap with them?”

“Nori might be the youngest, but he is no child anymore,” reminded him Thorin. “And he is quite deadly with that long-handed mace of his.”

“Aye, that is true,” nodded Bombur. “I am still surprised that Lady Idún would let him go, though. He has always been her treasure, the only thing that kept her going after Orin Glowhammer fell at Azanulbizar. Small wonder, seein’ as Nori was born when his father had already been dead for half a year.”

“And Idún has not left her chambers ever since,” added Thorin with a sigh. “It will hit her hard when her sons, too, leave for such a dangerous journey, but she will do nothing to stop them. Her will has been broken when Orin died; she is but a shadow of the glorious Dwarrow-dam she once was.”

Bombur nodded in sad understanding. “It is known to happen. Sometimes the life-bond is so strong that if your life-mate dies, part of you dies with them. I of all Dwarves should know. And that is why I need to go with you, Thorin. I don’t want to end up like the Lady Idún, sitting in an empty chamber, waiting for death to have mercy with me.+

Thorin hesitated for a while yet, but in the end the deep-rooted loyalty of every Dwarf towards friends and family won. Bombur might not be a great strategist or a doughty warrior, but he had what was needed for a desperate Quest aplenty: loyalty, honour and a willing heart.

“All right,” the King finally said. “If you are certain; if you both are certain,” he added with a sidelong glance in Bifur’s direction, “then I will be honoured to count you among my companions.”

“We are sure,” answered Bifur with determination. “We belong together; if one goes, we all go.”

“You cannot be serious!” Frán raved two days later, when Bifur visited the oldest members of her caravan to tell them about her decision and to hand over everything to Niping and his family. “Are you truly giving up your whole life, just to go on a mad adventure from where there will be no return? Why would you do that?”

“Because Bofur wants to go and Bombur needs to go, and I shan’t let them go alone,” replied Bifur simply. “Bávor will take Bombur’s wagon with his family and Inga will move into mine with Gellir; as for the rest, I am certain that you will find plenty of people willing to join you when you set off again. There are enough adventurous craftspeople between here and the Grey Mountains; our Clan has always been rather mobile in the last two Ages.”

“I will look out for suitable travelling companions,” promised Niping, stroking his lush ginger beard thoughtfully. His eyes glittered in barely hidden excitement.

As much as he regretted the loss of Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, the chance to have a caravan of his own, as had his ancestors back in Erebor’s heyday, pleased him very much. He was a merchant with heart and soul, coming from a once great house of merchants and still hoping to re-gain the splendour of his forefathers one day.

“You cannot truly condone this… this folly!” she cried. “They will perish, all of them; if the Orcs and Wargs don’t kill them on their way, the Dragon surely will. And for what? To chase the fevered dream of a maddened LongBeard who throws away everything his people have built with heavy labour, just so he can call himself King again? This is not our fight! Erebor has never been our city, not a BroadBeam realm!”

“Yet it was my home and that of my longfathers, ever since they fled Khazad-dûm with King Thráin I and helped him establish the Kingdom Under the Mountain, nigh a thousand years ago,” replied Niping sharply. “I am no warrior and neither are my sons, so we would be of little use for Thorin Oakenshield in battle. But I would very much like to see our Kingdom rise again; and if Thorin manages to wrestle it back from the Dragon, I shall do everything in my power to help him rebuild it.”

“You just want to get the lost riches of your family back,” said Frán with a derisive snort. Niping shrugged.

“And what if I do? Those riches are mine by right; my ancestors worked hard to gain them. It would be only fair if the wealth of my family would be returned to me.”

“You can forget it,” snarled Frán. “If they survive at all, which is more than doubtful, Thorin will distribute all the treasure among those who had followed him, in equal shares. You can call yourself fortunate if they allow you to move back into your own halls.”

“Nay, I do not believe that,” protested Bifur. “But should it truly happen, both Bofur and I would gladly split our share with Niping and his family. And we would be more than happy to let him handle our half of the share, too, should there be any.”

“You would?” Niping was in equal parts surprised and touched by so much trust from someone who was not even his kin by blood.

Bifur nodded. “Of course I would. You are the oldest friend of my parents still alive and you have always been like an uncle to me. I would trust you with my life; in fact, I have, many times since we have been travelling together. I could not have the caravan – and my young cousins – in any better hands.”

“But we will need somebody to take your place,” said Niping. “Every caravan needs a Dwarrow-dam to lead it. Will Bávor’s wife join us?”

“She will, together with their children, but she is too young for the task and has no experience with living on the Road,” replied Bifur. “Nay; that burden must go to Frán, I am afraid. She is blood, from my mother’s side, and she hails from the old warrior Clans; a fearsome warrior herself. I trust her unconditionally to keep you all safe.”

“I am honoured by your trust, Sigrún, and I accept the responsibility,” she said. “I still believe that you are a fool, though, and so are your cousins.”

“Perhaps we are,” allowed Bifur. “But if such folly prevents Bombur from being consumed by grief, I am willing to take the risk.”

At the same time Thorin was sitting in the Lesser Hall with some of his kinsmen and councillors, looking over the preparations already made and the tasks that still lay before them.

“Let us count the numbers,” he said to Ori who kept the records concerning the Quest. “How many of us are there already?”

The exotic-looking BlackLock opened his book and read out the names of those already chosen loudly.

“Well, there is you, of course. Then Balin and Dwalin; Nori, Dori and myself; Óin and Glóin; the three BroadBeams: Bifur, Bofur and Bombur; and the two young princes. All in all thirteen in the number.”

“Not a lucky one,” muttered Dwalin. “So Glóin chose to come with us then, eh? I am not surprised. He might have chosen the craft of a jeweller, but he is a warrior at heart. What does surprise me is that his firstborn did not volunteer. That lad is every bit as battle-mad as his father.”

“Oh, he wanted to come,” Thorin smiled grimly. “And how he wanted! He insulted the skills of Fíli and Kíli even, insisting that he is twice the warrior that the two of them are together, and that he is fit for anything.”

“Aye, and we are trying not to repeat that utter disaster if we can help if,” replied Balin tartly.

“Besides, the final decision is with Gimli’s mother,” reminded them Thorin. “And the Lady Nei was adamant that a beardless stripling has no business fighting a dragon.”

“Gimli is hardly beardless,” snorted Balin. “He is absolutely deadly with the battle-axe and a great deal stronger than he looks. He would be a great asset to the Company.”

“No doubt he would,” agreed Thorin. “I cannot blame the Lady Nei for wanting to keep him home, though. Of their five children only Gimli is of age – should we perish, it would fall to him to protect the rest of the family. ‘Tis bad enough that I have to take Fíli and Kíli with me, but they would not be separated, and I cannot forbid them to come.”

“Reasonable?” Thorin barked a mirthless laugh. “She wanted to come with us herself!”

Dwalin shrugged again. “So why would you not let her come? She wields the axe like a demon; certainly better than that pathetic old fool Bombur.”

“Aye, but I need her here,” replied Thorin. “Somebody has to keep Uruktharbun safe in my absence; and we all know that Regin would not be the right choice, despite his heritage. Besides,” he added with a grim smile, “Tharkûn insisted on secrecy. Can you imagine my dear sister sneak along the Road unseen?”

The others shook their heads as one Dwarf. No, Dís Thráinsdóttir was not the Dwarrow-dam suited for secrecy. When she travelled the Road – which she did occasionally, visiting the fair in Lindon – she made sure that everyone knew she was coming… and got out of her way in a hurry.

“Speaking of Tharkûn,” said Balin, “is he not riding with us to the Shire?”

“He is,” Thorin nodded. “More so as he intends to lead us on little-trodden paths along the border of the small country of the Halflings; paths that no-one knows like he does.”

“But why the secrecy?” asked Ori with a frown. “Surely he does not expect spies so far in the West. Who would be interested in a band of Dwarves travelling eastwards? ‘Tis a common enough sight on this side of the Misty Mountains.”

“Aye, but the same band of Dwarves crossing the Shire where there is no fair in any of the larger villages would make people wonder,” pointed out Balin.

“So it would,” Thorin agreed. “And Tharkûn is apparently worried that his chosen thief would become suspicious and go into hiding, should he learn of our approach.”

“Would he now?” Ori seemed amused by that thought. “I wonder what kind of thief is he when his first instinct is to run away from any prospective clients.”

“That is a very good question indeed,” said Thorin darkly. “One that I would see answered myself.”

Thorin did not find any more suitable candidates for his Quest in the remaining time till their planned departure. Bifur, while busy with her own preparations and the handing over the caravan to Frán and Niping, sometimes wondered about the reason. Had the Exiles grown too fond of their new, comfortable life in Uruktharbun and were now reluctant to leave it behind? Or did Thorin not find them trustworthy enough?

For her part Bifur found it surprisingly easy to part from her former life. She had no roots in the Blue Mountains, no kin in the numerous BroadBeam settlements between Lindon and the Shire, and the three most important Dwarves in her life – and yes, she did count Óin among those – were coming with her.

Besides, travelling the Road was nothing new for her; for either of them. And seeing Bombur return to his old boisterous self was balm for her heart. Yes, her cousin might die on this Quest – they all might. But at least he would die in battle, as it suited a Dwarf, not fading away in some windowless chamber.

Therefore she found it only fair to pay Mother Edhla a last visit and thank her for her help.

“It was my pleasure, child,” the ancient little FireBeard dam ushered her to the workbench where she was filing away on a piece of amber that contained a frozen insect in its middle. An insect the likes of which Bifur had never seen before.

“This little fellow was likely trapped here while Durin the Deathless still slept under deep stone,” she said. “Have you never seen such living gems before? Amber is the tears of the trees, child, turned to stone. Nothing but the resin of ancient trees; and just like it happens in our days sometimes, a wandering insect got trapped in a dollop of it and became part of the jewel,” she gave Bifur a meaningful look. “You see, Dwarves and Elves, the Children of Stone and the Tree-Children, are not as different as both like to believe.”

“You would better not mention this within Thorin’s earshot,” warned her Bifur, but Mother Edhla waved off her concern.

“Our King cannot see clearly when it comes to the Tree-folk; and they are every bit as prejudiced when it comes to our people, especially my tribe. And since neither side is willing to make a step back and try to give the other one the benefit of doubt, the enmity will go on and on until Arda Remade… or beyond. Somehow I cannot imagine either Mahal or the One who summoned him wanting this, as it only serves the purposes of the Enemy.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Bifur. “But why the FireBeards? Why do the Elves hate your Clans more than the rest of us?”

“Because it were the smiths of Tumunzahar who slew their King, Elu Thingol of Doriath, in his own halls after a dispute about payment going terribly wrong,” replied Mother Edhla grimly. “Not the finest hour in our history, I fear, even if Thingol was not entirely blameless in the quarrel, either.”

“But that was two entire Ages ago!” Bifur shook her head in bewilderment. “How can they still keep grudges after all that time? What do we have in common with those enraged smiths of Tumunzahar? Hundreds of generations have been born and died in the meantime.”

Mother Edhla nodded. “Aye, that is true for us; but not for the Elves. You must understand, child, that Elves were made to live as long as Arda remains, unless they die from battle wounds… or from a broken heart. There are still such among them who walked the forests of Beleriand that now lies under the Sea. The Elvenking of Mirkwood is one of those; and more than that. He is a kinsman of Elu Thingol and lived through the attack of our people on Thingol’s realm. Thorin would do well to thread around him lightly. Elves have a long memory.”

Bifur stared at the little old one in awe. “How can you know all this? The history of Elves is not something many Dwarves would have been taught.”

“Neither was I,” replied Mother Edhla. “But I visited Lindon often in my youth, keeping an open ear and an open mind in my dealings with Elves and Men. And I talked to Tharkûn often, whenever our paths happened to cross. You should try it, too. ‘Tis very useful.”

“Because you are one of the few who are willing to listen,” said Mother Edhla. “And because Thorin’s blindness can bring him in great danger. He will need someone near him who does not share his prejudices. Someone with an open mind.”

“But what can I do to change his mind?” asked Bifur doubtfully. “He has his advisors, and they think very much like he does. I am not important enough to have his ear.”

“Perhaps not; but you do have Óin’s ear, and Thorin listens to Óin,” said Mother Edhla. “Besides, you are the only female among them. Custom demands that they at least hear you out. Don’t hesitate to use custom to your advantage. Males are too stubborn for their own good sometimes.”

She finished filing the piece of amber. It was oval-shaped now, with the insect in its middle as brightly-coloured as if it had just hatched. She threaded a fine silver chain through the loop soldered to its top, then laid it around Bifur’s neck.

“This is my parting gift for you, child,” she said. “I warded it; laid a spell of protection on it. Its powers are not very great, but it should help against certain kinds of poison, namely spider venom or asp… and it will mark you as a prospective friend in the eyes of the Tree-Children.”

“I doubt Thorin would like that,” smiled Bifur, and Mother Edhla smiled back at her.

“He does not need to know… until it is needed. And then you can blame me. That will silence him about the topic.”

She paused and her eyes became vacant for a moment, as if looking at something only she could see.

“Be careful, child,” she murmured. “My heart tells me that even if you return, you won’t come back unchanged – for the better or the worse, I cannot see. Be careful and guard your heart well.”

More she could not – or would not – tell, and so Bifur thanked her again and took her leave from her, returning to the temporary lodgings she shared with her cousins. The day of departure was drawing close, and there was still much to do.

Author’s notes: Again, I work with the bookverse Dwarves; therefore Kíli, too, is canonically blond. I made some allowances towards the film by making him a very dark blond, but blond still he is, with proper braids as it behoves a prince.

