To date, this is the most complicated and intricate fic I've ever attempted. I hope you'll enjoy it.
Many thanks to anyone who's ever posted Tolkien facts on the internet, and especially to the dude who wrote the Dwarrow scholar.
/
"Gandalf."
The wizard hums around the stem of his pipe, not bothering to turn and look at the slight figure who has joined him on the bench. The Green Dragon is rife with laughter and song; this is the place wherein the spirit of the Shire and its folk is best seen, and Gandalf finds it a balm for his world-weary soul in times such as this.
More importantly, all the ruckus lets his dinner companion go quite unnoticed, which would certainly not be the case had they arranged to meet at the Prancing Pony.
"What did Oakenshield say?"
"He has agreed to the quest." Gandalf smooths his beard absently. "Though I do not think he is very optimistic in regards to its outcome."
A delicate snort, more ladylike than she likely intended, comes from the region of his left elbow. "I have spent two years watching Oakenshield as he rules his people in the Blue Mountains, my friend. Optimistic is not in his vocabulary. Though perhaps with good reason."
He has to agree with her. Thorin is one of the fiercest and noblest dwarfs to ever live in Arda, but his sour outlook is the product of his hardships. One can hardly blame him.
"The meeting of the dwarf lords went as expected. They have all refused to answer his call, saying they will come when he wields the Arkenstone and not a moment sooner." A small, brown hand lifts a mug of ale for a drink. "Oakenshield was not surprised, but disappointed."
"And what of you?" Gandalf at last turns to look at her. "What is your opinion on the matter, my dear Ailväel?"
One eyebrow lifts. "I believe I am the sort of person whose actions matter a great deal more than my opinions, Tharkûn."
"Quite so," he agrees. "But I would ask it regardless."
Ailväel purses her lips, and sets down her drink. "Thorin Oakenshield is the rightful king of Erebor by blood. Whether or not he holds the Arkenstone should not matter. The clans are cowards to deny him their help because of it, particularly because the very object they are demanding of him will not be his until the quest is complete, and their help is no longer needed."
She does not mince words. She never has, and that is why she is one of his favorite people to converse with. Gandalf chuckles a bit. "I imagine your father does not know of your feelings on this matter?"
"I have just told you that my opinion on things of this nature is not considered important by anyone save yourself," she reminds him dryly. "And in any case, can you actually picture my father asking me such a question?"
No, he cannot, Gandalf admits to himself. And that is one more reason why Thorin must be named King Under the Mountain. He is proud and stubborn, but can be persuaded to listen to wisdom.
Sometimes, anyway.
"They are meeting at the hobbit's home – Bag End, you said it was called?" Ailväel never tarries anywhere for long. She fishes coins out for her ale, leaving enough to pay for Gandalf's dinner as well.
"Yes, home of Bilbo Baggins. I think you will like him quite well." Gandalf pats her arm. "Those men from Bree will likely be ahead of you on the road, my dear. Do be careful, and I do not mean only with the mercenaries – I would ask that you try not to antagonize Thorin too much if you should meet him before reaching your destination."
"Tharkûn, it is as if you do not know me at all," Ailväel smirks and pulls up her hood. "I only ever antagonize people if they are trying to kill me."
She is gone before he can think of a reply.
/
As a general rule, Thorin is not paranoid.
He likes to think that the word only applies to people like Dwalin, who seems to believe that there are threats lurking around every corner (Thorin himself believes there are threats only around every other corner), or Fíli, who carries so many blades that embracing him makes Thorin nervous.
Still, he has learned in his long years of exile that there are only two kinds of people in Middle Earth – those who despise dwarves, and those who demean them. The first is more deadly, of course, but he would almost rather cross paths with those folk than the latter. He has found few things with a more bitter taste than that of his pride, being swallowed as he works in the forges of Men where his stature is a joke and his craftsmanship is a pleasant surprise.
He is not stupid enough to think that this peacefully lush country will be any different. Bree was proof that his caution was warranted; he has been on edge since Gandalf left him to journey ahead and arrange the company's meeting with their burglar. Thorin traveled to meet with the representatives of the kingdoms, and was disheartened, though not surprised, when not even Dáin would support their cause.
(He cannot really blame his cousin, though; Dáin is a fine dwarf and a trusted ally, but he was not there when the marble floors cracked under scales and claws, did not feel the rush of hot air as the mountainside was broken upon them, did not see his grandfather all but attempt suicide for a rock, did not have to listen to the cries of his people as he led them through barren wilderness, their path littered with tears and the graves of starving children).
And so it is with an expected heavy heart that he makes his way through this place called the Shire. The people here – hobbits, not halflings, Gandalf warned him – seem content, well-fed and blissfully unaware of anything more troublesome than a squeaky door hinge. He's met enough of them in trade caravans from Ered Luin to know the basics of their kind: it is nigh on impossible to hear them approaching, they love food and growing things and all sorts of soft comforts, and adventures (or any kind of excitement, really) are not considered respectable.
A simple, ordinary life of safety and security.
It makes Thorin's stomach curdle in bitterness, but he tries to dispel the feeling since it would hardly be fair to be angry with a creature who has simply had better fortune. The blame for Erebor's fall can be laid two places – at the claws of a bloodthirsty, ravenous dragon, and at the feet of a selfish, gold-blinded king who forgot the love of his kin.
Thorin is caught up in his musings, but not so much that he does not hear the footsteps behind him. Immediately he knows it is not a hobbit; for one, he can hear them, and for another he can tell they are wearing shoes. He picks out two distinct strides, both quite large and heavy, and has a sinking suspicion that his followers are the same two unsavory characters from The Prancing Pony.
He does not look behind him, he knows better by now, but he adjusts his grip on his sword and makes sure his cloak does not hinder his access to the dagger on his opposite hip.
Glancing ahead, he can tell where the attack will occur – there is a bend in the road, cut into the hill, and on the slope above there is a massive maple tree. The spot is quite out of sight from any nearby residents of the Shire, and in the gathering dusk no one would see his body hidden behind the tree until well into the next day.
He sighs, wondering when he had to start doing his hunters' job for them. As he nears the tree he does not let his shoulders tense until he hears the footsteps quicken (honestly, he thinks in irritation, they could at least try to be stealthy).
He meets the first one's sword with his own, but the second is there almost too quickly for him to evade that strike. It is indeed the same two men from the Prancing Pony, both appearing to be only moderately skilled with the blade but of the mindset that their size advantage makes up for it. He scoffs internally, sidestepping from a blow with laughable ease and ramming the hilt of his sword into the man's nose.
He turns, and has half a heartbeat to see the sword aimed for his neck, with ample time to counter it.
Something flashes past him, above his left ear and ruffling his hair; sword still half-raised, Thorin blinks at the arrow protruding from the man's eye as he collapses into the dirt.
He turns, staring stupidly at the cloaked figure just ahead on the path as they draw another arrow.
