Chapter One: Gwen
The fire is beautiful in the evening light. It dances and flickers across the ground, tame but wild. As I look into it I can see shapes. People, people I know. People long gone now.
As each flame dances, I see them. I can still remember their faces - I can still remember how they made me feel.
I am so caught up in my thoughts I don't even hear the shouts that come from behind me at first, but when I do I tear my eyes away from the fire and spring up, suddenly awake and alert.
"Who's there?" I call out into the night, drawing my blade. It glints in the firelight, harsh silver. I can still see traces of blood I wiped off just this morning.
There is not a sound for a moment, until I hear more shouts and see figures in the dark, running in a frantic manner.
"Who is it?" I repeat, demandingly.
"Quick! We don't have much time!" Yells a voice, low and urgent.
"Get him over here!"
I advance slowly into the shadows, towards one of the figures who are facing away from me. In one fluid motion I have my blade pressed to their neck.
"Who are you and what do you want?" I ask sharply, pressing my blade further, but not quite enough to draw blood.
"I assure you, my lady, we mean you no harm." Comes another voice. They step into the fire light.
They are a dwarf, with a snow white beard and kind, wise eyes.
"Balin, at your service." He bows.
I don't say anything.
"Forgive me, but we are in a dire situation. One of our company is in grave danger, very sick. I fear the worst. We must ask your for your hospitality, and your help."
I repress the urge to narrow my eyes. Is he in earnest? Or is he trying to take advantage of me? I can't help it. I'm wired to be untrusting.
But I can't help think of a time when i was desperate, and I needed help. Would it really be so bad to aid these dwarves?
"I know you're skeptical of our intention, but we would not come unless we truly needed your help. We have been directed here by Gandalf."
Gandalf. Why…?
"And who is the sick one, pray?" I ask.
"Thorin Oakenshield."
Thorin Oakenshield. Thorin Oakenshield.
Son of Thror, son of Thrain. The King Under the Mountain. I would know that name anywhere.
I would know to help him.
"Follow me." I say and direct them to the cabin.
The dwarves crowd into the small room which I have always found big for myself alone. They lay Thorin on the table.
When I see his state it is all I can do to not blanch. His shoulder is deeply wounded by a spear or something of that ilk, and he is pale and feverish, drifting in and out of consciousness. He has already lost a lot of blood. A drop drips onto the wood, and another, until a small puddle is formed. I need to work quickly, before things get even worse.
We work in silence, a few of us in the room. The others I have long ago shown into the sitting room to enjoy some ale, although that is the last thing they want to be doing, now it is just Balin, Oin and Bofur and I that are fixing Thorin's wound. He is very feverish, and with each moment that passes the fever becomes more distinct.
"I fear he is becoming worse by the second." Mutters Balin worriedly.
"We need to draw the heat downwards from his head. Someone warm his feet." I say, wringing out another blood soaked cloth.
As I work carefully and determinedly, I remind myself that I am dealing with the life of the future King Under the Mountain. What if he dies in my house? The thought makes me shiver, even though I barely know him. I cannot be responsible for his demise. I could not live with myself, knowing I could not save a king, regardless of whether I know him or not.
Through the night Thorin lays sweating, shaking and groaning, gritting his teeth through the undeniable pain he is feeling. As the first signs of morning light appear, the fever dims. For this I am thankful. Now we can focus more on his wound.
I am told by Kili that he was in fact wounded by a spear.
The wound is not too deep but is wide, and we have to make sure infection does not spread. Once we stem the bleeding we clean the wound and I bandage it carefully so as not to expose it to the elements.
As I wrap the thin fabric over his shoulder, a soft sound escapes from his mouth. I glance over at him and he opens his eyes hazily, his blue ones finding mine.
He forms a word with his mouth, so slowly it is imperceptible and inaudible, but I can't question him because he then closes his eyes and drifts back to unconsciousness, and I forget it happened for a while.
We leave Thorin on the table rest, and take turns to watch him. When it is my turn I sit and watch him sleep. His face is weary and battle worn, but something inside me makes a little flutter. He is as handsome as I've been lead to know.
I cast my mind away from such thoughts. I should be focusing on helping him get better, even if I don't even know the company, not focusing on his looks. Gandalf sent them here. I trust Gandalf, even though his motives and ideas can sometimes be...questionable.
Soon sleep caresses my eyelids and I drift off uneasily.
I'm the first up. The dwarves are all snoring in the sitting room, and the noise is loud enough to be heard from outside, a rumbling that could easiy challenge a volcano.
Thorin has still not stirred. I cannot help the itching feeling of worry. What if we were too late, and he has passed in his sleep?
I stand quietly and listen for his breathing over the thunderous sound of dwarves snoring. Luckily I can see his chest rising and falling shallowly. Relief washes over me and I leave him for a moment to go outside and collect my thoughts. Sleep has not cleared my mind.
It is fresh and dewy that morning and the air is good for hunting. I scamper back inside and get my bow and arrow. I already have my blade with me. In fact, I don't remember the last time I took it off, not even to go to bed.
Crossing into the forest, I am light on my feet, listening for signs of life. In the distance I see a deer. It is a beautiful one, but I know my stock is low and I have to find food for these dwarves. There are many of them to feed, and one cannot forsake the notorious appetite of dwarves.
Minutes later I am dragging the deer carcass back towards the house. It is very heavy, heavier than I usually take. I used to cut what I wanted from it and leave the rest in the forest, but I can't risk that now. If orcs cross through they will find the carcass and know someone lives nearby.
Finally I arrive back at the cabin and rest the deer on the front steps. Kili and Fili, Thorin's nephews, are up and they come to help me with the deer.
"You caught that yourself?" Fili says, surprised. I nod.
Kili raises his eyebrows and grins at me. "Not a bad effort." I chuckle at his jest, and it feels good to laugh for once. I forgot how it felt.
They help me drag it up the steps. Thorin still occupies the table so I can't take it in just yet, but the insects will get to it if I don't start working on it.
We have to get Bofur and Dwalin to help us shift Thorin off the table and onto the rug in front of the fire in the sitting room. Then, we all haul the deer up onto the table and I begin to cut it, and remove the parts that cannot be eaten. When I am satisfied, I soon start making a stew with fresh herbs from the garden. The smell is making the dwarves hungry, but they will have to wait. Uncooked deer is not good to eat, obviously, and I know too well the consequences of ignoring that fact.
When the stew is done, I put it into healthy sized portions and hand it out along with some bread I can spare. I set aside a bowl for Thorin when he wakes up. If he wakes up, a voice echoes in my mind.
He does not wake until near midday, when the company is out fishing for trout for tonight's supper. I wanted to get some peace, for a while. I'm too used to living by myself, and the sudden onslaught of company is too much.
As I kneel next to him by the hearth, he slowly opens his eyes, and frowns. He looks around, and then slowly turns his head to gaze at me under his eyebrows, and I'm met with piercing blue eyes, the colour of a twilight sky, liquid blue.
This is the first time I've properly had a look at him - last night was a bit frantic, with him being covered in blood and wounds and dirt, and we were pretty focused on trying not to let him bleed to death.
But now he's cleaned up, I can see the strong, muscular forearms, and the layers of clothes, and chain mail, and heavy boots. He has cascading wavy hair, with some streaks of silver, and the way he is looking at me, inquisitively, would make any dwarrowdam - nay, anyone - go weak at the knees, but I just return his stare. I'm not going to let myself be charmed by this king, even if he is as mighty as they say he is, until I know enough about him.
"Where am I ?"
Then I hear his deep, sleep roughened voice, and almost go back on my decision - almost.