Chapter Text
Bilbo had thought the Company would at least get to Mirkwood before something went horribly wrong.
He was wrong.
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Gandalf had parted ways with them as they left Beorn’s cabin. Business in the south, he said. He had made sure their packs were full and their wounds mended and left them to the rest of their journey.
Bilbo was not pleased. But he understood that Gandalf was probably needed more somewhere else if the only thing facing them for a while was a forest and a few elves. The elves in Rivendell had been perfectly hospitable and he had loved running through the forest near the Shire as a child. How bad could a few trees be?
So Bilbo had started the day’s travel optimistically. They had left Beorn’s the day before, and were likely to reach Mirkwood the next. The trip had been pleasant; sunshine, flat lands, and having ponies again! Oh, Bilbo had never been so happy to see a pony.
As he did most days, Thorin had sent out Fíli and Kíli to scout for a place to rest for the night. They returned surprisingly quickly.
“Uncle, there is a cave up ahead!”
“It can fit all of us!”
“And it’s next to a river!”
“And it’s out of Beorn’s land so we can go hunting!”
The boys spoke very promisingly of the cave, and the dwarrows seemed quite inclined to agree with them, so Thorin told them to lead on. Bilbo was the only one to have doubts.
“Excuse me,” he started loudly, though only about half the dwarrows turned to listen, “but can we find somewhere else? The last time we slept in a cave I remember not getting much sleep!”
Ori sat thoughtfully on his horse. Master Baggins did have a point. He did not want to risk being ‘started with’ again. And he wasn’t even the youngest!
But Bofur just laughed.
“Oh come now, just because you have one bad time doesn’t mean all caves are full of monsters ready to gut ya for for supper!”
“Aye, Master Baggins,” Gloin added, “Most of us were raised in caves. They are fine abodes when you make them so. Just need a woman’s touch.”
“Yes but we don’t happen to have any women with us, now do we? Now why can’t Fíli and Kíli just find a nice clearing for us to sleep in? Harder to get trapped in a clearing,” Bilbo said.
“We are not in danger of being trapped by anything,” Thorin said with finality. His wounds had healed but were still sore, and his temper suffered because of it. But he was no longer cruel to the hobbit. He had even braided a bead into Master Baggins’ hair to show he was accepted by the dwarrows. Gandalf had congratulated him on the feat; few outside of the dwarf race were held so closely.
But still, Thorin’s word was final. They made camp in the cave and ate a good meal and were quite merry for the evening. Spirits were high and luck seemed to be finally with the Company.
‘Seemed’ being used as a synonym of ‘not’.
When the floor of a cave opened beneath the sleeping group for the second time in a month, Bilbo was only slightly surprised.
And he vowed to tell the dwarrows he told them so, if he lived to tell them anything.
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The battle was short.
Despite the fact that the dwarrows were better fed, rested, and joyful than they had been in weeks, they had still been sleeping when they began tumbling down the tunnel. By the time they reached the bottom, most of their supplies were scattered and the only weapons they still possessed were the ones still strapped to their bodies.
And of course there was the problem of being surrounded by a few dozen armored and armed warriors.
Who were all dwarf sized.
The Company wasn’t sure what had surprised them more.
The surrounding soldiers demanded they surrender and drop their weapons.
Thorin told them who he was and demanded to be taken to their leader.
They demanded he drop his weapons.
This repeated a few times, eventually ending when Dwalin got impatient and yelled a few slurs about the offending warriors, mostly about their lack of dwarf-hood and that they should run back and send in the real fighters.
Thorin hadn’t wanted him to say such things, but during Dwalin’s rant he had hoped that this might speed up the process.
He was most definitely disappointed.
The warriors may have taken more offense at Dwalin’s words than he had anticipated.
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They were quickly overcome and disarmed. They were herded (Dwalin not too kindly) into a holding area where even more soldiers were waiting.
And so was their leader.