He has a moment to think the archer is aiming for him, but before he can dodge they fire, and he turns, sees the second arrow take his other attacker in the throat, leaving a second corpse in the road.
Straightening, Thorin keeps his sword drawn and ready as his rescuer approaches, but almost drops it when the hood is pulled back.
She doesn't look very old, perhaps in her thirties, though he knows that is more than fully grown for humans. Her black hair reflects blue in the fading sunlight, and her dark skin and darker eyes mark her from southern Gondor at least, if not further south. From her clothing, he can tell she lives quite entirely on the road, as her boots are a bit worn and the sword at her waist has a hilt and scabbard that look oft used but well cared for. She is not clothed in the traditional garments of Women, but all in leather: trousers and an odd garment resembling a long robe that has been split down the middle of the skirt in both the front and back.
Perhaps the most striking thing about her, he notices with no small amount of trepidation, is the staggering number of knives and daggers tucked about her person. He can spot at least four on her torso alone, and he would bet his beard that there are more secreted beneath the lower folds of her tunic. He is reminded oddly and terrifyingly of Fíli.
"Good evening, Master Oakenshield."
That brings his sword back up immediately; assassins do like to be paid after all, and it is not farfetched to suppose that this woman has merely eliminated her competitors.
"I do not believe we have met," he replies, using his best glare. To his immense irritation, she does not so much as bat an eye, and instead calmly stoops to retrieve her arrows.
"No," she agrees absently as she checks the men's pockets for coin. "We have not. But now we have. I am Ailväel."
Very good, he thinks. The assassin has manners, and a name.
She straightens to her full height – which is only just even with his chin, to his surprise – and eyes his sword with something that looks like amusement.
"I am not your enemy, my lord. In fact, I would wager that Gandalf would call me your friend, though I suppose you would protest it."
"Vehemently." He lowers his blade a fraction, watches her drag the bodies behind the tree and scuff the dirt path so the bloodstains are not as obvious in the dwindling light. Still, if she knows the wizard… "How came you to know Gandalf?"
"Oh, I have known him for many years," she waves a hand airily, examining the fletching on her retrieved arrows and frowning at them. "I am on my way to meet him, actually."
That sends Thorin almost sputtering, a state he has not been in since the last time Dís thought he wished to court one of the dwarrowdams in Ered Luin.
Most annoyingly, Ailväel seems to notice his confusion. "Perhaps we could travel together, as I suspect we are headed to the same place."
"I think not."
"No? You are not journeying to Bag End?"
This entire conversation reeks of Gandalf, and it is half because this woman converses exactly like the wizard does – in circles and riddles, never saying quite what she means. He adjusts his grip on his sword that is now hanging by his side, but he is not sheathing it until she bloody leaves him alone.
"My journey is none of your concern," he bites out.
Her eyebrows raise. "My concern is my own to give," she says mildly, though he can hear the first, faintest hint of steel beneath the niceties. "And seeing as my concern just saved your life, I daresay it is well placed."
"Be that is it may," he says through gritted teeth, "I do not travel with strangers."
Ailväel sighs. "We know each other's names, and even have a common friend in Gandalf. Are we still strangers?"
"Aye," he growls. "I call all but my kin strangers."
"Hm." She eyes him. "Very well, we are strangers. But I hardly think I have given you reason to distrust me."
"I distrust all strangers," he says, pointedly. "In my experience they either want to rob me or kill me."
She rolls her eyes. "The only things on you worth stealing are your weapons, which are all wrong for a person of my stature and build, and I could not sell them outside of Ered Luin where I would surely raise suspicion. And I have been following you since Bree, if I wanted you dead it would have been before we reached an area as populated as Hobbiton. I am not an inexperienced fool," she juts her chin towards the now hidden corpses. "So I do not think you really have a reason to distrust me, sir, except for your own determination to have an ill opinion of anyone you have not known since you were a dwarfling."
"You are mistaken, I trust a great many folk I have known for not a long time," Thorin snaps.
"One of which I presume to be Gandalf, and I have already told you he is my friend. What reason then do you have to suspect me?"
He might as well argue with a fence post.
He takes a deep, calming breath through his nose, like Balin taught him. "I mean no insult," he says slowly, hoping she will leave him be if he makes an attempt at being polite. "But I do not trust anyone upon first meeting them. You are right, you have given me no cause to suspect you. But neither have you proven yourself trustworthy."
Ailväel studies him for a moment, and shrugs. "Very well, I suppose I cannot fault you for that. But I do think we should journey on together, for I am also headed to Bag End, though you appear to be most displeased by the idea."
He is most displeased by the idea, but he knows it will be fruitless to say it. He grits his teeth again, imagining all of the shouting he is going to be well within his rights to hurl at the wizard, and is about to sheath his sword when he hears it.
Ailväel hears it, too, and goes taut as a bowstring.
There really is a shortage, Thorin muses, of capable, stealthy mercenaries. Even he could walk quieter than whoever is coming around the bend now. Of course, it could very well be members of his company, except the footsteps are too far apart, the strides too long to be a dwarf. It is Men headed towards them, and armed ones by the sound of it.
Ailväel doesn't appear impressed either, grumbling under her breath and drawing her sword – a blade similar in design to his own, but narrower and more elegant in its lines, which makes him frown in further suspicion – without the merest scrape of metal.
To his surprise, she appears to be a strategist of the same mindset as him, and joins him on the upper slope of the hill, beneath the shadows of the maple. The sun has now set, though the sky is still pinker than it is dark blue, but it is dark enough to disguise them for a moment.
He hears the conversation as the two – no, three – assassins draw nearer, and his name is mentioned once, which makes Ailväel roll her eyes. He hears her mumble something about incompetence and insulting but he has no time to ponder what she means before the group draws abreast of them.
Thorin watches, dumbstruck, as Ailväel swings wide and buries the edge of her blade in the side of one's throat; blood spurts, thick and hot and sticky, over her chest and shoulders. The sword is lodged firmly within her target, and she doesn't hesitate as she releases the weapon, lets it fall with its prey and she ducks away from the sword of the second man. Thorin finds himself caught in a fight – which is somewhat of a challenge, this time around – with the third and final member of the company, and so only notices on the edge of his periphery that she has drawn twin daggers, long and lethal enough to probably make Fíli swoon, and is holding her own quite nicely.
He spares a moment to be impressed, nicks his opponent's cheek with the tip of his blade, then wallops him in the head with the hilt, which sends the fellow staggering, and Thorin spins away to find himself staring at the end of a wicked sharp dagger.
He curses; there was a fourth assailant who waited to come round the bend until he had an opening like this one, and the third has recovered and goes to retrieve his sword from beside the path where Thorin kicked it only moments earlier. They do not waste a single moment, joining forces and backing him into the hill above. The third manages to knock his sword from his grasp, while the fourth pulls an arm back, knife aimed for Thorin's throat, and for the second time that day Thorin watches in stupid amazement as something flashes past his shoulder in the dim twilight and lodges firmly in the man's neck.
