Chapter Text
It took the company several days to climb over the ridge line and into the Misty Mountains.
There were many paths that led into the mountains. Most led to nowhere, dead ends or bad ends. Some were infested with wicked and wretched dangers. Gandalf, knowing of the evils that had grown and thriven in the Wild, had recommended a trail he'd recently trekked, one that unfortunately proved hard and crooked and lonely.
To quicken their pace, each day they hiked roughly four to six hours, depending on the terrain and elevation. They stopped to rest every three or four days.
The air was considerably thinner, and Bilbo and Zephyra were having a difficult time with it. They both were feeling very fatigued and light-headed.
At one point, Bilbo vomited over the side of the pass. Zephyra, being directly behind him, had been fighting the acid rising in chest for some time, but upon seeing the hobbit retching before her, and smelling it, she too lost her breakfast.
“Give it a few days,” Oin told them both, “you’re not used to the mountains. You’ll adjust.”
It took the fairy a bit more time than it did Bilbo, and every time they would stop, she’d promptly fall asleep.
She was grateful for the scarf and socks Ori had made, as it quickly grew colder despite being the middle of summer. The nights were even more frigid. Without a bed roll, the cold from the ground seemed to seep into her bones. Her only solaces were the small fires they would sometimes have, when they were among the timber line, and Thorin.
Thorin took to lying next to his intended every night, draping his cloak over the both of them to keep her warm.
He and the other dwarves didn’t mind the cold so very much. Although some of the older ones did complain of joint stiffness from time to time.
He was surprised how well everyone kept up. Even the hobbit, who he did not believe could survive the wilds, was still able to assist with the journey, finding food, and setting up camp.
Thorin looked at Zephyra while she slept. The lightest purr of a snore beginning as she drifted off in his arms. He knew the journey would be more difficult now without the ponies but felt it would be considerably more bearable with her presence. He did not expect her to be so drained from the initial ascent into the mountains, but she was beginning to feel better.
He pulled her close, nuzzling her with his nose into her soft brown hair. He was so grateful to her. Her commitment to their cause, to him.
He thought back to their last night in Rivendell.
Thorin was already in the room when Zephyra returned. He lay in bed, back to the door.
Zephyra removed her boots and socks and crawled under the covers towards him. Her warmth enveloped him as she pressed her cheek to his bare back. He listened to her breath rise and fall.
“Are you awake,” she asked, her voice low and melodic. He loved it when she spoke like that.
Thorin did not speak but hummed a “mmm-hmm” in reply. He was still going over what he had overheard Lord Elrond saying to Gandalf regarding the strain of madness in his family.
“You know, this afternoon I remembered a story my people told. I hadn’t thought of it in a long time. But I remember my mother telling my sister and I about elements of the world being alive.”
He lay still, patiently listening, and she continued. “Walking and talking trees, living rivers… and living mountains.”
Some mountains, she said, are just that, rock and ore and trees and snow. Others, however, are alive. A light buried deep within them. Everything that lives on and near such a mountain will flourish and thrive. Good luck and fortune can be found. Everyone that lives within the mountain’s shadow will have long and healthy lives.
It was also said, in the story, that if for any reason the heart of the mountain should be taken, bad things would follow. The days would turn sour. Misery and misfortune would strike. The mountain would begin to wither and die, along with all life upon it.
All those closest to the heart would be cursed with a sickness, a kind of madness.
Thorin snapped his eyes open at her words, turning in the bed to face her.
“This Arkenstone,” Zephyra asked, “it glows, doesn’t it?”
Thorin nodded.
“And I’m going to take a guess that yer grandfather, King Thror… he was closest in proximity to the Arkenstone?”
Thorin told her he had in inlaid in his throne, just above his head.
Zephyra considered this, “and you? Were you close to it?”
Thorin again informed her that unless he was in lessons, he was often at his grandfather’s right-hand side, under his tutelage to succeed him.
He was scrambling to piece this information together. The dwarves believed they were in the right to take the Arkenstone. It was their mountain after all.
“You’re saying we are cursed, that this is somehow our fault? We deserve to be punished with madness?” Thorin asked.
“No, no, amrâlimê,” Zephyra hushed him, echoing his endearments from their first night together. She ran her fingers across his lips and along his beard, “there is no blame in this. How could you know?”
He leaned towards her touch, kissing the palm of her hand.
“What I’m saying is… I do not believe there is some madness within the line of yer family. There is no moral failing in yer blood. It is simply a consequence of what was.”
“Thank you,” his chest felt heavy and lightened all at once. This sickness had long worried him. He was fearful that he too would succumb. Hearing the Elven Lord’s words earlier, it further drove the notion home, knowing others held the same fear of this affliction befalling him.
If there was truth to these words, there was hope. He had not held to hope for so long.
He leaned towards her, kissing her forehead, her cheek, her mouth. “But what must be done? How does one lift the curse?”
Zephrya shrugged slightly, “I think you must put it back. Somewhere no one will ever disturb it again. And, like with any wound, …you must give it time.”
Thorin would have to handle this matter delicately. The Arkenstone was the only thing that would rally the other kingdoms to his aide, and fight as one to defeat the loathsome Smaug. Without it, the whole plan was folly.