The All-welcome Inn never made it into the printed version, so I take the freedom of replacing it to the village Waymeet, where it would serve its purpose very well. The distances given in this chapter are my calculation, based on Karen Fonstad’s atlas, and probably full of mistakes.

After a great deal of hurried preparations, the day of departure finally came and Thorin and his handful of followers set off from Uruktharbun, heading to the small country of the Hobbits, led by the wizard. There was no farewell feast, for the sake of secrecy. They simply rode out of the East-Gate as if going on one of the many journeys they were known for.

Only Glóin’s lady came to see them off, together with her firstborn who still seemed mightily insulted that they would not let him join the Quest. Bifur, who had not seen him since his birth, eyed him with interest. The lad might have been a bit young to go on such a dangerous journey, but there could be little doubt that he could face a lot already.

He stood at about five feet even, just an inch or two shorter than Bifur herself, who was an average-sized Dwarrow-dam. Like his father, he was stocky and broad-shouldered, with large, strong hands, thick, corded arms and legs, and a heavily muscled chest and back. Unlike his father, though, he was all muscle and sinew, with not an ounce of fat on him.

His short and neat beard, not yet long enough to be properly braided, accentuated his handsome features, marked by high cheekbones, a strong jaw and a small nose. His coppery moustache was carefully braided with gold beads. His most notable features were, though, his large, almond-shaped eyes – a deep, rich brown that seemed almost black in sunlight – and a long, thick mane of straight dark copper hair that reached to the middle of his back.

Aye, Bifur decided, this was a son any Dwarf father would be proud to call his firstborn. She was happy for Glóin; for their entire family. It was bad enough that Óin had to give up on children of his own; at least in Glóin’s progeny the proud heritage of Gróin would live on.

Unaware of her watching eyes, Gimli unwound enough to exchange good-natured insults with the two young princes – they were distant cousins, after all – and wished them Mahal’s blessing before returning to the halls under the Zirakinbar. His mother followed suit, and the Company could begin its journey eastwards.

Travelling in the saddle was very different from travelling in a wagon, Bifur found. Above other things, it was a lot less comfortable. Sure, they had often ridden short distances – from their camp to the next settlement, for example, when it seemed more advisable to stay outside a Mannish village for the night – but being in the saddle for days upon days was a different matter.

They rode at a steady, leisurely pace, one best suited for long journeys. The distance between the Blue Mountains and Michel Delving – the chief settlement of the Shire, the annual fairs of which her caravan had frequently visited in the past – measured some fifty leagues as the crow flies. Following the Road that went around natural distances it was even longer. From there it was another twenty to twenty-four leagues to their actual destination: a village named Hobbiton, where their burglar was supposed to live.

However, Tharkûn decided not to enter the Tookland, with the reasoning that of all Hobbits the Tooks were the most inquisitive lot, which he explained with their Fallohide blood (whatever that was supposed to mean). Therefore they only followed the Great East Road to Waymeet, where they spent the night at the All-welcome Inn, at the junction of the Road and one of the smaller local roads heading northwards.

The inn was a low, wide-spreading building made of sturdy oak beams and whitewash, with a thatched roof. It was built over a stone cellar and had suitable lodgings for both Hobbits and Men; the former of which fit the Dwarves just nicely.

“’Tis called so because it is much used by travellers through the Shire, especially our own people on the way home to Uruktharbun,” explained Bifur to the young princes who had never left the Blue Mountains before.

They seemed to have taken an instant liking to her – perchance because she was the only female in their band – and often sought her company during the infrequent stops. Or they just wanted to be close to Bombur, their main source of food. They might count as adults but were still of an age when young Dwarves had a healthy appetite.

The younger prince was of a more slender stature than his brother, his intricately braided hair and short beard a much darker gold; at times, when the sunlight fell upon it in a particular angle, it almost seemed the usual earth-brown of his LongBeard ancestors. Neither he, nor Fíli had any marked likeness to their mother, which made it easier for Bifur to like them. Fíli, golden, handsome and powerfully built, displayed the best traits of their StoneFoot father, while Kíli was… like nobody else, really. Still, the two seemed to get on splendidly and were inseparable.

“Oh aye, every time we crossed the Shire,” Bifur answered the question. “’Tis a nice place, and Missus Heathertoes is an excellent cook. Hobbit inns are always clean and comfortable and open to everyone.”

“You see, the Great East Road does not belong to the Shire, not exactly,” intervened Óin, sitting down next to them, obviously in loremaster-mood. “’Tis a very ancient road, built by the Mannish Kings of Arnor, way back when there still was a North-kingdom of Men. As the Hobbits accepted the overlordship of the Kings of Arnor, even though mostly just in name, they see it as their traditional duty to keep the Road in repair and provide hospitality for travellers.”

“Which, of course, is quite profitable for them,” added Bofur, grinning, “and also their main source of ‘outside news’ as they call it. The Heathertoes family has owned the Inn for at least six generations, they say. The family head is the village leader, too; has been re-elected twice already.”

“Aye, and his family was always kind to our folk,” said Bombur, making himself comfortable with a gusty sigh of relief.

He removed one of the small bronze capsules adorning his beard, opened it and put the small glob of sweetened tree gum hidden within into his mouth, chewing on it contentedly. Fíli and Kíli stared at the other random pieces of cheap jewellery scattered all over that mighty beard wide-eyed, trying to guess what other little snacks the old Dwarf might have stored there.

“That they were,” agreed Bofur. “I remember earlier times, when we were piss-poor and could barely make it from one market to another, Hjalli and his son Hunbogi were often hired as masons and bridge-menders. Me and the other miners, Tyrgg and Skeggi, may he rest in peace, worked on repairing the Road a few times, too.”

“And when we could not afford the coin for buying food, they accepted the knives and ploughshares and axe-heads forged by Órn and Mjötsognir as payment,” remembered Bifur with a fond smile. “Hobbits are a generous folk.”

Glóin, who never had much respect for those who would not haggle and showed little interest in riches, opened his mouth, presumably to say something derogatory about the Shire-folk – but the wizard glared so sternly at him from under those thorny eyebrows of his that he reconsidered and shut up.

“Quite right,” Tharkûn then said. “They are generous, and whenever you eat at the table of a Hobbit, you can be sure that the food will be good. Now, see that you rest well tonight; for we shall leave the Road tomorrow and continue our journey on little-know paths to Hobbiton.”

“But why must we do so?” asked Bifur. “Dwarves are truly not a rare sight on the East Road or its inns; why would anyone take notice of us?”

“Because, my dear Bifur, Dwarves are a common sight on the Road,” explained the wizard. “They seldom turn off it; and their appearance in a company at Hobbiton would cause a lot of talk. After all, Hobbits love to gossip almost as much as they love food, and that is saying a lot.”

“What do you suggest then?” growled Thorin, getting impatient with all that talk.

“We shall ride up on one of the minor roads till Bywater,” replied the wizard. “I will go forward and make sure that Bilbo is at home for us. Then we leave our steeds at the Green Dragon Inn – their stables are well-kept and the stable hands skilled with all kinds of horses – and approach Bag End on foot, in twos and threes. That way Bilbo won’t be too overwhelmed.”

“I will go first,” announced Dwalin, crossing his muscular arms on his mighty chest, daring everyone to argue with him.

Tharkûn gave him a doubtful look. “No offence, Dwalin, but do you really think your looks will beget instant trust in a Hobbit?”

“Aye, you’ll frighten the little fellow out o’ his wits if you appear on his threshold without warning,” supplied Bofur.

Dwalin shrugged. “I am the war-master; ‘tis my duty to go first. The Hobbit will have to get used to me if he wants to join us.”

Tharkûn’s face revealed his doubts that the Hobbit would indeed want to join the company after having been intimidated into the next Age by Dwalin. Bifur also had the impression that the wizard strongly felt that without the Hobbit going with them the quest would fail… for whatever reason.

Wizards were known to have strange insights. The true difficulty, however, would be to make those insights plausible for other people. Especially for outstandingly stubborn Dwarves of Durin’s line.

“Don’t worry about that, Tharkûn my friend,” said Balin, who had been listening to them in silence so far. “I will go with my brother. Unlike him, I know how to win the trust of gentler souls.”

Which was very true. As imposing as Balin could be in the council chamber, he had an uncanny talent of appearing all grandfatherly and trustworthy, by simply putting away his jewellery and smiling a lot. He played the role of the harmless, dotardly old Dwarf so well that people who did not know him would never imagine how determined and deadly he could be if he chose to.

This was the Dwarf who had fought in the Battle of Azanulbizar at the tender age of thirty-six, after all – and through the whole terrible, six-year-long war against the Orcs before that – and survived to tell the tale.

“Very well,” said Tharkûn reluctantly. “That might work. Let us make good use of the comfort of this fine inn tonight, then; in the next days we will camp under the stars.”

On the next day, the wizard rode forth at good speed early in the morning, while the Dwarves followed at a slower, steadier pace. They had no wagons to slow them down this time, but the pack ponies were loaded with burdens even a Dwarf pony would find heavy; mostly with foodstuffs, as they could not be certain how they might be able to replenish their resources, once they had left the plentiful and hospitable Hobbit country behind them. It was best to conserve the strength of the good beasts, as well as their own.

Therefore, it took them almost three days to make it from Waymeet to the point where the Bywater Road branched off the Great East Road, leading them to the village of Bywater, and their next chosen rest, the Green Dragon Inn.

Some of the more suspicious members of the Company – including Bombur, Glóin and, surprisingly enough, Dwalin – did not like the idea of staying in an inn named after a dragon, but Thorin silenced them with an icy glare. That did not bode so well with them at first; yet when they finally reached their temporary destination, everyone was relieved and pleased by the thought of a hot meal and real beds again.

The Green Dragon, frequented by Hobbits from both Bywater itself and the neighbouring settlement of Hobbiton, was a long, overground structure of several interconnected wattle-and-beam building, located on the Bywater Road. Its front looked at the local river – called by the Hobbits The Water with endearing simplicity – where it widened to the small lake of Bywater Pool, which was also fed by another stream from the Northfarthing.

They arrived in the late afternoon, when the inn was quite full and the servants busy. But Tharkûn must clearly have announced their coming, for Master Noakes, the innkeeper – called Young Noakes, to separate him from his late father, the Old Noakes, who had owned the inn before him – was already looking out for them.

The innkeeper was a fairly big man for a Hobbit (though still shorter than even Bifur), with a rotund build, somewhat sharp features and light brown hair that, unlike by most Hobbits, did not curl. His blue jacket of fine wool, with an earth brown waistcoat and breeches, as well as a linen shirt and a silk kerchief around his neck, revealed that he was doing well for himself and his family. Probably had farm shares, too, providing his business with a steady source of foodstuffs.

“Welcome, good masters!” he called out jovially, as soon as he spotted the approaching Dwarves. “My name is Anso Noakes, and I have been waiting for you. Come in, come in; your rooms have been reserved for you, and it is almost time for dinner.”

The Dwarves did not wait for a second invitation. They dismounted with heartfelt groans, entrusting their ponies to the grooms of the inn, while other servants came running to take their bags to the aforementioned rooms and preparing baths for them.

The last one to arrive was a young Hobbit woman, so pleasantly plump that she barely fit into her tightly laced, moss green velvet bodice, her face round and rosy, her long hair a mass of dark brown curls. Her cherry mouth seemed to be in a permanent pout.

“My wife, Rosmery,” introduced her Master Oakes. “She will show you to your rooms; ask her if you find anything lacking. I must return to the Common Room to rescue my brother Jago. He is better at accounting than actually serving customers, you know.”

“Come with me, good masters,” said Missus Rosmery in a high, pleasant voice and hurried forth with a rush of her ample skirts.

After settling in their rooms, they used the opportunity of a long-missed hot bath, and then went down to the Common Room for dinner – all of them, save for Thorin who had some urgent business to look after first.

“Save some of the dinner for me,” he said. “I do not know when I shall be back.”

Young Kíli, whom this request – or rather order – had been addressed, nodded dutifully and hurried after the others. His uncle might be more lenient towards him than towards Fíli who was, after all, his heir, but the younger prince knew better than forget an order given by their mother’s eldest brother.

The large room was populated mostly by local Hobbits, both from Bywater and Hobbiton, as usual, but there were a few others, too, from different parts of the Shire, and they were doing what Hobbits were known to do: eating and gossiping. But again, who could have blamed them for such small pleasures after a day of hard work on the fields?

When the Dwarves filed in, the general noise in the room dropped to almost shocked silence. Clearly, the Hobbits in the heart of the Shire were not as used to outsiders among them as those nearer the borders. At least not when there was no fair in the village.

But when the strange folk sat down and started to eat with a healthy appetite, the worthies of Bywater and Hobbiton just shrugged and returned to their conversation.

“You were saying, Master Worrywort?” somebody urged the old Hobbit sitting near the hearth, with an enormous mug of ale before him.

The old chap with the leathery face and rough, calloused hands gave them a grim smile.

“I was sayin’ as Mr Baggins caught a bit of Tookish queerness from that mother o’ his,” he said with quiet dignity. “Somethin’ that’s only waitin’ for a chance t’ get out. An’ it will get out sooner or later, mark my words. One day, it will get out!”

“Stuff an’ nonsense!” countered an old Hobbit matron, sitting in a corner and stitching away on a handkerchief in the light of an oil lamp. She had a ruffled bonnet on her head, covering her hair and a crocheted red shawl around her bony shoulders, knotted in the front. “Mr Bilbo is every bit as respectable an’ reliable as his father was, may he rest in peace. A true Baggins, he is, and Bagginses never have any adventures.”