The mercenary gives an awful, gurgling choked sort of noise; Thorin turns to see Ailväel now fighting with just one dagger, only she looks over at him and her eyes widen.
"Duck!"
He obeys immediately, and behind him the third man also drops beside his sword, a crimson stain spreading out from the knife in his chest.
Thorin is not so arrogant as to not appreciate it when someone saves his life, but nor is he stupid enough to have forgotten that Ailväel just threw her last dagger.
Upon rising to his feet, intending to go running to her aid, however, he discovers that he was evidently stupid enough to forget that he spotted at least two other blades on her earlier.
Ailväel fights with another single blade, smaller than the first pair she drew, but she wields it with such confidence and grace that it hardly matters. Thorin closes in on her opponent from his other side, and together they finish him off quickly.
She is panting, and puts a hand to the steep bank above them for a moment as she wipes the sweat from her upper lip.
"You are well?" She asks, sheathing her knife on the inside of her thigh. Thorin pointedly looks away – he has decided he is mortally afraid of this strange woman ever meeting his oldest nephew – and sets about cleaning his sword.
"I am. Are you?"
She shrugs, bends and tugs her sword free from the first man's neck with a horrible squelching sound, cleans it on his coat and sheathes it.
"I have been better, but I have also been worse. We should make haste before we are caught traveling in the complete dark."
It is already rather dark out; he can see more than a few stars clearly, but dwarrow can see with little light and so he does not miss the way she limps as she goes to retrieve her two daggers.
"You are injured," he states.
"Aye," she hums, cleaning the blades and putting them away – twin scabbards on her ribs, lying just below her breasts. "But it does not seem to be too serious. A night of rest will do it much good, I think."
She doesn't say anything else as they drag the four bodies away to join the two from earlier, kicking some fallen leaves and grass to cover them, and when they return to the path she carries on as though she still intends to travel with him. He grits his teeth a third time, but she has saved his life more than once tonight and that cannot be ignored.
"Allow me," he grumbles, kneels, and is a little surprised when she obligingly turns so he can properly see the small cut on the side of her calf, just above her boot. He inspects it for a moment, and nods.
"I agree that it does not appear terrible. There is a healer among my company – though I suppose you already knew that," he says bitterly as he stands again.
Her mouth twitches. "No, actually. I was only given your name, though I am aware that your two sister-sons are making the journey as well."
The fact that she only knows about him and his kin further cements his belief that her objective is to kill him (and his nephews, he thinks with no small amount of protective fear), but he again spots the numerous blades tucked about her person, to say nothing of her sword and bow.
He suddenly realizes that if a person like this wants him dead, he wants her directly under his nose – and, incidentally, Dwalin's and Nori's.
"Very well." He even offers his arm, but she shakes her head.
"It is not quite as bad as that," she assures him, and he nods and falls into step beside her.
The Shire is just as peaceful in the dark as it is at noon; cheerful lights twinkle from the round windows of the underground burrows Hobbits seem to prefer. He can hear the dim laughter and music from an inn somewhere nearby and can see plumes of smoke from cook stoves everywhere.
It is exactly the kind of existence he wishes for his own, and so he quickens the pace, as much as his companion's injury will allow; he is eager to get the final legalities of the quest out of the way, though he knows he cannot make the morning come any sooner.
"This way."
The path has forked, and to his mortification Ailväel is pointing in the opposite direction he is headed. She looks amused, so he sets his worst scowl firmly on his face and marches along, following her (polite, but still embarrassingly necessary) directions whenever the path forks again.
Unfortunately, Ailväel's leg begins to bother her more with the exertion of climbing uphill, and so by the time he knocks on the strange green door with its glowing rune, and hears the singing cut off abruptly, he has more than once fought the urge to insist she allow him to help. But the door opens, and he is spared from pretending to care about someone who wishes him dead.
"Ah, Thorin. Do come in – and I see you have met our fifteenth member. Ailväel my dear, how are you?"
"Well enough, my friend." Ailväel winces as she hobbles over the threshold. "Master Hobbit, I am afraid I must forego introductions at this present moment. Would you kindly show me your washroom?"
A small, timid creature peeks around Gandalf, eyes widening at the sight of a woman in armor and covered in blood. "Wha – oh. Oh, dear. Yes, of course, are you – my goodness, I….do you need help?" The hobbit frets and wrings his hands a bit as he ushers Ailväel down the hall out of sight, and Thorin does not miss the way more than half his company's eyes follow her. Once she rounds the bend they all turn to him, but he takes a moment to chew over how exactly he wants to deliver his lecture to the wizard. He slowly removes his cloak and hands it to Kíli, returning the lad's smile.
"I thank you for the mark on the door, my friend. We would not have found it otherwise."
"We?" Dwalin is already grumpy – partly by default, and partly because he has not given Ailväel permission to be in such close proximity to Thorin, and yet there she was. Thorin feels a little soothed by the normalcy already as he turns to Gandalf.
"She claims she knows you."
"Oh yes, she's a good lass. Strong fighter. A bit of a wild spirit, but kind and sensible." Gandalf hums as he sets about lighting his pipe.
Thorin eyes him for a moment longer, and decides he wants Ailväel present for this discussion.
"Óin, the lady was injured on our way here. She seems stubborn enough to resist aid, but likely would benefit from your skill." He knows he has opened the door to dozens more questions, but for now he merely watches their healer bustle off after the intruder and their host.
"Hm." Gandalf looks slightly put out. "I suppose introductions shall have to wait then. What sort of trouble did you encounter?"
Thorin glances about the now chatting company to make sure no one besides Dwalin and Balin are listening. "Those foul men from Bree tracked me here. I was in the midst of fighting them off when that…woman appears out of the shadows and claims to know me and my kin, and you."
"Well now, I would say that she only knows of you and your kin." Gandalf puffs his pipe in a way that tells Thorin that Ailväel's appearance is no accident.
Confounded wizard.
"Are there any more unexpected guests we need to wait for?" he asks, purposefully letting the sarcasm in his voice run bitter.
Gandalf, either oblivious or indifferent to Thorin's temper, hums and shakes his head. "No, no, that completes our party. Though I daresay you do not do Lady Ailväel justice. I highly doubt she simply popped out of thin air and did not offer you aid with those deplorable men."
Dwalin grunts. "She's got enough weapons on 'er, surely she knows how to use 'em."
Thorin grits his teeth. "Aye," he grudgingly agrees. "She's a skilled fighter. We were attacked a second time and she saved my life once again."
Gandalf's eyebrows shoot upwards. "And yet you are still so unpleasantly mistrusting. Really, Thorin. How uncouth."