How could they hope to defeat a dragon with only this small a number?
He looked to Mister Baggins now, head turning this way and that as he was propped up on a rock, on watch for the night. Hopefully this little fellow was more than he appeared thus far and would be able to retrieve the King’s Jewel from under the nose of a sleeping dragon.
Thorin did not hold much hope for him, but Zephyra believed that he could. And perhaps that was good enough.
* * *
Bilbo was thoroughly enjoying this trek through the mountains. Yes, the way was rough and the nights cold and uncomfortable. He often missed his home in Bag End. But these views… he could not have imagined these sights in his wildest dreams.
Majestic peaks and deep lush valleys. Streams of cool water rushed from the snow-capped peaks in the summer sun. Lakes reflecting the vastness of the sky. Some paths moved up and over the clouds. Billowing mists bathed by the sun’s glow. He had never seen anything like it.
Bilbo was most taken with the variety of flowers: bluebells and lupine and bitterroot, aster, astilbe, and yellow rockroses too. Several times he was found putting seeds and flowerheads into his pack.
He was doing just that very thing as the company packed up one morning. Bombur enlisted Fili and Kili in cleaning up after breakfast. Bifur and Dwalin returned after scouting the trail ahead. And Bofur and Zephyra merrily smacked pinecones down the cliff with a pair of sticks.
Bilbo strolled up behind them as they were sniggering over Bofur hitting a tree below. “Birdie,” he cried, pumping his fist in the air, his hat flopping on the sides of his face.
“You never did tell me where you learned to play golf,” Bilbo mused.
Zephyra gave a sly grin, looking between him and Bofur. She chuffed to herself, lining back up to swing at another pinecone before her.
“You didn’t think yer the first Hobbit I’ve ever met, did ya?”
She swiveled her hips, arms following the motion, sending the pinecone high in the air. Bofur squinted as he followed the cone with his eyes. It landed among some silver birches, sending a few birds fluttering out.
Bilbo hadn’t quite thought of that. He had assumed she’d been in the Lone-lands, not seeing others like some wild hermit. Now he felt a little guilty for the assumption.
“I guess I did, if I’m being honest. Where exactly did you—”
“Tuckborough,” she smiled at him.
Tuckborough was just south of Hobbiton within the Shire, not too much farther than it took to travel to Frogmorton.
“I’ve been about those parts,” Bofur chimed in, “why didn’t you say so?” He lined up for his turn on the cliff.
Zephyra scratched her nose, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She glanced over where Thorin and Dwalin were talking ahead on the trail.
“I didn’t want to be accused of another ‘inappropriate courtship’ I ‘spose,” she said finally, shrugging a little. Her tongue gliding over the dip in her chipped tooth.
Yet another twinge of guilt twisted in Bilbo’s gut. He had apologized for that, but he could understand still being bitter over such a judgment.
Bofur laughed heartily, “Oh I’ve had plenty of those! Can’t seem to keep the ladies at bay.” He smirked devilishly as he held his chin high, puffing out his chest.
“S’pose ye gotta beat ‘em away with a stick, don’t ye,” Zephyra jested, playfully striking the stick along his arm.
Bilbo even joined in their brevity, picking up and chucking a few of the pinecones at the both of them. He had great aim, if he did say so himself. Bilbo always enjoyed any time of competitive game, conkers being a personal favorite.
“So who was this halfling, if you don’t mind my asking?” Bofur inquired in a hushed voice, his brow high in curiosity.
Zephyra merely rolled her eyes at him. She looked at Bilbo who crossed his arms, giving a similar expression of interest.
She sighed, again looking around at the others before telling them softly, “…her name was Hyacinth… and she turned out to be quite the duplicitous bitch if you must know.”
Both the men snorted and suppressed their laughter at her candor.
Bilbo stood in thought for a moment, a puzzled look on his face. “Nnnot Hyacinth with the home wares shop? With little petunias in the window boxes?”
Zephyra’s mouth went taut, her eyes wide and cheeks beginning to flush. “Yeeessshh,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth.
Even though she was still having Bilbo give her advice on “proper” behavior at certain times; he found that whenever she was awkward like this, he had trouble not finding it absolutely adorable and difficult to correct.
He told her he’d visited the village a number of times, and on one of those visits he bought a little beeswax candle. An owl with a top hat. There were many various animals carved out of the wax, each having a label and given a cute name in association with them.
Zephyra’s face grew an even darker shade of red. “Is wasn’t… Owlbert by any chance… was it?”
Bilbo nodded, as indeed it was.
“Hmm,” she nodded at him. “Didn’t know she was still selling them.”
Bofur stepped up beside her, “Did you make it?”
Zephyra said that she did. She went though quite a few hobbies, and that one had lasted her a lot longer than others.
Bilbo told her he kept it on the mantle in his home, never able to bring himself to light it.
“Ah, thanks B.” She mussed his hair, walking past him as the rest of the company started off down the trail.
* * *
The day was quite warm when they all went for a dip in one of the beautiful lakes. Smooth stones of rose, sage and cerulean covered the beach and under the shallows of the water. The surface was so still, the sounds of the dwarves splashing could be heard echoing through the calm valley.
