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: 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.

Chapter 07 – In Conclave with the Wizard

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.

“Ain’t they now? You sure about that?”

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.”

Bifur shook her head in bewilderment.

“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.”

“Why should it not be restored?” asked Dís in cold fury.

“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.”

Dwalin, who sat on his other side, gave him an annoyed look.

“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.

“You know about that?” asked the wizard in surprise.

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.

There were murmurs of agreement all around but the wizard shook his head.

“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.”

“Name it!” said Thorin.

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.”

“You are speaking in riddles again,” growled the big BlackLock.

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.

Tharkûn smiled, his deep eyes twinkling in amusement.

“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.

The wizard, however, nodded in agreement ere tempers could start running high.

“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?”

Tharkûn ignored the sarcasm as if Thorin had not spoken at all.

“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.

Even if such a thing had been possible; which it most likely was not.

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.

At least you will have something to laugh, Bombur signed back.

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.”

Fili laughed again. “What a name!”

“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.”

The wizard ignored the warning tone of his voice.

“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.

~TBC~

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

(1) Iglishmek is the sign language of the Dwarves.

(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.