Welcome to the story! I hope you will enjoy the tale I desire to tell and will bear with me as we both work through the wonderful world of the Hobbit. I welcome you with warm arms and without further ado, I present...!
The Long Road Home
By KeepingThemAtBay
Enjoy!
Chapter One: Look What the Storm Dragged In
Erebor the Greatest Kingdom of Middle Earth stands with her eternal rock and glistening riches beneath the crystal hewn lanterns. It is said to be the greatest fortress of Middle-earth, guarded and blessed with divine right and vast wealth. The great Dwarf Lords are powerful as the strongest army and sharper than diamond mail. It is a time of plenty and much gold.
Many cannot feel it, only those who live near the center of the Mountain can, where the Arkenstone resides. A prophecy stirs and it is one that concerns me greatly for the future of the Kingdom. I am but a low and honorable noble, and I know not how far into the future this will pertain too, but I have been instructed to write it down. Hoping in time it will make sense to those who come across my words.
Two stones of blue light
Chosen by a valiant hand
Set what was taken; to what is right
Will appear to be bland
From a Time of Ashes
Fire & gold
And the Great Decline
Sets all stone cold.
A pair they will be when they arise,
To save what is left of Durin's Line.
(The Lost Scrolls of Erebor, Author Unknown)
Our story begins in a time of developing turmoil hidden deep in the shadows of the earth. The first steps to war and greater darkness has begun to creep into all that is good in Middle-earth. We begin our tale with two unlikely Dwarves, delivering urgent word that will forever change the course of time. A single thoughtful act, as minuscule as it may be in time, will cause profound effects creating entirely new patterns from a single anchor point in the great web of time.
And our story has only just begun…
Lightning shattered the inky black sky into shards of boiling and festering clouds. The thunder rolled across the valley and echoed against the mountains like the sound of a war drums, reverberating deep into the mines and along stone ridges. The wind howled like a mad man, unrelenting and deadly as it threw about knives of hail and sheets of rain.
The dwarves who struggled for sleep in the Blue Mountains grumbled and cursed the storm from inside their dry caverns and sheltered homes. They wished for the racket to stop and leave their mountain in peace. Only a few warriors stood watch at the windows, their ingrained instincts telling them everything was never as it seemed. Storms such as these rarely brought about good – they often carried foreboding feelings and darkened the shadows for evil purposes.
The moon had long since disappeared from all sight. To the dwarves' knowledge it even failed to rise that day when the sun went to bed. With no natural light and all lanterns, torches, and braziers drowned in the rain, nothing could be seen unless the lighting provided brief and washed out illumination.
Two hardened guards, who happened to draw the short stick that night, huddled against the onslaught of nature. Their armor rang with the ping, ping, ping, of hail bits and their beards hung in sad soggy messes off their chins with rivets of water slipping under their leather collars, soaking them back to front. They wished for nothing better than to be out of their wet boots and under a stone roof next to a warm fire, forgetting about their troubles.
"We could have drawn a better stick, don't ye thing?" the first guard asked his companion, brushing the hail away from the crook of his elbow with a gloved hand. The ice pellets already blanket the floor and made it hard to see.
"Nothing better than standing while drowning," he replied and both guards laughed at their misery before falling into silence again.
At the end of the valley, a single struggling lantern sputtered in the rain. It was not visible by the guard's eyes, but they would eventually see it. It zigzagged back and forth in the air before being relayed by another station and another until it was close enough for them to determine what it was.
"By my beard!" exclaimed the first guard. "Who would be daft enough to travel in this storm?"
His companion peaked over the wall, wiping the water from his eyes. He made out the message and another guard on the wall replied with his own lantern. "It must be urgent, or they wouldn't let them past the tower."
"It's travelers, riding up fast. Look! You can see them on the main road," the guard with the lantern shouted, pointing in the dark.
A bolt of lightning cracked the sky again and two figures were spotted. They sloshed through the mud and clattered up the paved road, stumbling in the rain. Even from this distance it was clear they were pushing beyond exhaustion.
"Open the gates!" shouted a guard in Khuzdul. "Riders of pressing news!"
The drowsy gatekeepers jumped to their feet, moving to action on the slippery walkways. Their shouting was barely heard over another clap of thunder and the pounding of hail. The heavy doors of the gate creaked open, allowing a freezing gust of wind to tear through the hall and sputter the torches.
The front rider looked up on his steed, his eyes were blinded by the storm but he could see his destination. Even though the braziers had long since frizzled out along the front gate, the warm golden light from the torches under the alcove greeted them with open arms. He sighed deeply, spurring his ram to go faster and fighting the gripping hold of fatigue on his mind with renewed strength.
The guards at the gate were caught by surprise when two barreling rams charged through, as if a Balrog was on their very tails. Threads of water and hail pits the size of pebbles sprayed everywhere before the storm was trapped behind the closed iron and oak gate. The rams, unlike any rams seen in Ered Luin with their great curling rack of horns and stocky bodies, turned around and slowed to a stop. They dropped their heads and steadied themselves, steam wafting from their backs and moisture shoot from their noses with each heave of their flanks. Their riders slumped in the saddles and wiped the mud from their faces trying to adjust to the change of lighting and calm their racing hearts.
Dwarves stepped forward with shields and lances at the ready in a cautious stance. The travelers were younger than they expected them to be. Their faces were beaten up and worn thin, a characteristic of one who had been traveling for weeks and facing hardships. Their oiled cloaks only kept so much of the water away and they were soaked to the bone and water spilt out of their boots. The most peculiar thing about them was on their cloaks boar heads were embroidered into the fabric, a sign common to the far away Dwarf Kingdom of the Iron Hills.