"Uncouth?" Thorin can only gape up at him. "What is to say she is not simply another mercenary and she was eliminating her competitors?"
"The fact that you are still alive, for one." Gandalf frowns. "Ailväel is an odd lass, but she means no harm to you or your kin. As for her unexpected addition to your company, are you suggesting that you would not have protested the idea?"
That is rather the point of Thorin's entire argument, and so he can only sit in rage as Gandalf hums again.
"You mean to take her wit' us, to the Mountain." Dwalin growls.
"Raise all the fuss you like, Dwalin, but there is no one you'd rather have on your side in a fight against orcs."
That is the one quality of hers thus far that Thorin has no trouble accepting. Anyone who is proficient in destroying that sort of vermin cannot be all bad. His friends notice the change in his posture that indicates his stubbornness is waning. They both sigh.
"Could we not do without her?" Balin asks.
"Possibly," Gandalf admits, his fingers worrying over the bowl of his pipe. "But it will be a great deal easier with her assistance. She is really quite invaluable in a fight."
"Tharkûn, you must think I am a piece of bread to butter me up so."
Óin is hovering close behind her, but save for a very slight limp, Thorin would never guess that Ailväel had been injured as she reappears from the back of the burrow. The blood is all but gone, except for a few spots on the collar of her leather tunic.
But he almost forgets about their trouble on the road entirely, hearing the Khuzdul name for the wizard drop so easily from her lips, and with a perfect pronunciation.
Every dwarf in the room goes rigid.
Gandalf merely chuckles. "No, my dear girl. I am only telling the truth. Come, I am sure you have not eaten yet today, and you likely ought to get off that leg."
"Aye," Óin frowns at her. "I don't want it bleeding again. You're to sit and remain seated for the rest of the evening, lass."
To Thorin's surprise, Ailväel nods. "As you say, Master Óin. Thank you for your services."
Her manners are still impeccable, but most of the company still look suspicious. His nephews look intrigued, and Dwalin merely looks slightly angrier than normal.
Ailväel smiles politely at them all as she hobbles over to the table and eases into a chair. "Good evening, my lords. I am Ailväel, and Gandalf has hired me as the fifteenth member of your company."
There is a pause, then –
"Hullo," Bofur tips his hat cheerfully. Bifur narrows his eyes but then slides his chair over to make room, and Bombur glances up from his chicken pie to nod acknowledgement. Glóin merely tugs at his beard, frowning at her as Dori draws Ori under his wings, further away from her. Nori lurks in the corner, observing as always, though tonight Balin rivals him for silent skepticism.
Dwalin folds his arms across his chest and glowers.
"Where did you say you hail from, woman?"
Thorin has to fight a smirk; few people are capable of expressing their dislike with as much efficiency and as few words as Dwalin.
"I didn't, but I was raised in Nardorahl."
Bombur actually quits eating, at last realizing something is amiss when the strange woman claims to have grown up in the fortress of the Iron Hills.
Thorin feels the vein on his forehead pulsing. "Were you."
"Yes, she was," Gandalf interjects. "And by a good, respectable family of leather-smiths. Your cousin approved the adoption himself."
Dáin has never mentioned a Woman living amongst his people, but that does not surprise Thorin. His cousin is not the sort to mention details like that unless it either comes up in conversation (which it hasn't) or he is directly asked about it (which he hasn't been). And judging from Ailväel's weapons and demeanor, he is willing to bet that she is not a craftswoman any longer, and now probably is a member of the guard – doing the same kind of work that Nori does. An asset like that, a Woman who spies for dwarves, is a great one, he admits. None of their enemies would ever suspect a thing.
He feels faintly impressed, and so does everyone else, judging by the nudging of elbows and whispering taking place in Fíli and Kíli's corner of the table. But it all does nothing to lessen his irritation with how this scenario was brought about in the first place.
"If you are so respectable," he says gravely, causing even his nephews to sober up, "why were you following me from a distance?"
"I didn't," she replies, leaning comfortably back in her chair as though his interrogation is exactly what she expected, and smiles kindly at their host. "Master Baggins, might I bother you for some tea?"
"You…you didn't follow me." Thorin repeats, wondering if he is perhaps dreaming.
"No. If you recall, milord, I was ahead of you on the path when the first mercenaries accosted you."
Thorin scowls as Fíli and Kíli erupt into concerned outrage. "That wasn't for everyone in the company to know, woman."
"You were the one who brought up the subject," she counters reasonably, and turns to thank the hobbit for the mug of tea and plate of scones he puts in front of her. Dwalin stirs to life, pulling a bowl of stew off a table in the corner where he likely hid it earlier from Bombur, and plunks it in front of Thorin.
Ailväel helps herself to the butter and blackberry jam and tucks into the food with gusto, seemingly unbothered at the scrutiny of thirteen dwarves.
"You said yourself you had been following me since Bree."
Rather than the cornered look his nephews adopt when he manages to pin some mischief on them, Ailväel seems pleased. "Good. You were listening." She swipes the back of her hand across her mouth, messily clearing it of crumbs, and leans forward on her elbows. "I'd been alternating between trailing you – from less of a distance than you think – and scouting ahead, because it was quite obvious to me that you had absolutely no idea where you were going."
That gets a surprised whoof from Dwalin, and in the corner Fíli and Kíli snicker. Thorin's aptitude at getting lost is a bit of a family joke, and normally he can take the teasing in stride.
But now? Thorin takes a bite of stew just to keep his mouth occupied; he has no desire to start a new habit of cursing at women. It would surely cause Dís to crawl out of the woodwork and box his ears, and would set a poor example for her sons besides. Ailväel seems to know she has hit a nerve, and peers at him over the rim of her mug. To his frustration, he can see the twinkle of amusement in her dark eyes.
He only glares back stonily. The mirth leaves her face, and she huffs.
"Very well, then." Ailväel sets aside both plate and cup, and pushes up her sleeve to hold her arm out, palm facing upward. "Seeing as you will not be satisfied by anything less, here is the best proof I have that I am not your enemy."
Thorin stares at the tattoo on her inner forearm.
"That's Khuzdul!" Kíli exclaims.
"Aye." Ailväel gestures for them all to inspect the runes more closely. "See what you make of it."
"What do they say?" the hobbit asks, peering over Bofur's shoulder.
"Hanfûna."
Fíli sounds as Thorin feels – utterly and totally confused, as though he walked outside this morning and the sky had suddenly turned green.
Thorin has not felt this surprised in decades; he knows the look of dwarvish ink when he sees it. Those marks were not made by any Man.
"What does that mean?" the hobbit frowns in confusion.
"Lady of the Knives." Dwalin's glare is even more suspicious.
"As you can see," Ailväel shrugs. "I adopted the title with gusto."
Thorin can only stare.
"Does that satisfy you, Thorin?" Gandalf puffs his pipe in the corner, looking very pleased with himself.
His suspicions? Only slightly.