“But the Tooks do,” someone else argued. “An’ his mother was a Took; a daughter of Ye Aulde Took himself. Even you have t’ admit, Grammer Noakes, as there’s something not wholly Hobbit-like in them Tooks!”

“He’s right, Mum,” a well-dressed Hobbit with the same sharp features as the innkeeper but with curly, straw-blond hair, commented, laughing. “Everyone knows as from time to time one of them Tooks goes mad in t’ head and leaves the Shire on some mad adventure. Some of them are never seen again.”

Oh, so this was the innkeeper’s brother; the one better at accounting than at serving customers, Bifur realised. The old matron had to be their mother, then… and apparently a level-headed person.

“It had always been said as long ago some or other o’ them Tooks had married into a fairy family,” somebody said in a hushed voice.

“Be careful with that loose tongue o’ yours, Rollo Sackville,” she warned. “I shan’t tolerate people settin’ mean rumours in motion about perfectly respectable gentlehobbits. Bilbo Baggins is a good customer of mine – much better than you, tight-fisted and ill-humoured rascal as you are. He never caused you, or anyone else, for that matter, any harm.”

“But Grammer, you can’t deny that he is odd,” insisted the Sackville. “He’s sittin’ in that hole o’ his, readin’ books all day… or wandering off to t’ wild places an’ woods, talkin’ to strange folks: Big People and Elves, even Dwarves! ‘Tis not natural!”

Somebody hissed at the fool angrily, reminding him of the presence of Dwarves – and grim-faced Dwarves, armed to their teeth at that – within earshot, and he hurriedly threw some coppers onto the counter and left. The conversation then turned to other topics… among the Hobbits, at least.

“If he was ever talking to Dwarves, those Dwarves were certainly not us,” replied Bifur. “We never ran into any Hobbits outside Bree – or the annual fairs within the Shire. And most Shire Hobbits rarely even visit Bree. They do not leave their small country if they can help it.”

“But lots of other caravans travel the Road,” pointed out Bofur. “He could have met wandering craftsmen, too. Many Dwarves cross the Shire on their way between the Blue Mountains and the Iron Hills; ‘Tis hard to tell.”

“You are quite right, my good Bofur,” a gruff voice said unexpectedly, and Tharkûn sat down with them, folding his long body somewhat uncomfortably on the Hobbit-level bench.

“Fortunately, it matters very little what kind of Dwarves Mr Baggins has been talking earlier,” he then continued. “What matters is that he is not averse to talking to Dwarves to begin with. He is also curious about Dwarves; and he is quite an adventurer in the heart of his hearts…. Even though he is not aware of that fact yet.”

“So you have found him home,” said Bifur, lowering her voice for Tharkûn’s ears alone, while the other Dwarves drank deeply to celebrate the reunion with their advisor.

The wizard nodded, but he seemed a lot less delighted about the whole topic than he ought to be.

“I called to see him this morning; and though I know more or less what to expect, I must say that my confidence is somewhat shaken,” he replied in a similarly low voice. “I fear that things are going to be far more difficult than I have thought.”

If a wizard was concerned, then things had to be looking very grim indeed. Hopeless even.

“How would you select any Hobbit for such purpose?” he murmured, more to himself than to Bifur. “You know them, my dear Bifur, albeit perhaps not as good as I do, even though I have been away from the Shire for more than twenty years till now, on less pleasant business. I saw their tough, uncomplaining courage during the Long Winter, which alone enabled them to survive. That and their pity for one another. They were very hard put to it then: one of the worst pinches they have been in, dying of cold, and starving in the dreadful dearth that followed.”

“As one who had spent her entire life on the Road, I know to value such courage and compassion,” said Bifur thoughtfully. “Yet the others may think differently. As you know, pity is usually not something of value among Dwarves. And even if this particular Hobbit possesses all those traits in abundance, that might not be enough to face the perils of the Road, especially across the Wilderland. And then there is still the Dragon to consider.”

Tharkûn nodded, slowly and grimly. “Yes, there is the Dragon. We must not forget about the Dragon. But I do tell you, Bifur, as I have told that stubborn, pig-headed King of yours repeatedly, that the only way to deal with the Dragon is through stealth. And stealth is something that Hobbits are best at.”

“I do not doubt that,” answered Bifur. “But I wonder if that would be enough?”

“Well, we will see, we will see,” replied the wizard. “There are hidden depths in every Hobbit, especially this one, that would – and hopefully will –surprise you from time to time. And while you are right about them not being eager to leave their pleasant little country (and really, can you blame them for that?) some of them are adventurous enough to do so.”

“You mean those Tooks the locals were talking about?” asked Bifur. “But they seem to think that our burglar is a Baggins, through and through.”

The wizard nodded again. “True; and a good, stolid one at that. But his mother, Belladonna, was a Took, as you heard yourself, one of the three famous daughters of the Old Took, and at least two of his uncles on the Took side have ‘gone off’, as they say in the Shire.”

“To have an adventure,” replied Tharkûn. “Apparently, Hildifons Took went off on a journey and never returned; while Isengar Took – the youngest of the Old Took’s twelve children – is said to have ‘gone off to sea’ in his youth. And though he had eventually returned from his adventures, he was a Hobbit changed forever, who is still living withdrawn from the rest of the Shirefolk on his own. They call him the Mad Took – when they cannot avoid speaking of him at all. Usually, they choose to behave as if such scandalous people had never lived among them.”

“Not the best reasons for any Hobbit to go off on an adventure, then,” commented Bifur dryly. Cast out of clan and family was a terrible concept for Dwarves.

“Nay,” agreed the wizard. “Less so for people who tend to breed large families. I was surprised to learn when I went back to the Shire that Bilbo was still unattached, as they say; that he had never married.”

“That is odd,” said Bifur. “I have never met a bachelor Hobbit before. Did people give you a reason for it?”

“Indeed, they did; though the reason I guess is not the one that most Hobbits gave me: that he had early been left very well off and his own master.”

“That could be the reason, though,” said Bifur. “If he got settled in his habits at a young age, he might find it unpleasant – and unnecessary – to change.”

“That may be so,” allowed the wizard. “However, my guess it that he wanted to remain unattached for some reason deep down which he does not understand himself – or would not acknowledge, for it would alarm him. He wanted, perhaps unknowing, to be free to go when the chance came, or he had made up his courage. I remember how he used to pester me with questions when he was a youngster – about the Hobbits that had occasionally gone off.”

“Yet something has obviously changed,” said Bifur, “or else you would not be so concerned about the outcome of our meeting with him.”

“I do,” admitted the wizard. “For in one thing his fellow Hobbits are right: he has become his own master early and grown too comfortable in that role during the many years I have not seen him. More comfortable even than I would have thought. Thorin will not be pleased; if he was contemptuous before, he will be twice as contemptuous once he had seen Bilbo. For our Hobbit is far from what a warrior Dwarf would wish for a travelling companion – more so if the journey is dangerous, which yours surely will be.”

“And yet you firmly believe that he has to come with us,” said Bifur. It was not truly a question but Tharkûn nodded nevertheless. “Why?

“I cannot tell you for certain, as foresight is vague business at best. But yea, I am certain – more certain than about anything else concerning this Quest of yours – that you can only hope for success, whatever kind that might be, if Bilbo goes with you.”

“I notice that you are saying comes with you instead of comes with us,” said Bifur. “I thought – we all thought – that you would be accompanying us on this Quest.”

“And I will… ‘til a certain fork on the Road,” answered Tharkûn. “There, though, our ways will have to part, for I will have other business to tend to; dark and perilous business that has nothing to do with your Quest. But I would ask you not to mention this to the other.”

Bifur shrugged. “Certainly. Your business is yours and it concerns us not. I guess we shall be busy enough with our own. But why have you told me all this? I mean why me, of all Dwarves in the Company? The three of us are not even LongBeards; and the only ones not nobly born.”

“Which is the very reason why I told you everything,” said the wizard. “Some of your companions are too high-nosed and full of themselves for their own good; and the two young princes, while friendly enough, are still somewhat foolish and irresponsible. You, however – I know who you are, Sigrún Kuonisdóttir, and I know that you and your cousins are simple, warm-hearted, easy-going Dwarves. Bilbo, if we ever manage to make him accept Thorin’s offer, will need friends like the three of you – for he will not be able to count on the rest of the Company; not for a while yet.”

Bifur nodded thoughtfully, giving her travelling companions a measuring look in the light of that which she had just heard. Which one would be an able and willing supporter of the Hobbit? It seemed as if she had seen for the first time these Dwarves, some of whom she had known all her life.

Balin, with his magnificent beard and wisdom, appeared more kingly than even Thorin himself. He certainly looked older, his hair and beard having turned gradually white after the horrors seen in the Battle of Azanulbizar at a way too young age, and later during the long search for Thráin under the dark eaves of Mirkwood. He might act kindly and grandfatherly, but he was of royal blood, and it showed beyond doubt.

Still, it was good that he would be one of the first to approach the Hobbit, as she had realised earlier. Even if soothing the feathers after Dwarlin’s first appearance would not be enough of a foundation for a future friendship.

Dwalin, his brother, however, younger by years but much larger in stature, was a truly intimidating sight with his bald, tattooed and scarred head and huge muscles. Albeit of the same blood – BlackLock nobility married into he line of Durin – he had to discover the finer side of life yet; a side beyond weapons and battles.⁽¹⁾

Dori, Ori and Nori, also coming from a noble BlackLock clan – one related to Thorin on a female ancestor’s side – all looked very venerable and intimidating… not a sight that would endear a Hobbit to them right away⁽²⁾. All three of them had their blue-black beards elaborately braided and decorated with silver or gold clasps, in a fashion that needed patience and skilled fingers, not to mention a great deal of time to finish.

There were rumours that the three brothers descended from one of the BlackLock Kings of old, only out of wedlock, but no-one could ever find any actual proof for that. Fact was that their forefather had come to the Grey Mountains with a kinswoman who had married King Náin II m and after Dáin son of Náin had been slain by a Cold-drake and the colony abandoned, their family had followed Thrór back to Erebor.

Therefore, while not of the Line of Durin themselves, they counted as Thorin’s kin and were unlikely to make fast friends with a Hobbit of the Shire. Especially not Nori, who was quite high-nosed about their origins and quick to look down at others, even fellow Dwarves of simpler origins. Which, in Bifur’s opinion, was rather unfounded, seeing as he was the youngest of the three and possessed neither Ori’s classical BlackLock beauty nor Dori’s natural authority and enormous strength.

Dori was the kindest of them all, perhaps due to the fact that he was a thrice-over father, while Ori was a bit cold and aloof, more concerned about ancient lore – in which he was very well-versed – than about people. Although, in truth, he needed to be aloof to keep any unwanted suitors at arm’s length. His beauty attracted unbound Dwarves – or even daughters of Men – like a flame attracts moths.

Óin, used to Hobbits and friendly towards them, could be another anchor for their prospective burglar among all that Dwarven haughtiness, despite his royal blood, decided Bifur. But Glóin was the exact opposite; and with his fiery beard and boisterous attitude, he could frighten gentler souls, without actually meaning to do so.

And while Bifur was glad that Lady Nei had the wisdom to forbid her firstborn to join the Quest, having young Gimli with them would have made a Hobbit’s life much easier. Despite his noble origins and the wealth of his father (acquired in recent years due to Uruktharbun’s rich mines), Gimli was a simple soul, curious and open-minded, willing to make friends quickly, even among other races. Still, it was better for him to stay at home with his mother and younger siblings, no matter how angry and disappointed he had been.

That left the two young, golden princes of Durin’s House as possible companions for the Hobbit, but Bifur had her doubts that they would be willing to befriend Mr Baggins so soon. They had been, no doubt, fed lofty ideas about how much above the average Dwarf – not to mention other races – they all stood, due to their birth alone. That was Dís’s attitude, and with their father long dead and Thorin often absent, she could twist the minds of her sons as she pleased.

Bifur was trying very hard not to be prejudiced against those two, just because that insufferable mother of theirs… especially as they had shown nothing but courtesy towards her so far. But she had to honestly admit that she had failed, so far. Of course, the airs the young princes put on at times did not help to endear them to her.

Aye, they were young, but they were also trained warriors and the heirs of Durin’s throne, for Mahal’s sake! And yet not even Thorin’s death glare could always keep them in their reins. If they did not grow out of their attitude soon, they could get themselves into nasty trouble on a journey like the one before them.

“I see what you mean,” she said to the wizard. “I shall speak with my cousins. We will take your Hobbit under our wing.”

“He is not my Hobbit,” answered Tharkûn seriously. “If anyone, he belongs to himself alone. This is the most remarkable thing about Hobbits: cheerful and carefree though they may seem, deep down they are fiercely independent and tougher than the roots of ancient trees. They cannot be easily enslaved, and they cannot be bought for gold and treasure. For they prefer the simple joys of life, are content with that which they have and do not even understand the Dwarven obsession with riches.”

“Again, not something that would show him a desirable ally him in Thorin’s eyes,” commented Bifur dryly, and Tharkûn nodded.

“I know. Thorin Oakenshield may be a great hero and might even become a great King of Durin’s House, should your Quest succeed, but he still has a great deal to learn about people, Especially those not of his own. Speaking of which, where is he? Had we not agreed to meet here tonight?”

“He has ridden out to the Road to meet some of our messengers,” said Dwalin, having caught the trail end of their conversation across the table. “He will follow us as soon as he can. Óin went over to Hobbiton a short time ago and found the door with your sign upon it. He explained us all the way.”