The dwarf was dressed entirely in dark black leathers with light-gray to white fur trims, with dark armor beneath. Little skin was shown save for the face, which was half-covered in a pinkish-red burn scar, the fire-mangled skin stretching from the bottom of the right jaw, where it flowed into the side of the mouth, up around the cheek bone to where it curved along the top and bottom of the right eye socket, and disappeared into the side of the hairline. Thick silver-gray hair was tied back tight into a pony tail at the base of the warrior’s skull, where it seemed to explode into a mass of free hair and a few beaded braids. A beard of the same color stretched down from sideburns (where there weren’t actual burns) and was similar to Dwalin’s in shortness but lacked his mustache. On the leader’s back was a large gleaming war hammer, made of glinting obsidian and unrelenting steal. It had a rectangular steel head, with corners of dagger-sharp obsidian points that curved and stretched out. Along the black handle were intricate designs of Khuzdul in steel lines, with a small pointed head at the bottom.
Bilbo was quite frightened.
A number of the dwarves were as well, they were just better at hiding it.
“What is the meaning of this?” Thorin roared.
“Why are you here?” the opposite dwarf asked coldly.
“Just passing through,” Bofur cut in with a smile and a kind voice. They were all mature dwarrows here, why bother getting into fights over nothing?
“Right, of course,” the dwarf replied. The tone was nowhere near kind but it seemed slightly more humored. “To where?”
None of them answered. Thorin wouldn’t dare let anyone know, not this close to their goal. Not when they could stuffed into cages while someone else took what was rightfully theirs!
“Anyone?” The warrior glanced at each of the Company. Some met the gaze, others stared at their feet.
What did catch notice was the most-certainly-not-a-dwarf in the group.
The leader paused as the hobbit shuffled his feet uncomfortably and tried to hide behind the one with the unusual hat.
“You have a hobbit.”
The soldiers around them suddenly tensed and cocked their heads to try and catch a glimpse of Bilbo. The Company gathered around him protectively, and Bilbo looked like he was about to be put over a flame. “
“Why do you have a hobbit?”
“None of your business!” Kíli shouted. Most of the dwarves grunted in agreement.
The head warrior stared at them with sternly.
“Take the dwarves to the cells. One each. And keep them guarded! Put the hobbit in an office and keep an eye on him as well. I’ll see to them later.”
And with that, the soldiers forced the Company down a hall to the prison block as a few more snatched Bilbo from his friends.
The leader watched as Thorin fought harder than any to keep the hobbit close, noticed how two of the youngest members roared and scrambled tooth and nail to not be separated even at sword point, and kept a careful eye on the largest dwarf with the tattoos and knuckle-dusters (which needed to be removed ASAP) as he tried to head-butt warriors with iron helmets.
That one might be a problem.
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“This is very bad,” Rhunda said to her queen.
“I am aware.”
“No, I mean this is much, much more than our usual amount of bad. We have got Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror, King Under The Mountain, King in Exile, sitting in an iron cage along with a dozen other dwarrows, three of which are barely adults and one hobbit who looks like he might wet himself at any given moment.”
“I said I was aware.”
Rhunda groaned.
She was a shorter, rounder dwarrowdam with thick red hair and a fluffy beard that was braided down to her waist. Her hair was often done up in a bun to keep out of the way as she worked. She was one of her people’s most educated citizens, having been the daughter of one of Erebor’s great librarians. Rhunda had studied every subject she could diligently, dreaming of becoming a teacher. She currently had the job, though it wasn’t exactly what she had envisioned. She was also her queen’s trusted friend and advisor.
In truth, her queen was no queen. She didn’t have a drop of royal blood in her despite being part of the Longbeard clan. Her family had been rich and well-respected, but her followers cared little for that.
They followed her because she led them.
Through pain and panic and starvation she had led them to freedom and plenty. She had fought for them with her bare hands and forged a new life for them in these tunnels, far away from the cruel ways of dwarrows.
Forra was a leader they had chosen for her dedication and unwavering will. She was kind and gentle to those who needed her, and was vicious to anyone who would threaten her cares.
