Allow me to introduce myself to the Pride and Prejudice fandom. I am Lillianpost and a Hobbit fanfic writer. However, P&P was my first taste of fanfiction, and this site and the Republic of Pemberley are wonderful sources of fine writing that I enjoy. I was reading P&P fiction lately when this deliciously sneaky idea burrowed into my brain and commanded me to put fingers to keyboard. I wondered if I have to put this in the crossover section since there isn't one listed on this site. Am I a universe of one or am I doing something wrong? If I must delete the story and repost, let me know. I've never done this before.

Cheers,

Lillianpost

Chapter 1

Fitzwilliam Darcy walked through the woods of his estate on a fine, early fall afternoon, not at all distressed by the broken wheel of his light phaeton. He would have the rut in the road, which formed after an especially heavy rain, repaired as soon as may be and in the meantime enjoy a cool stroll past glossy holly bushes and artfully-kept, yew hedges. He could have sent the nearby tenant farmer to the stables while he waited with his horses, but Darcy felt the need for a lengthy walk and decided to retrieve help himself. Elizabeth Bennet was on his mind, and thoughts of her required a lengthy walk.

Blast! When isn't she on my mind? I must overcome this! I must!

Letting his hand drift through a tall stand of glass, he pulled out a stalk and began chewing on the soft tip, returning to a boyhood habit that he employed whenever he was on edge or needed to think through a tangle of thoughts or emotions. No, not emotions. He strove to keep those under good regulation but lately without success. Her words came back to him about his selfish disdain for the feelings of others, and he threw up his hands and tossed the stalk away. Winning her affection seemed impossible but never more did he want it, and yet he had not a single clue of how to go about the business.

"Dear God, how—how!—do I accomplish this?" he pleaded to the clouds.

A bright flash in the otherwise mild sky startled him out of his miserable thoughts, and a loud thump followed near or in a grouping of large holly bushes situated on a rise next to him. What came after was a series of incomprehensible words strung together in what were almost certainly curses bellowed in a deep, male voice. Darcy judged his brogue to come from the northern counties, but he couldn't be certain. He was sure though that the voice did not belong to anyone associated with Pemberley. He listened closely to the man grumbling and struggling to extricate himself from the prickly leaves. He stepped closer and the muttering stopped. A vagrant? A poacher? Darcy's trusted gamesmen had chased several of them off last year, and all had been quiet since. He considered his options, bristling at some stranger trespassing on his property, but once again Elizabeth's words to amend his manners intruded, and he decided to withhold judgment for the present and be hospitable if possible. It wouldn't do to threaten a lost traveler. Besides, he kept a pair of small pistols on his person when he traveled beyond the environs of his estate, and at present whomever it was could do him no harm, caught fast as he was between holly branches, so Darcy felt it safe to approach.

"I say, are you hurt? Do you require assistance?" The rustling stopped, but the slide of steel from a scabbard was unmistakable, and with several deft slices, Pemberley's holly bushes were neatly trimmed by three feet. In the middle of them looking down on Darcy stood a figure that had materialized out of medieval history, although he conceded a fantastical element in the man's dress or rather garb. Perhaps the gentleman was attached to the group of Shakespearean players that was currently performing in Lambton, although he couldn't imagine how he came to be so lost. He certainly looked the part of King Lear or Hamlet's Uncle Claudius though, and Darcy spared a moment to idly admire the man's heavy robes with wolf-pelt shoulders and gleaming brigandine overlaying a fine, royal-blue tunic. His costume was well put together, and Darcy made a note to see the company's production while it was in town. The stranger evidently took his craft seriously, and Darcy relaxed his stance.

Georgiana would enjoy an outing of this nature, and he's certainly gone to some trouble to make it look authentic.

The actor—and at this point Darcy didn't think he could be anything else—sported a full head of hair styled in an unusual fashion for a player, but Darcy admitted that it gave him a majesty worthy of the elder parts of the Bard's dramatic tales. The stranger's hair was dark with gray at the temples and widow's peak. Long, it flowed over his shoulders, and twin braids at the ears lent him a rather dashing air of mystery and the exotic. The bearded face was that of a man past his prime, yet its austere strength would argue that assertion. Darcy made another note to send for town for tickets.

