If You Wish Upon A Dwobbit

by Soledad

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.

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.

Chapter 04 – An Evening in the Prancing Pony

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.”

“You don’t want to visit the Shire this time, then?” asked Bofur.

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.”

“I can do that,” offered Hunbogi, and with that the matter was settled.

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.

“Cousin Dwalin!” he exclaimed. “’Tis good to see you!”

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

“By my beard, if this ain’t Óin the bookworm!” he roared.

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.

Dwalin caught his murmured comment and frowned.

“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.”

“Not a rare sight in such dark, dense woods,” pointed out Veig.

“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?”

“The Elves would have noticed that,” said Bofur.

“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.”

Thorin shot him a glare that could have frozen the log-fire over in a moment.

“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.

The others perked up at once, hearing that.

“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.

Bombur gave him a blank look. “So?”

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.”

“All but one,” grumbled Dwalin. Óin nodded again.

“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.”

“And get eaten,” added Bofur brightly.

“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.”

“Including the belly of the Dragon?” asked Niping.

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.

“Do you think it could really be Tharkûn?” whispered Dwalin in awe.

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.

Dwarves took such duties very seriously.

“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.”

~TBC~