His curiosity? Not even close.
"I suppose it will have to." Thorin studies Ailväel again, but she meets his gaze evenly. There is no deceit in her eyes. "I would still have liked to been told of her presence on our quest beforehand."
"That was due to bad luck," she says, shrugging apologetically. "I myself was not certain whether or not I would be making the journey until I spoke with Gandalf, and you had already left him. There was simply no time."
"I suppose I'll make up another contract, then," Balin says cordially, but Thorin can see the wariness in his old friend's eyes.
"No need," Ailväel licks blackberry jam off her thumb. "I am not claiming a share of the treasure."
Thorin rubs his forehead, something he only used to do during council meetings in Ered Luin. "It is fitting that you are given a contract, as the rest of us have signed one already. Though what your job description will be is anyone's guess."
She shrugs again. "Bodyguard. It fits well enough."
He's quite sure she means that to be a dig at the assistance she gave him on the road, but he chooses to believe otherwise, if only because he is tired and irritable, and they still have to speak with the hobbit.
"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt…but – job description?"
Speaking of…
"Master Hobbit. Have you any experience in fighting?"
The little man blinks. "I…I beg your pardon?"
"Axe or sword, what's your weapon of choice?"
Flustered, their host responds, "Well, I am quite skilled at conkers, if you must know. It's all in the wrist, really. But I don't exactly see why that's relevant."
Thorin smirks, and opens his mouth to state that this hobbit is precisely what he anticipated – soft, naïve, and ill-equipped for their journey – when he glances across the table and meets his new bodyguard's eye. He falters, unprepared for the disapproving look she is sending in his direction. He has seen it many times on his sister, aimed at himself but more often at his nephews and it always means the same thing:
I know what you're up to, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Without meaning to, he swallows the disparaging remark and says instead, "It is no matter, you can always learn as we travel. There are many apt teachers amongst us."
The hobbit seems quite appreciative of that, despite having no earthly idea just what, exactly, lessons with Dwalin will entail, but Thorin catches the gleam of approval in Ailväel's eyes, and it makes him irritable all over again. Really! Cowing before this woman as though she were his 'amad, taking him to task with a single look!
"And you, madam. What's your preference in a fight?"
She grins, bright and sharp, around her mug – full of ale, now – and smoothly replies, "My preference is to not be in a fight to begin with, my lord, but if it is unavoidable I usually reach for my daggers first."
"Surely not all of them at once?" is out of his mouth before he can stop it, along with a teasing smirk as his irritation inexplicably fades, and she throws her head back and laughs heartily.
"How many have you got on you, anyway?" Fíli has clearly been choking on that question since they arrived. Thorin hides his grin in his own drink.
"Fifteen daggers, young master, and my sword and bow besides."
He immediately regrets taking that last sip of ale, as he nearly chokes on it. Fifteen? She is the same height as their burglar, and lacks the thickset build of dwarrowdams. He has seen children of her race that are bigger than she is.
Wherever does she keep them all?
As soon as the – potentially inappropriate – question pops into his head, he wishes it hadn't, but it does not matter because Kíli actually voices it.
Dori splutters in the corner, but Ailväel looks amused. "I've got good sense, Master Kíli, which means I know better than to reveal my secrets. But I'll tell you this – you can see all of them save one, but only if you look closely enough."
"What about the one?" Fíli asks, grinning rakishly. Dori squawks, and pulls Ori further away from their disreputable guest. Thorin dearly wishes the his heir was close enough to kick under the table – better yet, he wishes Dís were here to quell such an inappropriate question with but a single glare.
To her credit, Ailväel smiles kindly at him, like a younger brother. "I am afraid the last is in a rather unmentionable place, and for the sake of Master Dori in the corner I shall not reveal it. But of all the others it is the one I can rely on to always be within reach."
Having taken the gentle rebuke with good grace, Fíli stares at her. "You don't keep all of them hidden?"
"No."
"How's your aim?" This from Dwalin, who looks like he wants to be impressed and is most annoyed by the idea.
"Deadly." Thorin surprises himself again by responding, and ignores the smirk across the table. "As I was saying, Master Hobbit – "
"Baggins." Their host interrupts, fidgeting. "With all the…er, hubbub we were never properly introduced. Bilbo Baggins, at your service."
Thorin nods. "Thorin Oakenshield. I trust Gandalf has explained why he thinks we require your skills."
"He…didn't – wait a moment, skills? Skills at what?"
A beat of pounding silence, then –
"You didn't tell him?"
Gandalf shifts a bit, quelling under Ailväel's thunderous frown. "Now, my dear, I – "
"Don't my dear at me, you wandering, meddlesome busybody." She leans towards the wizard, glaring at him, and Thorin cannot blame Bifur for scooting in the opposite direction. "Why would you not tell him? The polite thing to have done would be to have warned him yesterday! Did he have no notice at all that he was to host our party?" Without waiting for an answer, Ailväel turns to Bilbo. "I daresay we have eaten your larders bare, Master Baggins. I am most dreadfully sorry."
Bilbo, who looks to have been thinking along those very lines until now, smiles kindly and pats her on the arm. "Oh, well now, there's no…er, lingering harm done. Hobbits keep their cellars very well stocked, so at least everyone had enough to eat. And they all did the dishes, so that was rather nice of them."
"That is common courtesy for dwarves, and our bellies are not the concern." Ailväel turns to the wizard. "Tharkûn, you will sit down this moment and explain to Master Baggins why he was the unexpected host to fifteen this evening."
It's an order, which Thorin has until now believed are not given to Gandalf, but the old man nods, looking relieved.
"Yes, of course, my dear girl. Bilbo, a little more light, if you please."
A candle is brought, and Thorin takes his cue from Gandalf to spread the map on the table, letting the wizard do the talking. The quest sounds all the more foolish when explained like this, but Ailväel shows no surprise or uncertainty, only rapt attention as she listens to the plan.
The hobbit, however, seems to think it's just a story for his benefit until Bofur asks if he is an expert burglar.
"What – I beg your pardon, I've never stolen a thing in my life!"
"We meant no offense," Ailväel cuts in kindly. "This is really a matter of stealing back what has already been stolen, you see. Nothing dishonorable about it. And they could really use your help, my friend."
Bilbo looks a little less outraged and a little more intrigued, and so he takes the proffered contract from Balin and begins looking it over. His mumbling becomes more and more manic as he continues through the section on funeral arrangements, and by the time he reaches the disclaimers he's gone quite pale.
"Incineration?"
"Oh, aye. He'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink o' an eye." Bofur pipes up.
The hobbit turns away, puts his hands on his knees.
"You all right, laddie?" Balin asks, not unkindly.
"Oh yes, of course, he's just fine," Ailväel mutters into her ale, but Thorin seems to be the only one who hears her.
"Air, I – I need air."
"Think furnace, with wings!" Bofur continues, bright and cheery as ever.