“Good,” said the wizard. “Now, for the sake of not raising the suspicions of the good Shirefolk, it would be better if you started to call me Gandalf, as everyone does. No need for them to wonder why you have a different name for me.”

“Gandalf,” repeated Dwalin, as if trying the taste of the name in his mouth. “It means the Staff-Man, does it not? Well, it surely suits you. And the less outsiders hear of our sacred tongue, the better it is.”

That was certainly true, even though BroadBeams did not usually share the LongBeard paranoia about Khuzdul. As long as they did not give the meaning of the name, what harm could be there? But LongBeards liked to have their own way in everything, and they were currently in majority, so Bifur saw no gain in starting an argument with them.

Besides, Gandalf was not a bad-sounding name for a wizard. They all did carry long staffs, after all.

(1) In my headcanon, after the Quest Dwalin became somewhat calmer and discovered for himself the rich rewards of ancient lore, working with his brother on restoring Erebor.

(2) I want to emphasize again that my Dwarves are not Peter Jackson’s Dwarves. They are book!Dwarves, equipped with backgrounds and looks that have been my headcanon ever since I first read the book several Ages ago. So yeah, my Dori is a noble-born warrior, my Ori is a lore-master and a heart-breaker, and my Nori is a spoiled brat. They have the older claim than the film Dwarves, and they are going to remain that way.

Author’s notes: I know, I originally promised a 99 per cent bookverse story (save for Bifur’s gender). And this is still a bookverse story… well, mostly. There were some lines of dialogue in the first “Hobbit” film that were simply too good to ignore, so they made it into this chapter. The same is true for the Dwarves themselves – especially Balin, Bifur, Dori, Ori and Nori are very different from their film counterparts.

Thorin came back late that night, spoke to no-one, not even Balin, and left in the next morning again, without telling anyone where he was going or when he was coming back.

“The plague on Durin’s House and their stiff necks!” he muttered angrily. “I swear, that royal fool is doing this only to delay our meeting with Mr Baggins. Well, if he thinks he can play with my patience, he is mistaken. We shall continue as agreed: calling on Mr Baggins at teatime and whenever he chooses to deign us with his presence, it is up to him.”

“And I like even less his stubborn refusal to listen to me. We are going to call on Bilbo as planned, and if Thorin does not show up. At least you will be well entertained. Mr Baggins is an excellent cook and his pantries are always full. He likes visitors, too… as a rule.”

That sounded vaguely promising, so – after some more arguing – the Dwarves agreed to go with the wizard’s plan.

“I still think I should go first,” said Bifur. “Dwalin will frighten our host out of his mind; more so if he is not expecting visitors. You have not prepared him for the arrival of thirteen Dwarves, have you?”

Tharkûn – or rather Gandalf, she corrected herself, they ought to get used to call the wizard by his more commonly known name – chuckled at that.

“My dear Bifur,” he said. ‘What makes you think that you shan’t frighten him? With that heavy black beard and those warrior’s inks on your face you look every bit as fierce as Dwalin does.”

“Maybe,” allowed Bifur; her fake beard, fixed in place by the ever-reliable tree gum, was a big and bushy one indeed, covering half her face. She wore it in one thick braid. “But I am a head shorter; and prettier, too.”

The others laughed, for it was true. Unlike most Dwarrow-dams who were generally larger – and a great deal more aggressive, due to their privileged status – than their males, she was small, doll-faced and almond-eyed. Which was another reason to travel in male disguise.

She was also much calmer in nature than most female Dwarves; she was accustomed to mediate between the males of her caravan – well, Niping’s caravan now – and the other people they met on the road. She had every right to believe that she would be better suited to meet the Hobbit first.

Still, she and her family ranked lowest in the entire Company and as much merit as her arguments might have had, she was simply overruled. Thus Dwalin was allowed to go first, with Balin only a short distance after him, followed by the arrogant brats of Dís, as the wizard clearly thought they would be less frightening than the rest.

Although how Fíli, armed to the teeth, carrying more weapons on his person than an entire hunting troop of Wild Men counted together would be seen as trust-inducing was truly beyond Bifur.

Naturally, Óin and Glóin would also refuse to wait, seeing that they were related to Durin’s line to the same degree as Dwalin and Balin. And the three brawny sons of the legendary Orin Glowhammer insisted to go next, of course, arguing that they were distant cousins of Thorin and all that.

So eager they were to go, in fact, that they caught up with Óin and Glóin halfway to the bridge crossing the stream and arrived at the Hill beyond the village of Hobbiton almost the same time.

Bombur grumbled unhappily about being left behind by all those high and mighty LongBeards and Bifur secretly agreed with him. Even though, technically, Dori, Ori and Nori were considered BlackLocks as they had chosen to join their mother’s Clan. If Bofur was equally offended, he gave no sign. But again, he had always been good at hiding his true feelings under that cheerful mask of his.

At least they were going with Gandalf and thus were in no danger of getting lost among the fairly similar Hobbit holes.

The way from Bywater to Hobbiton was a short one, at least in Dwarven terms: only a mile or so. Following the well-trodden road between the two villages they eventually reached the venerable old mill, the large wheel of which was being slowly turned by the quick little stream the locals simply called The Water-

There they crossed the stream using the wooden bridge and turned northwards into the Hill Lane, which led to the only suitable hill on the other side of the water: to the residence of their chosen burglar (who did not know of his questionable luck yet). The major part of the settlement was situated along The Water; between it and the Hill were mostly green, rolling lanes, used for the livestock as grazing grounds.

Walking up to the Hill, they passed the Mill Yard on their right, where small, two-wheeled carts (pulled by sturdy little ponies) were waiting for their owners to load them with sacks of freshly ground flour. Clearly, the Hobbits needed a great deal of basic food items to keep their large families well fed.

Still on their right, somewhere further up, there was a large, well-tended-to farm, with a smial of impressive size in the middle; it could have easily housed several generations of the same family. More of the well-fed, round-bellied ponies, together with red-and-white, smooth-coated cow, as small compared with the beasts of Men as Hobbits were compared with Men themselves, were grazing on the green meadow between the farm and the mill. The ample udders of the small cow seemed full of milk and swayed heavily between their legs.

They were very different from the sturdy, shaggy highland cow the StiffBeard Dwarves – the only Clan that actually bothered with animal husbandry at all – bred. These cows would never survive under the harsh conditions of a Dwarven settlement anywhere in the mountains, but there could be no doubt that they provided their Hobbit masters with milk and meat in abundance.

If there was one thing in which the little folk of the Shire was way ahead of other races, it was the producing of food. Or the consuming of it, for that matter.

“The people who own this farm know how to treat their animals well,” he commented. “Each and every one of these cow and ponies is a real beauty.”

“The Old Farm has belonged to the Burrowses for uncounted generations,” explained Gandalf. “It is one of the oldest, most respected families in the Shire. Only the Bagginses are wealthier and more respected in this area. They are not as numerous as the Tooks or the Brandybucks, of course – nobody is – but they are influential. In fact, one of them is currently the Mayor of the Shire, despite his youth.”

“Is this Mayor the lord of the little folk?” asked Bombur, who had the least contact with Hobbits of the three of them.

“No,” replied the wizard. “The closest thing they have to what other people consider a lord is the Thain of Tookland… although the Master of Buckland comes close. But not even they have any jurisdiction beyond their own lands. The Mayor has an administrative function for a limited number of years,” he thought for a moment, then grinned at them. “Much like Lofar in Thorin’s Halls in Uruktharbun, actually… only that he is elected.”

They passed the Old Farm without seeing anyone moving within its boundaries, and shortly thereafter The Grange on the other side of the road – a larger building that, according to Gandalf, served both of a gathering place and a dancing hall for a locals. It was surrounded by granaries for common use.

After that point the Hill Lane made a wide eastward slope before turning to the west again and leading to The Hill. There it forked, one branch running along the south flanks, where a number of smaller holes had been dug into the hillside, while the other, the main branch, went to the top of it – to a large, open field with an enormous old tree in the middle. From there, flat steps led to the round, green door of Bag End: their destination.

By then Bombur was somewhat out of breath which made Bifur worry how he would be able to keep up with them on the rest of their journey which promised to be much more taxing than a slow, leisurely ride across the hospitable country of the Hobbits with a bit of climbing. She exchanged concerned looks with Bofur who just shrugged helplessly. It was Bombur’s decision and, unless Thorin decided to leave him behind for slowing them down – in which case Bifur and Bofur would remain with him – they could do nothing to hold him back. They could only hope that he would be able to draw strength from Mother Edhla’s healing charm.

Judging by the noise and the boisterous laughter coming from the smial the others were having the time of their lives inside. Bifur tried the doorbell, while Bombur was leaning heavily against the door to catch his breath, but it was of no use. Clearly, nobody could hear it in all the noise – not surprising if one considered that Glóin was involved.

Finally Gandalf decided to take action and started banging the door with his staff, almost making a dent in it, wiping off the mark that had been put there for the Dwarves’ sake in the process.

This time they were obviously heard within, for an irritated voice – much higher in pitch than that of any Dwarf but still pleasantly low for a Hobbit – cried out:

“Oh, no. No, no. There's nobody home. Go away and bother somebody else. There's far too many Dwarves in my dining room as it is. If this is some blunt-head’s idea of a joke, I can only say it is in very poor taste.”

Despite all this verbal protest, the door was suddenly torn open with a jerk and they all fell in, one on top of the other – with the exception of Gandalf, of course, who was standing a step behind them, leaning on his staff and chuckling quietly.

“Carefully, carefully,” he said. “This is not like you, Bilbo, to keep friends waiting on your mat and then open the door as if you were tearing a cork out of a bottle. Let me introduce Bifur, Bofur and Bombur.”

The person he was talking to was a Hobbit, of course, somewhat taller than the average but still shorter than Bifur herself. He was wearing a strange robe that seemed to have been sewn together from a great many different patches of cloth over his moss green breeches and fine white cotton shirt; and, like all Hobbits, he went barefooted.

His round, usually cheerful face – if all the laugh lines around those blue eyes were any indication – was framed by a halo of dark gold curls. That and the upward tilt of his nose gave him an almost child-like appearance, but he was clearly of mature age, and he was looking at the wizard wearily.

Bifur, Bofur and Bombur clambered to their feet – with some help in Bombur’s case – and stood in a row, intending to greet their host properly.

“At your service!” they said as one, bowing low enough for their beards to sweep the floor; again, Bombur needed some help to get up after that. Then they hung up their hoods – the yellow ones for Bifur and Bofur and the pale green one of Bombur – and moved on to the room where the noise and laughter of their companions came from.

“We are all here now,” said Gandalf, looking at the row of twelve hoods on the pegs. “Save one, it seems. I hope you have left something for us to eat and drink.”

And with that he, too, moved on to the parlour where the Dwarves had already made themselves comfortable, plundering the pantries and using every single bottle and dish and knife and fork and plate and bowl and mug and tankard they could find in the artfully carved sideboards and cupboards. These were made of chestnut and cherry wood, oak or ash like the rest of the furniture. Their host clearly had a fine – not to mention expensive – taste… and the money to pay for it.

By now the aforementioned host had become truly aggravated over what he most likely saw as the wilful destruction of his beautiful home. He was running to and fro, trying to hinder the various Dwarves in completing their work of pillaging.

“Those are my plates!” he protested. “Excuse me, not my wine. Put that back. Put that back!” he said forcefully to Fíli, while still trying to sound polite as a proper host – even an involuntary one, overrun by guests he had not invited – was supposed to do.

“Not the jam, please!” he all but yelled at Nori, taking the portly earthenware pot back. “Excuse me, excuse me.”

Then he spotted Bombur carrying half a dozen blocks of cheese and his eyes grew as large and round as saucers.

“A tad excessive, isn't it?” he said faintly. “Have you got a cheese knife?”

"Cheese knife?” echoed Bofur, gurgling with laughter. “He eats it by the block.”

Indeed, Bombur had a particular weakness for good cheese, and now he was beaming as if he’d been sitting on Mahal’s own lap.

In the meantime Óin and Glóin tried to get some more chairs from the other rooms so that everyone would find a seat around the long dinner table. That made the Hobbit even more anxious.

“No, no,” he grabbed the chair Óin was about to drag into the parlour and wrestled it from the Dwarf’s hand. “That's Grandpa Mungo's chair. No, I'm sorry; you'll have to take it back, please. Take it back. It is antique, not for sitting on. Thank you.”

Barely had he brought the precious family heirloom back to safety, he spotted Ori rummaging in one of his cabinets and swatted his hand – which, considering that he barely reached to the shoulder of the huge BlackLock, was a surprisingly brave thing to do.

“That is a book, not a coaster,” he snapped indignantly. “Put that map down.”

Ori looked down at the irritated Hobbit with his kohl-rimmed indigo eyes – a fashion quirk he had picked up somewhere in the East during one of his journeys – in a slightly condescending manner.

“Worry not, Mr Baggins,” he said. “I am a scholar and a calligrapher myself. I know how to handle books properly.”

Before the Hobbit could have said anything, Dori emerged from the kitchen like a vision of male Dwarven beauty with his chiselled features and artfully braided hair and beard. He was carrying a teapot that seemed precariously delicate in his large hands, and the Hobbit started panicking at the sight again.

"Excuse me,” he practically squealed. “That's my mother's Southfarthing pottery. It's over a hundred years old. Could you, please, be a tad more careful with it? Thank you.”

He could not know, of course, that Dori – while modestly calling himself a mere stone-mason – was, in fact, a gifted sculptor and cutter of gemstones, capable of handling the most delicate items with utmost care.

Ignoring their desperate host, Dori turned to the wizard, lifting the teapot in an inviting manner.