Dwalin tromped down the stairs with the guard's captain, his eyes sharp and curious, while the captain looked perplexed at the whole scene. Neither knew who was coming in until minutes ago. They would never have guessed the riders to be just of Age or wearing a commonly seen crest of the Iron Hills. Visitors from their distant brothers had never made the trip this far in a long, long time, regardless of the kinship shared between them.
The taller dwarf struggled to dismount his spent ram. The hours of traveling in the rain and having a saddle rub and bounce on his legs was finally taking its toll. He had never ridden this hard and miserable in his entire life. He planted his feet and turned to the captain, fighting his fatigue.
"State your name and business Master Dwarf. What brings you to the Blue Mountains at an hour such as this?" asked the captain, sizing the lad up.
He threw back his hood to reveal a handsome face with short cut hair and a matted beard. He was a few years short of ninety but by the array of scars and his sharp eyes they knew he was experienced and a good fighter. "I am Omul, son of Osk," he greeted breathlessly. "And I have traveled here with my sister Rhul. We bring urgent news that Thorin Oakenshield will want to hear. We were told he lived in these lands and we have traveled long and hard to make it as quickly as possible."
"What sort of urgent news?" asked Dwalin, instantly on alert. They had to be crazy to ride this hard in any tempest, and usually any news delivered at this hour tended to not lie on the favorable side.
Omul fished in his bag and pulled out a bundle of oiled skin wrapped with a leather cord. "This," he unfolded it to reveal an old, torn piece of fabric. It once was a royal red with beautiful embroidery of golden thread along the edges. Now it was faded and tattered, but still well kept. Under it was a letter written by his father, directed to Thorin. "My father went with Thrain to reclaim the Mountain before he disappeared. He recognized the stitching better than anyone else in Dunland. He knows it to be Thrain's garment."
The warrior took the cloth from the lad and he lifted it carefully as if it were to disintegrate in his fingers. Dwalin's eyes became clouded with memory when he traced the recognizable patterns, thinking how his king, Thorin, would react to such news.
"That's impossible, there's been no word of Thrain for decades," the captain said with disbelief in his rough voice. "How do we know you're not lying?"
The guards around them grumbled in agreement as they stood in a crowded group close to them. Rhul's ram backed up slowly and she pulled on the reins, trying to keep her eyes focused on the events going on around her.
"It is our word to never lie to Durin's Folk," said Omul, looking mightily frustrated. "We would not come crashing in if we did not believe what to be true. I will explain what happened, but first let us rest. Know this Thrain has been spotted in the wilds of Dunland. Rumor is he still lives and I bring you proof to such a rumor."
The dwarves had no association with the young travelers but they could hear the conviction in Omul's voice, even with his grogginess. The lad was sure of it, and there was to be more to their tale, but he was spent and could not tell them more. They exchanged varying glances with each other, questioning if it were true and what it would mean for their settlement and legendary leader.
There was a pause of silence and another roll of thunder, and then suddenly Rhul teetered sharply in the saddle and flopped to the floor, one foot caught in the stirrup of her ram. Her fatigue had finally taken hold. Her steed side step softly, too tired to even react.
A guard ran towards her and he checked her over to make sure she was okay and released her foot from the stirrup. That's when he noticed her soiled bandages up her forearm and the cuts on her face.
"You've faced troubles along your ways?" he asked. Omul nodded tiredly, his mind barely registering what was happening.
The captain looked at the lass with a stunned expression; he had not been expecting that. He cast a look at her brother who looked like he wanted to run over and check her, but his feet were too heavy to even move. The captain's mind was boiling with questions and he saw the same look on Dwalin's face.
"Dwalin, I know you want more answers tonight," the captain said softly to the older dwarf. "But we must let them rest. We will get no more answers tonight."
"Give them a place to rest tonight," said Dwalin sounding softer than his usual manner. He pocketed the fabric carefully after re-wrapping it in the oiled skin. "I will inform Thorin. He will want to hear the rest of their story in the morning."
Omul watched as the big warrior lumbered off deeper into the mountain. The guards retook their posts and rumor quickly began to speculate about the Ironfoots when they left, the rest of their watch would not be as boring anymore. A few dwarves helped the siblings to their rooms and led their animals to the stables, telling them they would be able to retrieve their bags in the morning.
One dwarf carried Rhul to the Healing House to have her checked over and her arm redressed. She was quickly checked in and given a set of dry clothes and left to rest.
Another dwarf led Omul to a room not far from the Healing House. He was only a few years older than Omul and he reassured him that he would be able to see his sister as soon as possible, but now he needed to rest. A dwarrowdam appeared and handed off a pair of dry clothes with a draught to help him sleep. The guard passed them to Omul wishing him a speedy recovery.
"You'll be the talk of the Mountain before you know it," the guard quietly said before closing the door.
Omul heard the comment and he nodded absentmindedly, knowing to be true. He automatically redressed in his new clothes, leaving the old ones in a pile on the floor. He flopped into bed with a low groan and sleep swiftly over took him without another thought.
That night as the storm finally broke in the wee hours of the morning, something began to change. It was a subtle tweak in time, unnoticeable by any who would look back on it. The arrival of Omul and Rhul on that night set into motion many events that would change the course of history. They were another thread added, not yet weaved in and tied with the lives of the Dwarves, but history had yet to be set in motion. The picture was not yet completed.
[Updated 3/21/14] Here is the "hook" chapter of the story and all events in the first few chapters take place before the Quest for Erebor beings. It gives time for me to flesh out my characters and the originals to interact with the OCs in the first few core chapters. In this fic it is my goal to focus on what is important for the time line and not get side-tracked with every little detail because I have 3 movies and beyond to cover. Read on reader! And leave comments always, when you can.