"Feel a bit faint," Bilbo manages, taking a deep breath.
"Flashing light, searing pain, then – poof! You're nothin' more than a pile o' ash!"
"Shut up," Ailväel says, sharply, but it's too late. The hobbit crumples to the floor.
Thorin sighs.
"I was just tryin' to help," Bofur says, rather subdued as he watches Ailväel and Óin roll Bilbo onto his back and begin to fuss over him.
"Yes, very helpful Bofur," Gandalf says mildly. The hobbit begins to stir only moments later, blinking up at the ceiling.
"Wha – oh dear. I fainted, didn't I?"
"It was not your fault, Master Baggins," Ailväel says kindly, as she helps their host sit up. "It's a bit much for someone who's never had to face these things before."
Bilbo pauses in trying to clamber back to his feet, and looks into Ailväel's eyes. "You've faced them before, though. Haven't you?"
"I…" Ailväel blinks, looking disarmed for the first time since Thorin met her, but only for a moment. "Well, yes and no. I have fought orcs, and men, and many other dangerous creatures. But I have never faced a dragon."
"Gandalf has though," Kíli pipes up. "I bet he's killed hundreds of dragons!"
"Kíli," Thorin tries to warn, but Ori is already gasping, eyes lighting up with hope.
"Really? Hundreds?"
Gandalf blusters, fumbling his way through an explanation, and then Ailväel laughs.
"Hundreds?" She snorts, heaving Bilbo to his feet and thrusting a mug of tea (appearing by Dori's mother-hen sensibilities) into his hands. "Honestly, Tharkûn, they are not the children who gather at your feet for stories."
"I am well aware, Ailväel," Gandalf says tersely.
"So…you haven't, then?" Kíli says, disappointed.
"Of course he hasn't," Ailväel responds stoutly. She returns to her seat when Óin starts fussing at her. "No one has. Dragons are a rare kind; in fact, Smaug is the only one south of Mount Gundabad. That does not seal the fate of this quest, however. We must not lose heart simply because none of us have done this before. Imagine all the great things that would never be done if their doers were afraid of the being the first."
There's a pause, during which Thorin tries desperately to ignore the warm glow in his chest that her words have ignited, and then Balin clears his throat.
"Well said, lassie." He regards the map. "Though the problem of so few going up against a dragon is still a mighty one indeed. Thorin, did all the clans send envoys?"
His heart sinks. How he hates disappointing his company like this.
"Aye. All seven."
"Is Dáin with us?" Dwalin cuts to the chase.
Thorin makes himself meet his friend in the eye. "He will not come."
Amidst the murmur of disappointment that ripples around the table, he notices Ailväel has gone rather quiet. But when he looks over she is sipping slowly from her ale, staring at the map. He frowns and folds it to put it away, back inside his coat.
"Well," Balin says. "We knew it was a possibility, that they would consider this to be our quest, and ours alone. But perhaps it is for the better; we still do not have a way into the mountain. The front gate is sealed."
"Ah." Gandalf smiles, and reaches into his robes. "I think this might help."
Thorin stares, dumbfounded, at the key. "Where did you get this?"
"Your father gave it to me for safekeeping," Gandalf answers. "It is yours, now."
Thorin holds the aged, twisted key to his home, his birthright, and thumbs a bit of rust that has gathered on the bow. The hope of his people feels heavy and solid in his hand.
"There's another way in." Fíli sounds awed.
Thorin stares at the best chance he has had in decades of reclaiming what they have lost, and tries not to weep.
"Aye. The mountain…it is ours," he says, quietly.
"We've got a way to sneak up on the beast!" Kíli looks like he is about to call for more ale to celebrate.
"You….you're really going to go, then."
They all turn to look at the hobbit, who stands looking small and afraid.
"Yes, Bilbo." Ailväel's voice is not harsh, but not really gentle either. Thorin looks at her in surprise. "It is their home. They must go."
Bilbo looks at her. "But…but a dragon." The question in his eyes does not need to be voiced. Ailväel glances at Thorin before putting a hand on the hobbit's shoulder.
"A dragon shall be a very great foe indeed. Which is why they need your help so much."
"My help? What on earth could I possibly do against a dragon?"
"I agree with the lad," Balin sighs. "It would be asking far too much of gentle folk to embark on such a treacherous journey."
"Aye, the wild is no place for those who cannot fight nor fend for themselves." Dwalin scoffs and crosses his arms, and turns his glower on Ailväel when she leans forward.
"Master Dwalin, your leader has already promised to provide instruction for Master Baggins en route. How can you be so unwilling to teach someone how to be less defenseless?"
"More like I'm experienced enough to know when someone is a lost cause," he snaps. Thorin sees very real anger, dark and dangerous, flash in Ailväel's eyes, and steps in, only because he is aware of what this woman is capable of, and has no wish for his oldest friend to learn it the same way the scoundrels from Bree did.
"Peace, Dwalin. If Master Baggins' redeeming qualities are being light on his feet and keeping a clear head, he has the potential to make a passable fighter, albeit not a mighty one."
Bilbo looks, if possible, even more uncertain; Ailväel and Dwalin are glaring at each other, chests heaving and brows thickly furrowed. Thorin clears his throat.
"Until he is able to hold his own, Ailväel, you shall be his keeper. Look after him, make sure he does not – "
"No."
Thorin blinks. "No?"
"No," Ailväel repeats, most of the anger leaving her face as she turns to him. "My place on this journey is not to protect our burglar."
"Then what is your place, woman?" Dwalin growls.
"To protect my king," Ailväel growls right back. She points to Thorin, and his nephews. "The Sons of Durin are my charges. I will not abandon the others in danger, but delivering the three of them to Erebor alive is my chief concern."
Thorin honestly does not know what to say. He hardly knows what to think. Dwalin glares down at the small woman, brow heavy with scorn, and opens his mouth. Ailväel cuts him off.
"You do not trust me. That is well, because a guard whose trust can be earned over a single meal and an hour's conversation is not a guard whose trust is worth having. But I do not care; I am the reason Thorin arrived here safe and hale tonight, and I will be at least part of the reason he arrives safe and hale to reclaim the Mountain."
Gandalf, Thorin notices, is almost obscured in pipe smoke, but is staring at Ailväel through the haze.
"A woman who volunteers to escort the king, who claims to have been adopted and raised by dwarves…you cannot say it is not suspicious." Balin chews on the end of his own pipe, a single glance sending Dwalin back to his seat.
"I am not here of my own free will. Not even Lord Dáin knows that I am here," Ailväel says, suddenly subdued and quiet. "I was hired."
"By whom?" Thorin regains his voice, trying not to look as unnerved as he feels.
"I cannot say."
Thorin does not miss the way her eyes flit to the wizard for the barest of moments.