“Do you want a cup of this, Tharkûn?” he asked, remembering to use the non-dwarrow name for the wizard.

Gandalf frowned. “What is this? Tea? No thank you, Dori. A little red wine, I think, for me, if you don’t mind.”

“And raspberry jam and apple tart, if you can spare any,” requested Bifur, having spotted her favourites – hard to come by on the Road – in one of the larders.

“And mince-pies and more cheese,” added Bofur, grinning at his brother who had not looked this happy for a very long time.

“And more beer – and tea – and coffee, if you don’t mind!” called the other Dwarves.

“Put on a few eggs, there is a good fellow,” said Gandalf, while the Hobbit was just staring at them, positively flummoxed and looking less than willing to empty his pantries completely to feed a horde of hungry Dwarves (and really, who could blame him?) “And just bring out the cold chicken and the tomatoes.”

The wizard seemed to know more about the inside of the Hobbit’s larder than the Hobbit himself. At the last request, however, the aforementioned Hobbit finally put down his hairy feet.

“Not my prized tomatoes, thank you,” he said indignantly and snatched the large bowl full of the beautiful red garden fruits back from the hand of Nori who had obviously done a lot of private pillaging already. “No, thank you.”

Nori opened his mouth to protest but Dori, who was returning with the requested red wine for Gandalf, gave him a quelling look. The eldest of the Glowhammer’s three sons did not like it when his baby brother behaved like the spoiled brat that he was.

“A little glass of red wine, as you requested, Tharkûn,” he said, handing the wizard the glass that was quite small indeed – Hobbit-sized. “Quite a fine drop, actually. It has got a fruity bouquet.”

“Ah, thank you, Dori,” the wizard emptied the glass and nodded in satisfaction. “A fine drop indeed.”

“Who wants some ale?” called out Fíli, coming from the cellar, carrying several mugs in both hands. “There you go.”

“Let us have another drink,” agreed Óin, accepting one of the mugs, and Balin did the same.

By then, they were practically filling every nook and canny of the smial, eating and drinking and laughing, as if they had been in one of their inns, among their own kin. Their host sat on a stool at the fireplace, nibbling a biscuit and trying to look as if this was all quite ordinary, but Bifur could see that he was getting more upset by the minute. Quite understandably, too; having one’s home invaded by a dozen Dwarves would have upset anyone – except another Dwarf. Still, he tried to hold back and endure the invasion with as good a mien as he could manage… for the time being.

He did, however, jump to his feet when Nori snatched one of the decorative little… things from one of the sideboards to dry his cup with it.

“Excuse me, that is a doily, not a dish cloth,” he snapped, tearing it off Nori’s hand.

Bofur, who was leaning against the wall nearby, looked at him with wide, bewildered eyes.

"It's supposed to look like that,” he explained with forced patience. “It's crocheted.”

“Oh, and a wonderful game it is, too,” agreed Bofur helpfully, though he clearly had no idea what that meant. “If you've got the balls for it.”

“Too exasperated to answer, the Hobbit threw the doily back onto the sideboard and clenched his fists in frustration.

“Confusticate and bebother these Dwarves,” he hissed through gritted teeth… whatever that was supposed to mean.

At the same moment the wizard ducked through the doorframe, carrying a large mug. He spotted the irate Hobbit and stopped for a moment.

“My dear Bilbo, what on earth is the matter?” he asked in amusement before continuing his way back to the parlour.

“What's the matter?” he echoed incredulously. “I'm surrounded by Dwarves. What are they doing here?”

“Oh, they're quite a merry gathering, once you get used to them,” replied Gandalf, without actually… well, replying.

“I don't want to get used to them,” the Hobbit snapped. “Look at the state of my kitchen! There's mud trod in the carpet, they – they've pillaged the pantry... I'm not even going to tell you what they've done in the bathroom; they have all but destroyed the plumbing. I don't understand what they're doing in my house.”

Are we really that bad? wondered Bifur. This was fairly normal – and widely accepted – behaviour for Dwarves in the home of friends and family, but Hobbits were a much gentler folk and very protective of their homes. If they wanted to win Mr Baggins for the Quest, they probably were not starting relations in the right manner.

“Perhaps a helpful gesture would be in order,” she said in Khuzdul, in a quiet yet authoritative tone. “Why do we not clean up after ourselves to smooth the feathers of our host?”

Her tone made it unmistakably clear that this was not a mere suggestion. And while most of the others outranked her where birth and status were considered, she was still the only female among them; therefore her suggestions were to be taken seriously. At least until someone of much greater importance countered her orders.

This, however, was not the case right now, and so the other Dwarves – with the exception of Dwalin, who stayed in the parlour to discuss strategic matters with Gandalf – got up and piled the things in tall piles. Then they marched off to the kitchen, not waiting for trays, balancing whole columns of plates with bottles on top on one hand, while the poor little Hobbit ran after them, squealing “please, be careful”, and “please, don’t trouble, I can manage” one after another, his voice rising steadily in pitch.

Then, suddenly, Kíli began to sing, “Chip the glasses and crack the plates!”

“That's what Bilbo Baggins hates,” continued Nori with a truly feral grin. “Smash the bottles and burn the corks!”

Of course they did none of those horrible things, and everything was put away quite safe, while the Hobbit was turning round and round in the middle of the kitchen, trying to keep an eye on what they were doing.

Once they were done, they went back to the parlour. Dwalin was still sitting there, with his feet on the fender, smoking his pipe. In fact, he was doing more than just that: he was blowing the most enormous smoke rings, sending them up the chimney or behind the clock on the mantelpiece or under the table or round and round the ceiling – wherever he wanted.

This was a favourite pastime among Dwarves; it usually required two players: one to produce the big smoke rings and another one to blow smaller ones that would chase them. Dwalin was currently playing catch-my-ring with Gandalf, who smoked a small clay pipe with a long stem. Dwalin’s own pipe was much more impressive: masterfully cut from pale yellow pumice, with a large, hexagonal head and a short, thick stem forged of silver, the shape eminently suited for the game.

But wherever he sent his smoke rings, they were not quick enough to escape Gandalf. Pop! He sent a smaller one straight through each and every one of them. Then Gandalf’s smoke ring would magically turn green and come back to hover over the wizard’s head, casting green patterns on his beard. He had a whole cloud about him already; it made him look positively sorcerous.

It was such a unique sight that even the Hobbit stood still and watched the game in awe… not surprisingly. The little folk were quite fond of pipeweed, too. Bifur wondered briefly if Mr Baggins would be good at the game and decided that he probably would. Hobbits were generally good at tasks that required simple skills.

The comfortable little smial became peaceful and quiet once more, as if the rambunctious Dwarves had never turned it upside down. Bofur fished his flute out of his jacket and began to play a merry tune, and the smoke-rings seemed to dance to the melody. Some of the other Dwarves hummed along – he played a well-known children’s song they all remembered fondly – and even Mr Baggins seemed to calm down considerably, now that he felt he no longer had to worry about the safety of his home.

The peace and contentment, however, was at once broken by a loud knock on the front door, Bofur’s flute made a final, squealing sound, and Gandalf and Dwalin set aside their pipes as one.

“You will see,” he replied. “Why don’t you come with me and greet him?”

And a joyous encounter that is going to be, thought Bifur, following them down the hallway. After all, somebody had to make sure that all these stubborn, pig-headed males would not be at each other’s throat as soon as the matter of the Quest came up again.

When she caught up with them at the end of the hallway – followed by half the Company who all wanted to know if their leader had finally arrived and if yes, where had he been all day – the resigned Hobbit was already opening the door. And there he was, ducking through the doorframe, all majestic and aloof and quietly annoyed: Thorin Oakenshield, the crownless King of the LongBeard Dwarves, Lord of the Deep Halls of Uruktharbun and one time the Prince of Erebor, kingly and intimidating at once in his short chain mail and midnight blue, fur-lined coat.

“Gandalf,” he said by way of a greeting. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way twice. Wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”

“Mark?” repeated the Hobbit in bewilderment. “There is no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago.”

“Oh, I assure you, there is a mark on your door,” grunted Glóin. “At least it was there last night. Óin found it, and we were relieved to learn that it was a fresh one.”

The Hobbit actually went out of the door to take a look at the outside and came back frowning. “No, there isn’t any mark there. You must have been imagining things.”

“Oh, but it was, until Thar… I mean, Gandalf wiped it off upon our arrival,” explained Bifur. “Burglar seeks work, plenty of excitement and reasonable reward, it usually means. Fortunately, Dwarves can see magic signs even after they have been wiped… for a while, at least.”

“Quite right, my dear Bifur,” agreed the wizard. “There was a mark indeed. I put it there myself – for very good reasons, which we will discuss later. For now, let us deal with the formalities first. Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield.”

Thorin, as was his wont with people he did not know well and thus did not trust, looked their host up and down with one sweeping glance that signalled utter disdain.

"So... this is the Hobbit,” he said, and though his words were coldly courteous, the tone in which they were spoken clearly told everyone who cared that he was emphatically not satisfied with the wizard’s choice.

“Tell me, Mister Baggins,” he continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Have you done much fighting?”

The question was utterly ridiculous, of course, and clearly meant to be exactly that. No Hobbit had been ever known to have done much fighting; not since the Tooks had allegedly sent a few archers to the Battle of Fornost to support Arvedui Last-King against the evil forces of Angmar – an event that the Hobbits of current times rarely mentioned and only with a disapproving shake of heads.

The general opinion among them was that no self-respecting Hobbit ought to meddle with the affairs of the Big People – no good thing had ever come of that. Bows and arrows were good and handy against wild beasts and for the hunt, but that was the summary of their use. A sling and a few well-chosen stones were all a Hobbit truly needed to protect himself.

The only exception from this rule was Bree, and only because it had been settled earlier than the Shire itself.

The only actual battle ever fought within the Shire had been a minor skirmish with a band of Goblins from the Misty Mountains, and even that had been several generations previously. Therefore it was not surprising that Bilbo Baggins, although he could claim kinship with the long-gone hero of that particular “battle”, just blinked in confusion at Thorin’s question.

Thorin rolled his eyes. “Axe or sword?” he clarified. “What's your weapon of choice?”

Which, again, was a ridiculous question, obviously meant as a thinly-veiled insult. The Hobbit was clearly intelligent enough to realise that, for there was a challenging glint in those blue eyes of his; he tilted his head to the side and almost-smiled at the haughty, imperious Dwarf.

“Well, I have some skill at conkers, if you must know,” he replied airily. “But I fail to see why that would be relevant.”

Bifur bit the inside of her cheek and, from the corner of her eye, he could see Bofur do the same. Only Wanderer Dwarves, who did regular business with Hobbits, did know about the game of conkers and the little folk’s love for it. Of course, it had absolutely nothing to do with fighting, even if it did require a sharp eye and a steady hand.

Thorin did not know that, though, and clearly realised his disadvantage. Nonetheless, he did his best to save face.

“Thought as much,” he commented in disdain and shouldered his way down the hallway without actually being invited in.

If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit

by Soledad Author’s notes:

I know, I originally promised a 99 per cent bookverse story (save for Bifur’s gender). And this is still a bookverse story… well, mostly. There were some lines of dialogue in the first “Hobbit” film, though, that were simply too good to ignore, so they made it into this chapter. Some other lines have been rewritten from the “Unfinished Tales” or from earlier drafts of “The Hobbit”, to serve the purpose of this story.

The same is true for the Dwarves themselves – especially Balin, Bifur, Dori, Ori and Nori are very different from their film counterparts.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Chapter 11 – Dark For Dark Business

Some time later the Dwarves were sitting in the parlour again, around the long table, with Thorin at the head, eating the remainder of the meal with relish. To Balin’s persistent questions he finally told them that he had met with a band of travelling StiffBeard pony-breeders, coming from the East, who could give him more details about the Road; nothing else and nothing truly important.

For a while they were discussing possible routes and the dangers that might be lurking along the Road. Their host was listening with a curious mix of horror and fascination. He might have been upset by the horde of Dwarves invading his home, but his curiosity was clearly piqued… more so than the average Hobbit might have reacted.

“You are going on a quest?” he asked; which was probably the only thing he had understood from the conversation.

Thorin gave him a jaundiced look.

“Oh aye,” he grumbled. “Before the break of day, we shall start on a long journey; a journey from which some of us may never return. Perchance we all shall be lost in the end. Nonetheless, we must go to fulfil our curses on the Beast.”

He looked at the Hobbit intently, who blinked in confusion. “What beast?”

“Well, that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, the chiefest and greatest calamity of our Age,” explained Bofur helpfully. “The last of the winged Worms, as far as one can tell; and a fire breather, too. Has fangs like razors, claws like meat hooks. Extremely fond of precious metals, above all else of gold.”

The Hobbit rolled his eyes in annoyance. “Yes, I know what a dragon is, thank you very much.”

“Do you?” asked Thorin in a low voice. “Have you ever seen one of the fire-drakes descend upon a clueless, defenceless town, breathing fire hot enough for the bells to melt in the bell-tower in no time? Have you ever smelt the terrible stank of burning flesh, heard the roaring of the pines on the mountainside as they blazed with light like torches? Nay? Then do not say that you know what a dragon is.”

He turned to the wizard and added in a tone full of contempt. “I do not understand why you have brought us here, Tharkûn. This Hobbit is soft. Soft as the mud of his Shire, and silly. His mother died too soon, I presume; before she could shape him properly. You are playing some crooked game of your own, Master Wizard. I am sure that you have other purposes than helping us.”

The look the wizard gave him was decidedly less than friendly.

