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: 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.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

 Chapter 08 – The Thirteen Warriors

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.”

“That is a likely explanation,” agreed Óin. “So, what happened next?”

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.”

“He still is,” added Óin and Balin nodded.

“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.

“Aye, that is right,” he said. “Lofar is my younger brother.”

“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.”

Balin chuckled at that.

“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.”

“True again,” Lóni allowed.

“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…”

“… barely,” supplied Balin.

Dwalin shot him a baleful look.

“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.”

“Good luck with trying to talk sense into him,” said Dwalin with a snort.

“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.”

“Did it help?” asked Óin with interest.

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.”

“That is not very encouraging,” commented Lóni after a lengthy silence.

“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.

Thorin nodded. “Aye; he and both his brothers.”

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.

Frán glared at him in anger and disbelief.

“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.”

At that, the bitter old Dwarf-dam stood and bowed deeply.

“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.”

“He is but sixty-two,” said Balin. Dwalin shrugged.

“So what? Both you and Thorin were younger at Azanulbizar.”

“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.”

“If only Dís would be more reasonable,” muttered Balin.

“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?

If that was the case, their Quest would not set off under a lucky star.

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.

Mother Edhla noticed her amazement and smiled.

“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.”

“Why me, though?” asked Bifur. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“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.

~TBC~