Balin huffs. "You can hardly expect us to – "
"I expect nothing." Ailväel sighs, rubs one hand over her face. "I would not be surprised if you tried to leave without me in the morning. It will not matter, because I will simply follow you. You do not have to trust me, you do not have to like me. I am not here to become anyone's friend. I am simply here because this is where I am most needed."
"And who decides where you are needed – your employer, or Gandalf?" Thorin asks, sarcastically.
"Both." Ailväel does not take the bait, and holds his gaze evenly without cowering. He recognizes the signs of a person whose will is harder than stone – raised by dwarves indeed, he thinks. He knows it is useless to pry further – but his earlier assessment on the road stands. If this woman has decided it is her duty to watch over him and his kin, then he wants her close enough to be watched in return.
"Very well." Balin and Dwalin look at him incredulously. "You shall journey with us, under contract, but shall receive a lesser portion of the treasure."
"I want no portion," she says emphatically.
He manages not to roll his eyes. "Fine. Balin, alter the contract accordingly. Master Baggins, are you with us?"
All eyes turn to the forgotten hobbit, who twiddles his thumbs nervously. "I – I suppose I couldn't ask what, exactly, I'll be stealing?"
"Aye, that'd be the Arkenstone." Bofur chimes in, evidently eager to assist in a way that will not involve swooning. "King's Jewel, heart o' the mountain, seen as divine approval from Mahal himself for the line o' Durin to rule, an' all that."
Bilbo blinks. "All – all that. Of course."
Thorin is almost positive he saw Ailväel roll her eyes during Bofur's lengthy description, but when she turns to the hobbit her voice is free of sarcasm or derision.
"Make no mistake, Bilbo, this will not be an easy task. Dragons guard their hoards with unparalleled ferocity. And a gem of such great worth will not have gone unnoticed by him. He will know the moment you put your hands on it."
Bilbo stares at her, then the key, then Thorin, and then back to Ailväel.
"You…you want me to sneak into a dragon's hoard, and find one jewel?"
"Without waking him, would certainly be preferable." Balin confirms politely, all while making it inescapably clear how surprised he will be if Bilbo accomplishes the feat.
"Right." The hobbit rubs his forehead in distress. "So how big is the hoard, anyway? I presume if it was big enough to tempt him in the first place it must be quite impressive."
That is one of the more intelligent things he has said all evening, and it makes Thorin appraise him with new eyes.
"The wealth of Erebor is unprecedented. But the Arkenstone is a gem like no other. Even someone who does not have stone sense, as dwarves do, would notice it."
That seems to appease Bilbo somewhat; he turns on his heel and begins to pace his foyer.
"Well, Bilbo?" Gandalf prompts after a moment or two.
The hobbit stops and looks at them incredulously. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this."
"Ho! He's with us, lads!" Bofur toasts their burglar, and the company echo his cheer before scurrying into the kitchen for more mead. Their raucous chatter grows muffled as they move further into the smial – he has honestly no hope of finding anything in this place, with its curved, burrowing halls and rounded ceilings – until he, the sons of Fundin, the wizard, Bilbo, and Ailväel are left.
"Wonderful." Gandalf stirs to life, the pipe smoke dissipating as he rises to his feet, hunched over under the low ceiling. "The contracts, if you please Balin."
Balin doesn't look overly pleased, but hands Bilbo the parchment the latter dropped when he fainted. "I'll have to draw up yours, lass. I'll have it done before we turn in for the night."
"That will be fine, Master Balin. Thank you." Ailväel gathers her dishes and Thorin's, and heads into the kitchen. He does not fail to notice how she still favors her leg, and seems much more subdued – sad, even – compared to the woman he met on the road.
Dwalin wastes no time in leaning towards Gandalf, knuckles braced on the table. "That woman will be the death o' everyone in this company, wizard. Mark my words."
"I understand you are displeased," Gandalf says. "But I was quite right in saying that the very fact she has not killed any of you speaks a great deal as to whether or not it is her aim to do so. As ludicrous as it may seem, she can be trusted. If you do not believe me now, she will prove herself in time."
Dwalin does not believe Gandalf – that much is painfully obvious. But Thorin wants to believe him, and that…
That is simply frightening.
He sighs as he pushes to his feet, following the others as they rise and move to the parlor. "I do not like this, Gandalf. But I do not see any other way. If she is our enemy, I would prefer to keep a close eye on her. If she is an ally, then it will be as you say, and she will earn our trust."
Gandalf hums, peering intently at Thorin. "I am glad you've seen sense. Now if you don't mind, I will be in the garden."
The wizard stumps away, pulling the green door shut behind him. Dwalin looks more upset than Thorin has seen him in years.
"Did she appear to know 'em?"
Thorin frowns. "What?"
"The hires what attacked you on the road. Did she seem to know 'em?"
"No. She was a stranger to them."
"You're certain?" Dwalin persists.
Thorin claps a hand to his friend's shoulder. "Aye, I'm certain. She is odd, and I do not like it any more than you do, but whoever hired her wasn't in league with those fools."
Dwalin nods, appeased for the moment, and looks around to make sure no one is listening – the others are clustering around the fire, lighting their pipes and teasing the hobbit good-naturedly, and even Balin is sitting off to the side, shaking his head fondly at the youth on display.
"Is she truly an able fighter?" Dwalin doesn't look skeptical, only curious.
Thorin nods. "Aye. I'd be thrice dead if not for her. Whatever she is, Dwalin – she is highly skilled at it."
Dwalin grunts. "Makes me nervous."
"Me as well," Thorin admits. He glances out the window, somehow unsurprised to see her on the bench out in the garden, puffing on a pipe alongside the wizard.
"Come, Uncle!" Kíli drags his attention back indoors, one arm wrapped around their host. "Bilbo's never heard a dwarvish song before!"
He does not really feel like singing, but acquiesces all the same. He leads them in the song of their homeland, and even the flames seem to dance less merrily on the hearth, out of reverence and awe of what his people have lost.
He wonders, as the voices of his kin join his own, if one day this song will be sung in his fathers' halls, in celebration rather than in sorrow.
One can only hope.
/
Gandalf is unusually fond of the Shire; he has been for as long as Ailväel has known him. She remembers how he would come to the fortress of Nardorahl in the winter months, staying for the Yule feasts, and he would tell stories of a quiet land far away. A land of green and sunshine and bright flowers, of growing things and a peaceful, quiet people.
As a child, she believed such a place was only imaginary, or so far away that only the likes of a wizard could ever hope to see it.
Now, having slipped out the kitchen door to stand in Bilbo's garden, she wonders at how it feels so very far from home, and yet not far away at all.
Her first foray into the Shire was before she had even turned thirty. It was autumn, and she was transfixed by the harvest that these hobbits seemed to consider below expectations, but appeared quite full by her judgment.
It wasn't until the first snowstorm hit that she realized how subpar the crops really had been, considering the eating habits of Shirelings; within weeks there was talk of rations. The Brandywine froze over before Yule, and that was when the real trouble started.