“You are quite right,” he said. “If I had no other purposes, I should not be helping you at all. Great as your affairs may seem to you, they are but a small strand in the great web. I am concerned with many strands. But that should make my advice more weighty, not less.”

“Who knows,” said Thorin snappishly. “So many concerns may have disordered your wits.”

Bifur winced, expecting a rather… temperamental reaction from the wizard. The haughtiness of Durin’s Line truly went beyond reason sometimes, and Tharkûn was not known to suffer fools gladly. Fortunately, at the moment he seemed more weary than angry and simply shrugged.

“There have certainly been enough of them to do so,” he said. “And among them I find most exasperating a stiff-necked Dwarf – one way too proud for his own good, I would say – who seeks advice from me, without any claim on me that I know of, and then rewards me with insolence. Go your own way, Thorin Oakenshield if you will, but hearken to my warning: if you flout my advice, you will walk to disaster. And you shall get neither counsel nor aid from me again until the Shadow falls on you. Curb your pride and your greed, or you shall fall at the end of whatever paths you take – even if your hands be full of gold.”

Thorin blanched a little at that; but his eyes smouldered.

“Do not threaten me!” he said. “I will use my own judgement in this matter, as in all that concerns me.”

The wizard shrugged again, clearly fed up with all that Dwarven pride and stubbornness.

“Do as you wish, then,” he replied tiredly. “I can say no more – unless it is this: I do not give my love or trust lightly; but I am fond of this Hobbit and wish him only the best. Treat him well, and you shall have my friendship to the end of your days.”

Thirteen pairs of deep-set Dwarven eyes turned to their furiously blushing host with renewed interest. The wizard might have been grasping for straws, yet he could not have come up with a better argument to persuade them. Dwarves understood devotion to friends and gratitude to those who helped them – perhaps better than any other race, as such people were rare.

Just as deeply as they were capable of holding grudges against those who refused to help them in need, which was a soberingly long list.

And thus Thorin, after a long silence, finally gave in.

“Very well,” he said with obvious reluctance. “He shall set out with our company if he dares – which I doubt. But if you insist on burdening me with him, you must come to look after him.”

The wizard rolled his eyes. “I have already promised to go with you, have I not? At least for the first leg of your journey. Not to the end, though. I have an urgent matter on my hands in Rivendell, and further plans will depend on the outcome of my business there.”

“But how are we supposed to get into the Mountain without you?” protested Balin. “You forget that the front gate is sealed; and there is no other way in.”

But the wizard just smiled into his beard contentedly.

“That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true,” he said and produced, from somewhere within the folds of his heavy grey robe, a large, ornate silver key, which he handed to Thorin, and a visibly old and battered scroll that could only be a map.

The key was clearly Dwarf-made and big enough to have been used for a large door or a gate. Also, Thorin clearly recognised it – or at least the design of it – for he glared at Tharkûn in suspicion.

“How came you by this?”

“By chance,” replied the wizard. “By pure chance; although it begins now to look less like a chance that had put both key and map in my hands ninety-nine years ago, when I entered Dol Guldur in disguise.”

Bifur shuddered involuntarily and so did the other Dwarves, including Thorin. The old, abandoned tower of the Dark Lord had always had a bad reputation, and the rumours of a Necromancer now housing within its crumbling walls were enough for any sane person to make as wide a detour around it as it was possible.

“What were you doing there?” asked Thorin, but the wizard shrugged off his question.

“Never mind that. It was unpleasant and dangerous business as always; and it is of no importance to you right now. What is important for you, though, is that I found there an unhappy old Dwarf, dying in the pits. At that time I had no idea who he was. But he had a map that had belonged to Durin’s Folk, and a key that seemed to go with it – the very key I have just given you, Thorin – though he was too far gone to explain their significance.”

Balin and Dwalin exchanged looks of grim understanding.

“You mean he had lost his mind?” asked Balin, and the wizard nodded.

“I fear he had. He told me that he had once possessed a Great Ring. Nearly all his ravings were of that. The last of the Seven, he said over and over again… but there was no ring on his person; and as for the key and the map, he might have come by them in many ways. He might have been a messenger, caught as he fled the Mountain many years ago. Or even a thief trapped by a greater thief.”

“Nay, he was not!” growled Dwalin, but he refused to say more. Nonetheless, every Dwarf present had guessed the true identity of the unhappy prisoner by now. Even Bifur and her cousins, who were not of Durin’s Folk.

“In any case,” continued the wizard, “he gave me the map and the key. For my son, he said; and then he died, and soon afterwards I escaped myself. I stowed the things away, and by some warning of my heart I kept them always with me; safe, but soon almost forgotten. I had other business in Dol Guldur, as I have already mentioned; more important and perilous than all the treasure of Erebor.”

“Tell me, Master Gandalf,” said Balin softly. “Was that unfortunate prisoner of yours missing an eye?”

“As a matter of fact, he was,” answered the wizard.

“In that case it seems that you heard the last words of Thráin the Second,” said Balin sadly, “King of the exiles of Erebor. My brother and I, with a few other chosen warriors, had accompanied him on his final, failed attempt to find a way back into the Mountain. At that time we did not understand how he would attempt to do it; for he never showed us either the key or the map.”

“But did he wear his Ring on this last journey of his?” asked the wizard, suddenly appearing more concerned than such a simple question would have justified.

Balin nodded. “Not openly, of course; that would have been foolish. But aye, he wore it on a sturdy chain around his neck,” he sighed in defeat. “It was taken off him, then; and with it the ancient symbol of the might of Durin’s House.”

“Be not so sure that is was not rather the curse of Durin’s House,” said the wizard grimly. “Or has not the Dark Lord pursued the Kings of Durin’s Line relentlessly ever since Durin the Third received the greatest of the Seven Rings from the Elves of Eregion, back in the Second Age? But that is neither here nor there at the moment. Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have some more light, so that we can take a look at this map.”

The Hobbit hurried to fetch a big oil lamp with a red shade, in the light of which the wizard spread the parchment map on the table. It showed the Mountain and the surrounding country, and the Dwarves grunted in excitement. Especially Balin, their head scholar, who had lived in Erebor in his youth and Ori, who not only was a calligrapher and a scholar in his own right but also capable of drawing beautiful maps himself.

“This map was drawn for your grandfather, Thór, when he ruled as the last King Under the Mountain,” explained the wizard to Thorin who gave the map a disappointed look.

“I doubt that it would do us any good,” he said. “I remember well enough the Mountain and its surrounding; and I know where Mirkwood is; and far beyond it to the North is the Withered Heath, where the Great Dragons once bred.”

“There is a picture of a dragon in red on the Mountain,” added Balin. “But it will be easy enough to find, even without a marking – if we ever reach our destination.”

“There is one point that you have not noticed,” said the wizard, “and that is the secret entrance. You see that rune on the East side and the hand pointing from it to the runes below? That marks the old secret entrance to the Lower Halls.”

“Oh, but that is wonderful,” commented young Kíli, an ear-to-ear grin blossoming across his handsome face. “If there is a key, there must be a door.”

“There is another way in!” Fíli realised, his expression full of awe. “A secret passage, leading straight to the Lower Halls.”

Thorin shook his head. “It may have been secret once,” he said, “but I very much doubt that it still is. That murderous Worm has lived there long enough now to find out anything there is to know about the halls of our forefathers.”

“Perhaps so,” allowed the wizard, “but he cannot have used it for many, many years.”

“Why not?” asked Bifur quietly. Unlike the others, she did not see herself as somebody who knew much about dragons, but it had been her experience that evil usually found a way to get what it wanted.

“Because it is too small,” explained Ori, studying the runes. “Five feet high is the door and three abreast may enter it, say the runes, but Smaug could not creep into a hole that size. He could not have done so even when he was but a hatchling; and he certainly cannot do so now, after he had devoured so many of our people and those of Dale.”

“It seems a great big hole to me!” the Hobbit, whose presence they had all but forgotten, squeaked in excitement. “How could such an enormous door be kept secret?”

Bifur grinned into her fake beard. The secret door was indeed fairly small, compared with the huge monolithic gates of Dwarf cities (if Uruktharbun’s front gate was any indication), but theirs host was a Hobbit, called a Halfling by other races for a reason. In his eyes, the Mountain’s side entrance probably did appear quite large.

“Lots of ways,” replied the wizard absent-mindedly, “but which one of them we do not know without looking.”

“If we can find it,” said Balin. “Dwarf doors are invisible when closed; made to look exactly like the side of the mountains.”

The others nodded in agreement; none of them seemed very happy about it, though.

“The answer lies somewhere hidden in this map,” muttered Óin, “bit I do not have the skill to find it. If there is another hidden message here, it is not visible; either it is too well concealed, or a spell is needed to make it appear. Whatever the case may be, I cannot make it visible. What about you, Balin?”

The white-bearded Dwarf only shook his head with an unhappy grimace.

“Neither can I,” confessed the wizard. “But there are others in Middle-earth who might. Which is why I suggest passing through Rivendell on our way to the East. The greatest lore-masters of our Age dwell in that hospitable valley; they can help us with wisdom and supplies. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage. But if you're careful and clever I believe that it can be done.

“And that is why we need a burglar,” said Ori, pennies dropping.

“Unless you find yourself a mighty warrior or even a hero; one capable of slaying a dragon,” agreed the wizard. “I tried to find one. But warriors are busy fighting each other in distant lands, and in this neighbourhood heroes are scarce – or simply not to be found. Swords in these parts are mostly blunt, and axes are used for chopping firewood and shields for cradles or dish-covers, and dragons are comfortably far off and considered mere legends. Thus burglary seemed indicated – especially when I finally remembered the side door.”

“You would need a very good burglar to sneak into a dragon’s cave, though,” said the Hobbit innocently. “An expert, I would imagine.”

“And are you one?” demanded Glóin, glaring at the poor little creature from the tangled russet jungle that was his beard.

“Am I what?” asked the Hobbit, completely bewildered.

Óin tilted his lion-like head to the side and looked him over, from curly head to hairy toes.

“He does not seem an expert to me,” he judged. “He does not even have the tattoo of the Thieves Guild on his wrist.”

“Of course I don’t!” the Hobbit was clearly offended. “I'm not a burglar. I've never stolen a thing in my life, and I don’t intend to do so any time in the future, thank you very much!”

Suddenly the parlour became eerily silent. The Dwarves were shocked. Certainly, Tharkûn had told them that the Hobbit would not be easily persuaded to join their Quest, but they had not expected him to be completely inexperienced, either. It seemed near impossible to talk him into leaving the comfort of his home – and why should he? As Hobbit-holes go, the smial was spacious and luxurious, filled with good food (what was left of it after the invasion of the Dwarves) and things of simple, practical beauty, surrounded by extensive, well-tended gardens.

Why would he want to leave all this behind and run off with a bunch of Dwarves he had never seen before, on a mad adventure from which he might never return?

“I'm afraid I have to agree with mister Baggins,” Balin said philosophically. “He's hardly burglar material.”

Dwalin nodded in grave agreement

“Aye, the wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves,” he growled.

Bifur stole another glance at their host who did not seem insulted by Dwalin’s words the least. In fact, he was nodding in agreement, clearly happy to be left out of the whole undertaking. Tharkûn, on the other hand, was visibly growing angry as the Dwarves kept arguing. He rose to his full height (nearly hitting his head in the ceiling which, admittedly, took off some of the edge of his obvious wrath), and spoke in a voice so powerful that the others shut up in surprise.

“Enough,” he thundered. “If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is.”

The Hobbit opened his mouth to protest, but the wizard gave him a quelling look, so he closed it again, looking quite uncomfortable. Tharkûn calmed down, going back to his normal, grandfatherly self; he even seemed to shrink somehow, fitting into his surrounding with no noticeable effort.

“As I’ve already explained you when this whole business started, Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet,” he continued with forced patience. “In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the Dragon would smell a Dwarf from miles, he likely never encountered a Hobbit, which gives as a distinct advantage. I promised to find you a burglar, and I've chosen mister Baggins. 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 – including himself. You must trust me on this.”

All eyes turned to their host again, full of doubt, for he looked not the least suited for a dangerous undertaking like theirs. To be honest, Bilbo seemed every bit as doubtful as the rest of them. But after a moment of consideration Thorin sighed and gave in.

“Very well,” he said reluctantly, ignoring the Hobbit’s protests. “We'll do it your way… for now. Give him the contract,” he ordered, and Ori handed the still protesting Bilbo a long contract… with several extensions.

“It's just the usual summary about the pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, funeral arrangements, so forth,” explained the scribe to the visibly shocked Hobbit.

“Funeral arrangements?” echoed Bilbo, eyes bulging.

As he stepped back a few feet, closer to the lamp, to read the rest of the contract – Hobbits being every bit as meticulous in such things as Dwarves – Thorin have Tharkûn a cold glare.

“I cannot guarantee his safety,” he said in a low whisper.

The wizard nodded. “Understood.”

There were no guarantees, and they both knew that.

“Nor will I be responsible for his fate,” continued Thorin.

Tharkûn glanced over to Bifur and she gave him a slight nod, signalling her willingness to step in if necessary.

“Agreed,” said the wizard, more to Bifur than to Thorin.

In the meantime Bilbo was reading parts of the contract out loud, clearly finding the terms fair enough – until he reached the part in which the Company refused liability for “injuries sustained by various means”, all of them extremely unpleasant but not unexpected when one was about to face a dragon.

“Incineration?” he repeated, doing his best not to panic – and failing.

“Oh, aye,” said Bofur cheerfully. He always had a somewhat macabre sense of humour, which proved as a great moral boast among fellow Wanderer Dwarves on the Road but failed miserably to cheer up a frightened Hobbit, it seemed. “He'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye.”