Back at the camp, Thorin was reworking the braid in Zephyra’s hair after it had dried in the mountain air. A little bee kept buzzing about them. She was too lost in thought to notice.
Zephyra had told him of her encounter with the Lady of Lothlorien their last night in Rivendell. Galadriel had brought many feelings and memories to the surface that Zephyra thought she had moved beyond. Over the past several weeks, however, she had become quieter in her manner.
“Hard to believe it is August already,” Thorin mused as he fastened the golden bead to her braid.
This caught her attention. “August?” she asked, “is it really?” She had trouble tracking the passing of time, and this seemed to cause her some surprise.
“I found some blueberries on the slope,” Nori announced suddenly, returning with Kili and Bifur from a hunting venture. Each of them was carrying a couple of good-sized marmots.
Nori also carried a bag of Rowan berries for Oin, who was restocking supplies for healing on the road.
Balin came to sit beside Thorin and Zephyra as she now worked her braid in Thorin’s raven locks. She was getting much better at it, but still not quite as skilled as Thorin.
“We’re deep in the mountains now,” Balin looked about, “shouldn’t we have expected Gandalf by now? We were to wait for him.”
Thorin gave a slight shrug, “There has been no sign of him. I had expected him on one of our rest days. He no doubt got distracted.”
There was no telling what a wizard might do or consider worth his time. Thorin had supposed he would probably be waiting on the other side of the pass somehow, scornful and chastising like some disgruntled schoolteacher.
The sky darkened as evening fell, a generous fire crackling in the center of the group. The dwarves sang long into the night. Bilbo and Zephyra were learning many of their songs, as well as the dwarvish languages.
Zephyra tried using Khuzdul and Iglishmek together as much as she could during the hikes, picking up new words and phrases from the others as they went. Bilbo was also starting to understand some basic words and expressions. When all together they still used the common tongue for Bilbo’s benefit.
* * *
The moon was nearly full that night, and the light glittered off the water of the lake with the warm breeze. Thorin and Zephyra had slipped away for a little while, as they often did when nights were calm, and days restful.
“Master Dwarf,” she said, turning in feigned surprise once they were far enough away, “what are you doing out here? Don’t you know it’s dangerous to be alone in the wilds?”
He chuckled lightly. It didn’t take him long after their first night together in Rivendell to discover this side of her. She could be quite the little minx when she wanted.
“Well, then perhaps you should stay close to me,” he pulled her to him, “and I will keep you safe.”
Zephyra smiled at his cooperation, “I’m so grateful to you. But… I’m afraid I have no coin to speak of. How shall I ever repay your kindness?” She blinked her round doe eyes up at him.
Thorin sucked his teeth, “We can come to some sort of… arrangement,” he spun her around, pulling her by the hips back into him, growling low in her ear. “I’m sure we can find ourselves in a position… or two… in which we can both be equally satisfied.”
She began to pant in excitement as his hands wandered, “that sounds… quite agreeable… to me.”
They lay together under the silver light, heartbeats slowing from their passions. Thorin playfully massaged Zephyra’s dainty feet, examining each tiny toe.
“It’s a wonder to me that you don’t fall over,” he chuckled, his hand sweeping up her ankle and over her shin. The light hair tickled as he brushed against it.
Zephyra was holding up the map Thorin kept tucked in his cloak as she hummed to herself.
“Is it typical of your people to hide secrets only to be revealed by moonlight?” she asked him. She ran her fingers along the space where Thorin said the runes had appeared.
Thorin said it was not. It was old magic used in the days of Khazad-Dûm, what today is called Moria after the orcs occupied and desecrated its sacred and ancient halls. He believed his father and grandfather knew how to use that magic though, or at least understood the concept of it.
He pushed it from his mind for now, climbing over her to flop beside her. She began combing her fingers through his hair, winding around the soft grey streaks she found so attractive. He adored her affections, especially when she ran her fingernails over his scalp.
“The way will become more treacherous from here on out,” Thorin said softly. “We’ll have to be more cautious. I do not know if the orcs will continue to track us through the mountains or not.”
He kissed her gently on the cheek, “promise me you will not go chasing after them on your own again.” He could hardly bear the sight of it last time. The filth closing in on her, too far for him to reach her in time.
“I promised to protect the Line of Durin, no matter the cost,” Zephyra replied, a wry smile on her face.
Thorin gave her a playful, yet warning look, “we are not in the Lone-lands anymore ‘ibinê (my gem), and you are perfectly capable of protecting me while still remaining at my side, so that I may protect you.”
He kissed her cheek again, “promise me.” She said nothing.
Her jaw, “promise me.” Again, she remained silent. He dug his fingertips into the side of her ribs above her waist. She stifled a surprised giggle.
He chuckled lightly, “Zephyra, promise me.”
“You promise to keep going if I do?” she sighed. “Not the tickling, the… other?”
He kissed her slowly, sensually up the side of her neck, his warm breath in her ear. “Promise me,” he grasped her hips firmly, pressing them to his own.
“I promise.”