Wolves from the North Downs had been forced to search farther and wider for food, for the winter was not kind to any creature. The river of solid ice proved an easy crossing for them. She still remembers the night the beasts first came into the Shire, and how close the snapping jaws had come to a fleeing mother and child, before one of Ailväel's arrows had pierced its eye.
She is not so arrogant to believe that the Shire owes her a great debt; the Fell Winter remains one of the hobbits' darkest times, and she merely did her part to make it slightly more bearable. A fair number of their people died, but all from sickness, cold or hunger. The wolves took no one that winter, and when spring came again and the Brandywine gurgled to life once more, Ailväel quietly went on her way, content to know she spared these people some tragedy, if not all of it.
(That alone had been enough – enough respite from her nightmares, enough to make her listen to Gandalf and enough to convince her that she was still needed.)
Still, it is clear that the Shire has come far in the years since that winter, and it gives her an enormous amount of satisfaction. Lush and green, the night air thick with the scent of clover and the late summer wheat – it is a peaceful place, one that she always enjoys visiting despite the fact that its inhabitants always peer at her with suspicion.
It is a far more enjoyable place to visit than Ered Luin, though perhaps that is due to her reasons for always being sent to the mountains.
She was not surprised earlier to find that Oakenshield is even more foul-tempered in person than he appeared from a distance; his nephews are also exactly as she pegged them seven months ago when she followed their caravan to the markets of Lond Daer. They are excitable, mischievous, and so eagerly desperate to please their uncle that it reminds her painfully of herself, all those years ago when her nadad first pressed a dagger into her hand.
(Ailväel has often found it quite ridiculous, in the time since then, how much a single orc raid and one lucky throw has changed the course of her life.)
Once she has tired of the view from behind the smial, she finds Tharkûn in the front garden, puffing smoke rings into the balmy evening.
"I like the burglar," she tells him, fixing her own pipe as she settles beside him on the bench.
"He has not always been so…" Gandalf waves his hand in search of the appropriate word.
"Fussy?" She smiles. She has been looking forward to a good smoke all evening; she's spent the better part of the last two months practicing a new trick with concentric smoke rings.
Gandalf chuckles. "Fussy. Yes, I suppose that is a fitting description for him. He used to be the most inquisitive child west of Bree, always looking for excitement."
"Hobbits are not like that by nature," Ailväel reminds him, letting out a practice ring or two.
"His mother was." There is a note of sadness in his voice.
She does not really know what to say, since she never knew the woman. But Gandalf seems determined not to dwell on melancholy thoughts, and adjusts his robes as he does the conversation.
"I agree with your decision to make Thorin and his nephews your priority." A smoky butterfly flits into the night. "But I would ask that you keep an eye on Bilbo as well. Especially whenever I am unable to journey with the company."
"I will do what I can," she promises. "Though I doubt Oakenshield will thank me for it. You are lucky he was willing to trust your judgment regarding hobbits."
"Oh, Bilbo will prove his worth," the wizard waves away her concern. "I do not doubt it. Perhaps you should worry more about their response to you."
She snorts. "I do not need to worry; I am well practiced in the art of being charming and courteous towards even the rudest dwarves."
Gandalf pauses, as though he is considering how to soften the truth. "You may very well receive further training in that regard on this venture. They…are not very fond of you, my dear." He glances sideways at her. "Thorin especially."
She shrugs. "We expected as much. I would have been almost disappointed if they had accepted me so soon."
"Hm." He exhales; two perfect, interlocked rings float against the backdrop of inky sky littered with stars. "They will not be kind. They will see to it that you are miserable and isolated."
She laughs bitterly. "Tharkûn, have you forgotten my childhood? 'Adad was considered all but a heretic for how he took me in. Even now, after everything I have done for them, I am nothing more than an outsider."
Gandalf purses his lips; she sighs, regretting her bluntness. He has long since made clear his opinion on how she was and is received in the Iron Hills. But he hums again, apparently setting aside his old objections for the moment.
"Do you think he suspects?"
His voice is quiet, softer than the smoke rings in the air.
"I don't think so. But I have never met a more accomplished liar in all of Arda." Ailväel shrugs. "We have plans in place, should he realize I am not following his orders to see Thorin and his nephews dead."
"We have time," Gandalf assures her. "You were told to let them live until the dragon is defeated."
Not much comforted, Ailväel merely hums in acknowledgment of his words.
Gandalf turns to face her properly. "I know you are determined to see this through," he tells her, still speaking quietly. "But none would blame you if you decided it was too great a burden. I certainly would not."
"I cannot shirk from this." She shakes her head. "Had I not accepted my orders, there would be a dwarf in my place from the Iron Hills who had every intention of obeying them."
Gandalf says nothing for a moment or two, before lowering his voice even more. Pipe smoke, without his concentration on what shape it takes, obscures the view of the Shire as it clouds around them.
"You are placing yourself in an impossible position, Ailväel. Your father will likely be forced to banish you, should your plan succeed. Your brother will at the very best despise you. And if you should fail – "
"Then hopefully I will at least manage to warn Thorin in time." She sets her jaw, and gazes out over the Shire, and repeats, "I will not shirk from this, Gandalf. His greed has been allowed to fester for too long. And I do not know if my nadad even sees, or if he is of the same mind."
She pauses to swallow the nausea, brought on by the thought of her brother being in league with traitors. Gandalf's voice is a welcome distraction.
"Perhaps he could be reasoned with. Thorin could make him a prominent member of his council in Erebor, what with his position in Nardorahl."
"You do not understand." She sighs. "This greed within him…it will not be satisfied with anything less than the throne. He does not think Oakenshield is unfit; he is simply hungry for power, and wants the wealth of Erebor for himself to squander. And with him wearing the crown, no dwarf would be safe. I cannot allow him to usurp the rightful king." She takes a shaky breath. "No matter how my heart might break in stopping him."
Gandalf only hums again, puffing his pipe before setting a gentle hand on Ailväel's shoulder as they listen, through the open parlor window, to the dwarves of Erebor sing the hymn of their homeland, voices rich with a longing that she knows all too well.
She has cast her lot in with them, to help them reclaim a home in which she will never be welcome. But it is either this, or flee from her shadow for the rest of her days, knowing that she could have spared him, and did nothing. Thorin Oakenshield is rude, and proud, and perhaps the most stubborn son of stone to ever walk Middle Earth. But he loves his people, his kin, and he longs for them to have better than a trading outpost in the Blue Mountains.
Though it will likely end in her dead in either body or in spirit, she must help him take what is rightfully his.
/
Thanks for reading!
Glossary:
Tharkûn: the dwarves' name for Gandalf; literally means "grey man" or "staff man"'
Hanfûna: lady of the knives
'Amad: mother
'Adad: father
Nadad: brother