“Huh?” Bilbo looked a little breathless. In fact, he was getting literally green around the gills and Bifur stepped closer to him, worried that he might keep over.

“Are you all right, Mr Baggins?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah,” the Hobbit bent over, nauseous and pained. “I feel a bit faint.”

“Think furnace with wings,” Bofur was still going on cheerfully and Bifur wished he were close enough for her to elbow him in the ribs. Did the idiot not see that he was frightening the Hobbit out of his mind?”

“Itkit! (Shut up!)” she hissed in Khuzdul, but Bofur was in fine form today and couldn’t be stopped. Perhaps it was all the beer they had drunk – Bilbo’s beer, the poor Hobbit’s, who just announced his need for air.

“Flash of light, searing pain then poof! You're nothing more than a pile of ash,” finished Bofur with flourish.

Which was blatantly untrue, of course. Being killed by dragonfire was anything but quick and clean, as quite a few of the survivors of Smaug’s attack on the Mountain could prove; Lofar, for one. Bifur chose not to correct her irrepressible cousin, though. She was more concerned about Bilbo, who was breathing heavily, trying to compose himself as the others stared at him.

“Hmmm. Nope,” the Hobbit finally said, just before falling on the floor in a faint like some wooden doll.

Tharkûn gave Bofur a withering glare. “Ah, very helpful, Bofur.”

Bofur just shrugged. He ought to know better – he did, in fact – but sometimes he just couldn’t stop himself action out a stupid joke. Bifur felt the need to interfere before the wizard’s wrath might be unleashed; Tharkûn was very fond of this particular hobbit, after all.

“I believe we should give Mr Baggins a moment to recover,” she said quietly. “Tharkûn, is there a room where he could rest a bit?”

“The front parlour would do it, I think,” replied the wizard. “It’s been built with Big People in mind, as Hobbits would say. I shall stay with him and talk to him.”

“Show me the way,” Bifur lifted their host from the floor – he was heavier than he looked but still didn’t seem to weigh more than a Dwarfling before his last growth spurt – and followed Tharkûn to a relatively large room that was still warm and cosy.

It had a shiny wooden floor, a large, round, wood-framed window, the stained glass facets of which broke the sunlight down into a veritable rainbow of colours at daytime, with earth brown and ochre patterned curtains that swept the floor. A low, wide sofa stood right under the window, colourful pillows scattered across its surface, and next to it a large, overstuffed chair, clearly made for a grown Man and such well-suited for Tharkûn.

Bifur carefully settled their host on the sofa, then placed a mug of beer on the beautifully carved bedside table on his right and retreated to the shadows. Balin, equally concerned about their host, had followed them down the corridor, and so did Thorin himself, waiting for the Hobbit to regain consciousness… even though Thorin’s motivation was probably born more of annoyance than of concern. They remained outside the parlour to give the wizard some privacy.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It took Bilbo a few moments to stir, but in the end stir he did, sitting up and reaching for the beer mug almost instinctively.

“I'll be all right,” he told the wizard. “Just let me sit quietly for a moment.”

“You've been sitting quietly for far too long,” replied Tharkûn accusingly. “Tell me, when did doilies and your mother's dishes become so important to you? More important than to your mother, I may add. I remember a young Hobbit who was always running off in search of Elves in the woods. He'd stay out late, come home after dark, trailing mud and twigs and fireflies, telling his mother about his adventures most excitedly. A young Hobbit who would've liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire. The world is not in your books or maps. It's out there.”

Bilbo stared at him with the righteous annoyance of a born scholar whose research had just been insulted.

“I can't just go running off into the blue,” he protested. “I'm a Baggins of Bag-End. The Baggins, to be more accurate.”

What on earth does that mean?” Thorin looked at Balin askance.

The scholarly old Dwarf shrugged. “I have no idea. Perhaps some kind of family obligation?”

Which would have made the Hobbit’s reluctance understandable. One who had the responsibility for the extended family couldn’t just shake it off and leave at a whim.

“You are also a Took,” the wizard was continuing the argument in the meantime. Did you know that your great-great-great-great uncle Bullroarer Took was so large he could ride a real horse?”

“Yes, I did,” the Hobbit rolled his eyes. “That’s a family legend, Gandalf. A legend of my family. I grew up with it, you know.”

That stopped Tharkûn for a moment – but only for a moment.

“Well, he could,” he pressed on. “At the battle of Greenfields he charged the goblin ranks, and…”

“As I said, I know the story,” Bilbo interrupted. “I do believe half of it is simply made up, to tell the truth.”

“Well, all good stories deserve embellishment,” replied the wizard, without as much as a pause. “You'll have a tale or two to tell of your own when you come back.“

Bilbo gave him that queer look Hobbits sometimes had when they felt they were being cheated. The look that revealed that they were thinking at least two step ahead of the other person.

“Can you promise that I will come back?” he asked softly, but there was an edge in his voice few people would have expected from a Hobbit.

“No,” answered Tharkûn after a seemingly endless moment. “And if you do, you'll not be the same.”

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

With that, he stood and walked down the hall towards his bedroom, pretending not to notice the eavesdropping Dwarves. Tharkûn sighed in disappointment; and so did Balin.

“It appears we have lost our burglar,” he said.

“Probably for the best,” replied Bifur; she never for a moment believed that they had a chance against the Dragon. She only came to watch over Bombur. “The odds were always against us. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toymakers. Hardly the stuff of legends. Present company excluded, of course,” she added with a respectful nod in Thorin’s direction, who bristled at the description of his chosen Company.

“There are a few warriors amongst us,” he declared.

“Old warriors,” said Balin softly.

“And spoiled young brats, not yet blooded in battle,” added Bifur. She didn’t see why old warriors would be a problem. After all, Dwarves go tougher the older they were; and their best warriors were the oldest ones.

Thorin shook his head. “I will take each and every one of these Dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills. For when I called upon them, they answered. Loyalty, honour, a willing heart. I can't ask for more than that.”

“You don't have to do this,” argued Balin. “You have a choice. You've done honourably by our people. You have built a new life for us in Uruktharbun. A life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold under the Lonely Mountain.”

Thorin pulled out the ornate key and held it in front of him. “From my grandfather to my father this has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the Dwarves of the Mountain would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me.”

Balin sighed and gave him a deep, formal bow; the one a nobly born Dwarf would give his sovereign. “Then we are with you, uzbad belkhul. We will see it done.M'imnu Durin.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“So what now?” asked Bifur as they were strolling back towards the living-room where the rest of the Company was gathered. “Are we staying for the night or do we return to the inn? It seems hardly fair to Mr Baggins to abuse his hospitality any longer; more so as he is clearly not joining the Quest.”

“Besides, we have already paid for the rooms in the Green Dragon,” commented Balin. “Glóin would hate to see all that coin wasted.”

“We shall stay for a last pipe,” decided Thorin, “and for a last drink of ale. Then we will return to the inn.”

Balin agreed with the suggestion and they joined the others in the Hobbit’s living room, where they were sitting in a loose circle, smoking their pipes by the fireplace. The room was dark and pleasantly warm, the shadows dancing on the firelight wall. It was the epitome of home as a Hobbit would see it – and it woke in the fiery depths of their Dwarven hearts the longing for a different home.

A home they once called their own; and soon they began humming the ancient song of that home. Resting his hand that held the pipe on the mantelpiece, Thorin was the first to begin singing in a deep, beautiful, somewhat rough voice that touched every single one of them in their deepest heart. One by one, they rose from their seats and joined him, the haunting melody filling the entire smial, while the sparks of the fireplace swarmed out through the chimney like fireflies.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold

to dungeons deep and caverns old

we must away 'ere break of day

to find the long forgotten gold

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

As they sang, Bifur wondered if the Hobbit was listening to them. If he would feel the love of beautiful things made by hands and by cunning and by magic moving through him; a fierce and jealous love, the desire of the hearts of Dwarves. If he might change his mind yet and join their Quest, after all.

Khuzdul stuff:

uzbad belkhul = mighty lord

M'imnu Durin = in Durin’s name

Author’s note: There’s something I wanted off my chest before someone starts to complain. I know Tolkien considered using the word Dwarrow instead of Dwarf, all right? The fact is, however, that he decided against it, and in all his published (and unpublished) works he still uses Dwarf and Dwarves. The only exception is Dwarrowdelf, which is a direct translation from the Khuzdul name Khazad-dûm. So yes, Dwarf and Dwarves is actually canon, no matter what some freshly-minted “experts” would say.

After a short night's rest the thirteen Dwarves met with Gandalf in the common room of the Green Dragon for an early yet opulent breakfast. Thorin wanted to set off as soon as possible – with or without a burglar. He made no secret of the fact that he was unconcerned about Gandalf’s Hobbit and was determined to go on, despite their unlucky number, declaring to be free of such foolish superstitions.

The other Dwarves were less sure about that, and soon a lively discussion arose about whether the Hobbit would change his mind and show up yet.

“Nah, he shan’t,” declared Nori haughtily. “’Twas a waste of time to make a detour to this place. No offence, Tharkûn, but a Hobbit is of no use on a Quest like ours.”

Bifur withstood the urge to direct a few sharp words at the youngest son of Orin Glowhammer. Unlike his brothers, Nori was a Dwarf so full of himself that there was no room left in his head for sensible arguments. His looks alone revealed him as a self-centred person whose main goal was to draw attention to himself at any costs. He had his hair coiffed in that ridiculous starfish shape that had become very fashionable among the master artisans in Uruktharbun (despite the fact that he had yet to achieve his mastership as a crystal cutter), instead of the artfully arranged ceremonial braids of the BlackLock Clans, much to Dori’s dismay.

He was the vainest Dwarf Bifur had met in her entire life; and she had seen her fair share of vain males. Never one before that would have his eyebrows braided, though. Or that would look down his big, pointy nose at anyone of a lower status.

Consequently, Nori was not the most popular member of the Company and Bifur was not the only one whom he rubbed the wrong way. Óin, in particular, did not react well to the young Dwarf’s self-important manners and never missed the opportunity to put him in his place.

“Would you like to take a wager on that?” he asked with deceptive mildness, weighing a small sack of coin in his palm. “Ten silvers that he will turn up ere we leave the village.”

“If you feel the weight of your purse too keenly,” laughed Nori disdainfully, “I bet fifty silvers that he shan’t.”

“And I bet fifty that he will,” announced the wizard, glaring at the Dwarves from under his thorny eyebrows.

Dwalin shook his head. “You are wasting your coin, Tharkûn. The Hobbit was clearly frightened out of his mind, he will be glad to see us gone. I’m with Nori; twenty silvers against him showing up.”

Balin, Dori, Ori and Glóin were in agreement; and so was Bifur, to be honest, although she was more sensible than to go wasting her hard-earned coin on such folly. Bofur, though, who still felt a tad guilty for having frightened their host into a faint on the previous evening, felt honour-bound to bet for him and put ten silvers – which was the half of all his savings – to risk, much to Bombur’s exasperation. Only Prince Kíli bet for “Mister Boggins” from the rest, clearly having taken a liking to the Hobbit.

It seemed, though, that Nori would prove right, as the Hobbit didn’t show up at the Green Dragon while they were having breakfast; nor afterwards while they were packing their saddlebags and readying their ponies. The latter took some time, as they had a great deal of supplies to pack. Thorin had the common sense to ask the former Wanderer Dwarves about what they would need on such a long journey, and Bifur, Bofur and Bombur had done their best to think of everything that might prove needful.

They had decided against taking a supply wagon, due to the condition of the roads before them, especially on the last leg of their way that would lead them through Mirkwood. ‘Twas better to rely on the strength and endurances of the Dwarf ponies, of which they had brought twenty with them; thirteen to ride and the rest as beasts of burden.

When they were ready to go, Thorin ordered them not to wait any longer, and they left Bywater, turning their backs on the rolling hills of Hobbiton, without a catching a sight of their burglar. As much as Bifur hated to see Nori triumph, she felt something akin to relief. She found the Hobbit a kind and gentle soul and did not want him to join a quest that she herself found hopeless and foolish.

Not that she would voice her opinion within Thorin’s earshot, of course. Balin could afford to do so. She could not.

They left the village and turned onto the Great East Road – resigned to the thought that they would make their journey with their unlucky number and without a burglar – when they heard a breathless call from behind.

They stopped their ponies to look back and to their surprise they saw a little figure running after them across Hobbiton, jumping over fences and pumpkins in his haste. He was carrying a rather large backpack and waving with something that looked suspiciously like the contract. It was indeed Bilbo Baggins, trying to catch up with them and ignoring his neighbours who were shaking their heads at him in obvious disapproval.

He caught up with them and handed the contract to Balin who happened to be closest.

For which, in Bifur’s opinion, he had every right. It was quite a feat from a peaceful Hobbit to join an undertaking which even most Dwarves found utterly hopeless.

Balin accepted the contract and inspected it with a pocket glass. Then he smiled at the still beaming Hobbit.

“Everything appears to be in order,” he said, passing the contract to Ori who stowed it with the other documents concerning their quest; he was their archivist, after all. “Welcome, Master Baggins, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

The other Dwarves cheered… with the exception of Thorin who seemed distinctly unimpressed.

“No, no, no. That won't be necessary,” he protested, making Bifur wonder if he had ever sat in a saddle in his life. “Thank you, but I… I'm sure I can keep up on foot. I've done my fair share of walking holidays, you know. I've even been as far as Frogmorton once…”

Which was quite a distance from Hobbiton, Bifur knew; well, for a Hobbit anyway. Still it was highly unlikely that Bilbo would be able to keep up with the pack ponies, no matter how well used he was to walking considerable distances. Not to mention that he would completely exhaust himself and be useless for the rest of the journey.