"I ask again," he said. "Are you injured? Do you require assistance?" The stranger hoisted a large and strangely designed sword and swung the point in his direction.

"Who are you?" he asked with a scowl, seemingly not at all impressed by the tall, refined gentleman standing before him. Darcy's lips quirked at his imperious manner. Perhaps he was practicing a part or covering his embarrassment with a dramatic performance, but Darcy decided to heed Elizabeth's admonition to be civil to those not of his circle and responded in kind.

"I am Fitzwilliam Darcy," he said with an old-fashioned, sweeping bow, "master of Pemberley and the lands hereabout. To whom do I have the honor of addressing?" The stranger cocked his head and looked around, surveying the woods and glimpses of vistas beyond with sharp eyes. He missed no detail, and after scanning his surroundings, he stared at Darcy, taking in his dress with what looked like suspicion.

"You are dressed strangely," he said at last, "and I am not familiar with this road. I must have taken a wrong turn." Sheathing his sword, he nodded, indicating his superior status. Darcy withheld a grin. He would certainly have this actor's name and attend his next performance, perhaps even support his company. This fellow was mesmerizing to watch and had a wonderfully rich voice. "I am Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor."

Darcy frowned, not familiar with the production. It wasn't one of Shakespeare's at any rate, but he applauded new talent. "Erebor? I'm not familiar with the play. Is it a new production? Thorin. From Thor? Perhaps a translation of a Nordic play? I must say though that your seamstresses have outdone themselves, and your stage makeup is superb. Usually it is applied too thick, thereby turning a drama into a farce. My compliments to your company." After staring at him like he had gone daft, this Thorin shook his head.

"I do not understand your questions, Fitzwilliam Darcy, or your words, but I demand you direct me to the Old Forest Road. My company and kinsmen are to meet me at Bree."

"I would, of course, Master Thorin," Darcy said with barely concealed amusement. The man arched a heavy brow. "Master Oakenshield." The brow rose higher. "My lord." At that the King of Erebor nodded and motioned for him to continue. Darcy was excessively diverted and determined to commit all to memory to amuse Georgiana and his cousin, Richard, with this delicious anecdote. "However, I am not familiar with that road. If you would be so good as to furnish me with directions, I will gladly set you on the path. Could the road run through Lambton perhaps?" The name did not seem to register, but in any case, there was no help he could offer until his carriage was repaired. "I am on my way to retrieve help from my groomsman. I broke a wheel about a mile back. You are welcome to accompany me, or you may wait until I return."

The man looked to and fro but could not get his bearings and started down the rise. Darcy heard his unhappy mumbling on his way down but lost sight of him when he reached the ground. The bushes were not that high, perhaps around four and a half feet tall, and Darcy looked all about him before this Thorin appeared in front of him. Looking down, the master of Pemberley was astonished. This self-described King of Erebor was almost as wide as a man but the height of a dwarf, yet he did not have the disproportionate head and overly thick limbs of a dwarf. Darcy felt an unpleasant prickling on the nape of his neck, and the man or dwarf, rather, huffed at his frank amazement.

"I take it you've never seen a dwarf before, Master Darcy," he said. His brow arched again only this time with disdain. "You must not have ventured far beyond your lands or be well-educated if you're unaware of my people. I never expected Fornost to have terrain such as this," and he nodded at the well-kept meadows and woods, "but I am not ignorant of who lives in Middle-earth."

"Middle-earth? A race of dwarves?" More than that Darcy wouldn't say, and he schooled his face to impassivity after seeing Thorin's nostrils flare. After a derisive snort in Darcy's direction, the play-acting king looked up and around, still trying to locate helpful landmarks, and Darcy took the opportunity to scrutinize him more closely. He observed that his costume looked too fine and expensive for any production he had ever seen. Glancing at his scabbard, he saw that it was had wear that could only have come from actual use. The sword pommel and crosspiece were also well-worn with telltale nicks and scratches. More importantly, Darcy could tell even from where he stood that both sword and scabbard were made of forged steel. Another look at Thorin's clothes and the way he wore them convinced Darcy that he wore them often if not as his usual attire. This day's adventure was taking a bizarre turn.

Thanks for reading! Reviews are welcome!