She wasn’t a queen, but she was the closest thing they had, and it was easier on the tongue than anything else they thought of.
“The longer they are here the higher the risk becomes of a breakout and someone getting hurt,” Rhunda argued with a hint of anger, her red dress stirring as her arms moved with her words. She had a habit of talking with her hands even when she wasn’t using iglishmêk.
“I know,” Forra said, “But what I don’t know is why they are here.” She turned to her advisor. “They could just be passing through, in which case I would be more than happy to get them out of here as quick as we can, but if they aren’t, if they know….”
“About us? Forra, did you see how surprised they were? They weren’t expecting anyone, much less dwarrows. I doubt they knew we even existed. We should get them out before things turn sour.”
Forra sighed.
“Did you see the hobbit?” she asked Rhunda.
“Yes.”
“Did you see his eyes?”
“Yes. They gleamed like emeralds.”
“Quite. Just like hers did.”
Rhunda’s eye brows jumped.
“You think he’s related to Belladonna?” she asked.
“I’m sure of it. She said that color was rare and only ran in her family. And how many hobbits are there? He must at least know her.”
Rhunda pinched the bridge of her nose.
“We can’t keep thirteen warrior dwarves here because one hobbit might know another we haven’t seen in years.”
“Fifty-five years, Rhunda! Five and a half decades and not a word from Bella. That is a much longer time for hobbits or did you forget? She saved our lives, my friend. I want to know what has become of her,” Forra said.
“You really think you’ll get anything out of him?” Rhunda asked quietly in the dark hallway, “He was quite upset about being taken away from the others. Why would he tell us anything?”
Forra knew her friend had a point. Hobbits could be just as protective as dwarrows in some ways. Though this one seemed much more timid than the first one they’d met.
“Did you see how he looked?” Forra asked.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he looked less like a hobbit than Belladonna did, and she was covered in dirt, cuts, and bruises, and was nearly starved when we found her! This one looks like he’s been… converted in that fur coat. When was the last time you think he saw a hankerchief? Or anything hobbit-y? Belladonna told us plenty of her people. We can earn his trust.”
Rhunda took a long look at her queen. Forra and Belladonna had been fast friends in the weeks the hobbit lass had stayed with them. Belladonna had been shocked and overjoyed to find so many females living on their own in the Wild. She thought it was inspired! Forra had been fascinated by her tales of the Shire, a place where women were seen as equals and could choose what they wanted to do with their lives. It sounded like a dream.
Forra’s bitter feelings towards her old home were far from faded, and though the same could be said for most of the dwarrowdams who had lived in the days of Erebor, none were so callous to its culture as their queen.
“Are you sure this is just about the hobbit?” Rhunda questioned quietly. Forra’s brow furrowed as she stared at the granite floor.
“Thorin was not in power during those years. I do not blame him for the laws of his kin,” she answered sternly.
“So what are we going to do with them?”
Forra thought hard for a moment, and turned to Rhunda.
“We will treat the dwarves as decency demands and the hobbit as a guest until I have the information I need. If they are truly as they say we can send them on their way and give them what supplies we can in reparations. But I will not pass judgment until I am sure. Spread the word for everyone to dress conservatively in case they don’t realize who we are. And make sure Lark is with them whenever possible.”
“Aye, that’s a good idea,” Rhunda agreed about the last point. Lark, for whatever all the past crimes she had committed, was an excellent judge of character, wholly loyal to Forra, and one of their best fighters. “What about Forelle?”
Forra glared at the wall. Her niece was definitely a concern. Forelle was young, born long after the fall of Erebor, but she was also a skilled guard.
And headstrong.
And curious.
And scarred.
“I’ll talk to her. She won’t do anything she doesn’t want to or I don’t think is a good idea,” Forra answered.
Rhunda nodded.
“When the news spreads this will get very complicated,” she sighed.
“Believe me, I know,” her war hammer-wielding queen answered.