The Hobbit’s babbling was cut off mid-sentence as Fíli and Kíli rode alongside him, picked him up and put him on one of the pack ponies, grinning evilly as they were doing so.

Bifur had to admit that it was a funny sight: the little Hobbit enthroned on top of the saddlebags, clutching to the reins for dear life, looking quite terrified. The pony neighed and tossed its head, making him even more uncomfortable. Still, he managed to remain in the saddle as the pony fell in step with the others.

Óin, in the meantime, was grinning like a loon. “Come on Nori, pay up. Go on.”

With an unhappy scowl, Nori tossed a small sack of coin to Óin; then another one to Gandalf, a third one to Bofur and finally one to Kíli. The others who had bet against Bilbo’s coming did the same, and Bofur’s grin grew behind both ears when he collected his winnings.

“One more,” he said, catching Ori’s bag of coins contentedly. “Thanks, lad,” and he handed over everything to Bombur, who was also grinning.

This was quite likely the largest pile of coin either of them had earned on one day in their entire lives, and the beamed at the Hobbit who had helped them to it with pride.

Bilbo, for his part, watched the sacks of coin being pressed between the Dwarves with a frown. “What's that about?”

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

“What did you think?” the Hobbit asked, although it should have been obvious by the way Gandalf was putting small sacks of coin into his pack.

“My dear fellow, I never doubted you for a second,” replied the wizard, his eyes twinkling. “You are a Took, after all.”

“Blast all this horse hair,” he cursed mildly. “Always giving me an allergic reaction,” he searched his pockets for something and clearly didn’t find it because he became really agitated. “Wait, wait. Stop. Stop. We have to turn around.”

The entire company came to a halt; Óin and Glóin started objecting to the delay while a highly annoyed Nori (still smarting from having lost the bet) angrily demanded to know what the problem was.

“What on earth is the matter?” he asked, more amused than angry, as if he knew already. Perhaps he did. Wizards were a strange lot.

“I’m awfully sorry,” replied Bilbo in that forcedly polite manner of his, “But I’ve come without my hat; and I’ve forgot my handkerchief; and I haven’t brought any coin with me. I woke up a little late, you see; and I had to pack hastily to catch up with you.”

Half the Company had a very hard time not to laugh; Fíli and Kíli didn’t even try and only calmed down when Dwalin gave them a truly frightening glare. Bifur managed, in the last moment, to keep Bofur from tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt and offer it to the Hobbit’s use (who probably wouldn’t have been charmed by the offer), while Thorin watched everyone with impatience and disgust.

Dwalin, however, made a – likely futile – attempt to open the Hobbit’s eyes for what lay before them.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “You will have to manage without handkerchiefs and lots of other things before we get to our journey’s end. As for a hat, I have a spare hood and cloak in my saddlebag that you can borrow.”

The offer led to another bout of hilarity among the Dwarves because Dwalin was exceptionally large for a Dwarf (having a lot of BlackLock blood could do that to a person) and the Hobbit was smaller than even the smallest of them… which happened to be Bifur.

“I believe Mister Baggins would be better off borrowing some of my clothes,” she said. “Nothing against your generous offer, Lord Dwalin, but he’d get lost in your cloak and we might never find him again.”

The Hobbit still looked a little doubtful, so she added encouragingly, “Since you don’t have a beard, you cannot be mistaken for a Dwarf; not from close to, even if you were wearing Dwarven clothing.”

“Not very likely,” Gandalf agreed. “Still, as I said, I knew you would show up in the end, my dear Bilbo, so I took the liberty to do some packing for you.”

With that, he handed the Hobbit a very handsome maroon travelling coat (made of the finest wool and obviously fitted for his size), as well as a whole pile of handkerchiefs, a pipe and a large bag of pipeweed. Finally, he shared his winnings with Bilbo evenly, saying that the Hobbit, too, should benefit from the bet made of trust in his courage.

Bilbo was delighted to have some of the basic comforts he had forgotten in his haste, and thus they could finally move on before Thorin would lose his temper. Which was a good thing, as far as anyone who knew the crownless King of Durin’s House would agree.

They rode on, following the Great East Road for about a month, crossing the River Baranduin (which, hilariously enough, the Hobbits called the Brandywine) at the Bridge of Stonebows and travelling along the northern border of Buckland for a while, after having left the Shire proper.

The route was a known one for Bifur, Bofur and Bombur, as it was the same they had regularly travelled with their caravan. Other Dwarves of many travels – Óin in particular – knew it well enough, too, thus they had no difficulties find the few inns along the road; at least not in the beginning.

They passed through Bree again, having a short rest in the Prancing Pony, where they also restocked their food supplies. Óin paid Missus Sandheaver’s herb and tincture shop another visit, organising a second medicine kit with all kinds of salves and pills and tinctures they might need on such a long and potentially dangerous journey. He also bought large bouquets of dried herbs and lots of linen strips to have enough bandages, should they get into a fight on the way, which was more than likely.

Because the Road turned worse after they had left the Bree-land, as Bifur knew it would. They barely met a soul on their way, save for a Dwarf or a tinker or a farmer ambling by on business; and even those seemed anything but respectable folk, though such a large group of Dwarves, most of them trained warriors, had nothing to fear from them.

By now they had come far into the Lone-lands, where there were no people left, no inns, and the roads grew steadily worse. There were hills in the distance, rising higher and higher, dark with trees. There were old castles on some of the hills, crumbling with age; they seemed as if they had not been built for any good purpose.

What was even worse, the weather that had been as good as Thrimidge can ever be, had taken a nasty turn, much to the Hobbit’s dismay. Now it was cold and wet, and they had to camp when they could, which was far from the comfort of the Shire.

"To think that we’re well into Forelithe already," grumbled Bilbo as he splashed along beside Bifur, Bofur and Bombur (having recognised them as the most potentially sympathetic souls right at the beginning of the journey) in a very muddy track.

He was very obviously miserable and he had every reason to be – from a Hobbit’s point of view. It was well beyond tea-time, as he had pointed out to the most unsympathetic Dwarves; it was pouring with rain (and had been all day) The hood that he had accepted from Bifur, after all, was dripping into his eyes, his fine travelling coat was soaked water; the pony was tired and stumbled on stones, rattling him rather painfully at every other step – nothing could be further from the comfort of his home.

"And I'm sure the rain has got into the dry clothes and into the food-bags," he grumbled. "Bother burglary and everything to do with it! I wish I was at home in my nice hole by the fire, with the kettle just beginning to sing!"

“I fear this shan’t be the last time you’d wish for that,” Bombur, also tired and saddle-sore (he was used to travel in a wagon, after all), said with compassion. “Tell me, Mister Baggins, what made you join our quest after all? You seemed quite opposed to the idea at first, if memory serves me well.”

“Because I was a fool,” replied the Hobbit dully. “When I remembered one of you calling me a fat little fellow bobbing on the mat I lost my mind and wanted to prove him wrong. The Took side in me won; and when I saw you gone in the morning, I just ran out of the door without a second thought… something no Hobbit – and especially no Baggins – was ever supposed to do.”

Bombur laughed quietly. “So we can thank Lord Glóin to have a burglar at all.”

“I suppose so,” muttered the Hobbit doubtfully; then something clearly occurred to him. “Tell me, why are you calling him Lord Glóin? No-one else does, just the three of you.”

“No-one else but the three of us is as common as dirt,” commented Bifur dryly, having caught the tail end of their conversation. “Balin, Dwalin, Óin and Glóin are cousins of Thorin. Dori, Ori and Nori are also from Durin’s blood, through a different branch. Fíli and Kíli are Thorin’s sister-sons; Fíli is also the heir apparent. That leaves the three of us as common folk; the only ones not nobly born as, I’m sure, Nori would be only too happy to point out if you asked him.”

“But you never call óin a lord,” said the Hobbit, revealing his observant nature.

Bifur shrugged. “We go way back,” she wasn’t about to reveal any details but felt that their burglar deserved at least some answers. “He travelled with our caravan for a while in his youth; before Thorin would settle in the Blue Mountains.”

“He is a Dwarf with a great deal of wanderlust,” added Bombur. “Never to remain long in the same place, that one. Which is why he serves as Thorin’s emissary from time to time; when he can tear himself away from his studies, that is. Only Ori is even worse when it comes to books and scrolls and parchment and lore.”

“There is nothing wring with books,” said the Hobbit a bit defensively. “I wish I would be sitting with one at my fireplace at home right now.”

To that the Dwarves had nothing to say, so they rode on in silence. Somewhere behind the grey clouds the sun must have gone down, for it began to get dark. Wind got up, and the willows along the river-bank bent and sighed. The river was a rushing red one, swollen with the rains of the last few days, that came down from the hills and mountains in front of them.

As the winds broke up the grey clouds, a waning moon appeared above the hills between the flying rags. It was nearly dark when Thorin finally stopped their tiresome forward struggle and looked around.

“Let us see where we shall get a dry patch to sleep on,” he said. “And some supper would be welcome.”

He looked at Bombur who usually did the cooking for the entire Company – with the help of the Hobbit.

“I shall try my best,” promised the old Dwarf,” but I will need somebody with the fire-touch to help me lit the fire.”

“I’ll do it,” said Óin, as they moved to a clump of trees where it was drier underneath. Well, a bit dryer anyway, for the wind shook the rain off the leaves, and the drip-drip was most annoying.

“What is the fire-touch?” asked Bilbo as he was helping Bombur unpack the cooking paraphernalia.

“An affliction for fire, specific for the FireBeard Clans,” explained Bombur. “FireBeard Dwarves can make a fire almost anywhere out of almost anything, wind or no wind. Most useful when on the Road.”

“But I thought Óin and Glóin were from Durin’s folk,” said Bilbo a little confused.

Bombur nodded. “They are. But their mother was a noble FireBeard dam and a fierce warrior. They come very much after her, as you can see – especially Glóin.”

The Hobbit eyed the magnificent red beard of Glóin and nodded in understanding. Unfortunately, not even the mythical fire-touch of the FireBeards seemed to help in that night. Óin and Glóin were unable to get the fire going, no matter how much they quarrelled about the right way of doing it.

“’Tis no use,” said Óin after he’d almost come to blows with his own brother. “The mischief seems to have got into the fire. Let’s Tharkûn give it a try.”

That was when they noticed that the wizard had gone missing. So far he had come all the way with them, never saying if he was in the adventure or merely keeping them company for a while. But now he simply was not there at all.

"Just when a wizard would have been most useful, too," growled Nori, who missed the comfort of Uruktharbun as much as the Hobbit missed the Shire. As Bifur had realised right at the beginning, he was a spoiled brat.

Dori, although he, too, shared the Hobbit’s opinion about regular meals, lots and often, gave his youngest brother a quelling look. Whining about the lack of comfort was clearly considered unseeming for a son of Orin Glowhammer.

Before Dori could have done more than glaring at his brother, though, there was a frighteningly loud crack, as if the sky itself would break in two, as lighting struck down awfully near them. One of the ponies took fright at nothing and bolted, heading to the river.

“Fíli, Kíli, go after him!” ordered Thorin. “We cannot afford losing supplies out here.”

The young princes ran after the pony but the frightened little beast got into the river before they could catch him. They went in after him without hesitation, and after much struggling they managed to get him out, even though they were nearly drowned for their pains, for the current was frighteningly strong. Unfortunately, all the baggage that the pony carried was washed away off him; a fact that made Thorin even more grouchy.

The scribe sighed. “Alas, mostly food. I fear there is mighty little left for supper, and even less for breakfast.”

“Which is a moot point anyway as we cannot make a fire and thus cooking is out of question,” added Bombur glumly.

Morale dropped deeper than the mines of Khazad-dûm after that. Dwarves were a hardy people – Mahal had made them to endure, after all – but they loved food almost as much as Hobbits and reacted badly to the lack of it. There they all sat, glum and wet and muttering, and Bifur knew it was only a matter of time before a fight would break out. That was the Dwarven way to deal with frustration, and she had no intentions to hinder the others in blowing off some steam. She was, however, worried about their burglar accidentally getting between the fronts and getting hurt.

“Be careful, Master Baggins,” she murmured to the Hobbit who had instinctively sought out her company. “Glóin is about to blow up with anger and the others are not far behind. You’d want to stay out of their way if that happens.”

“Not that I’d blame them,” he said. “I’m close to blowing up myself. But you don’t have to be so formal with me, you know. We’ve known each other long enough for you to call me Bilbo.”

Most of the others called the Hobbit by his given name, but most of the others were also nobles. She did not want to pretend. She did feel flattered by the offer, though.

If Bilbo wanted to say something else, he didn’t come to it. For Dwalin, who was always their look-out man, suddenly said: "There's a light over there!”

1) I used Bilbo’s movieverse departure because it’s more mature than Gandalf practically forcing him out of the house.

2) My Nori is the youngest of the three brothers, simply because his name means “little scrap” in Old Norse.

3) According to Tolkien, Fíli and Kíli weren’t irresponsible, prankster idiots, thank you very much.

4) From the earlier versions of The Hobbit it is clear that originally Dwalin was meant to be the look-out man; which is why he arrived at Bilbo’s as the first. His role was later transferred to his brother, but I found that it would fit him better so I gave him back his job. *g*

5) Forelithe is, according to the Shire calendar, the month between 22^nd May to 20^th June. In the book Bilbo mentions that June is coming up soon, so they would be somewhen in the middle of Forelithe.

If You Wish Upon a Dwobbit by Soledad