A.N.: I've seen The Hobbit twice, once in 3D, and have decided I am in lust with Kili and Fili. Anyway, I was looking through the casting, and realised the actor who plays Balin was also Marius in King Arthur, and that got me thinking about the seven-against-two-hundred battle on the ice and that gave me ideas.

I would also like to note, in the book it is Fíli who is the younger (while in the LOTR Appendices it cites Kíli's birth-date as five years after that of Fíli. So I guess PJ went for the Appendices version of the ages.

I was going to make this a Kíli/OC fic but now I'm rethinking things after reading an essay on Heirs of Durin. Thanks to my imagination and my character's influence on the company, there will be plot deviations from both novel/movie to, not just return the dwarves to Erebor, but make the heirs ready for kingship.

For my character's costumes, I was inspired by Kíli and Fíli's costumes, Scottish clans' distinctive tartans, the armour of the knights in King Arthur (particularly Tristram), Queen Sibylla's turbans in Kingdom of Heaven and Sophia Myles in that funky Viking-alien movie, and Fantine's blue hood in the Les Misérables trailer. I might put together a Pinterest board for this story…

Next chapter I'll put my playlist into the A.N.; lots of soundtracks inspired this story while I was driving home from my grandmother's yesterday.

Nobility is Not a Birth-Right

01

The cosy little hole in the ground featured a merry party, raucous laughter and the riotous conversation of dwarves with full stomachs, full tankards and surrounded by friends and their closest relatives. Twelve they numbered, not including the wide-eyed little Hobbit who owned the polished warren under-hill, and the tall, wizened figure in shabby grey wool, his great hat removed on a peg in the hall.

In the growing dark of the April evening, the candlelight cast flickering shadows against the walls, shadows of bushy beards and long noses distorted by the smoke of half a dozen pipes fashioned in various materials, short, stubby clay pipes, long, carved wood pipes polished beautifully; tobacco pots littered the dining-table with the stubs of candles, the remnants of a heavy meal (for a hobbit, at least; for twelve dwarves it was but a light supper after a long journey) and glasses of every design filled with mead, wine, port and such as could be found in the hobbit's wine-cellar.

Talk turned to the specifics of the dwarves' quest, mainly their unease over their number. Thirteen. Twelve dwarves and the unwilling Mr Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End; Gandalf of course could not be officially counted amongst the party as he kept his own schedule, and disappeared long before he was missed, reappearing only when the situation seemed most dire. Thirteen was a troublesome number; in the general argument over Gandalf's suggestion of recruiting a burglar, it had been agreed none of the company present would venture forth to slay the fire-worm Smaug unless the situation of the unlucky-number was resolved.

A fourteenth member needed to be found before any business of the dragon-horde within Erebor could be discussed, and in any case, they were short one dwarf, the Most Important of their company, in fact.

Gandalf sighed deeply and heavily, his beard wagging and sending wiry shadows across the wall; the smoke-rings he had been blowing while the dwarves sang now created a haze at the top of the tunnel-like chamber, eerily shadowing his wizened face, and as the dwarves descended into silence for a moment to lose themselves in their tankards, a knock sounded on Mr Bilbo's beautifully painted front-door. It wasn't an impatient rat-tat-tat with someone's knuckles, nor was it the tap-tap from Gandalf's staff leaving dents in the freshly-painted wood; it a soft but purposeful knock-knock.

The dwarves expected only one more of their brethren at this meeting; stealth had been decided as the best course of action for their purposes, encouraged by Gandalf, but he was journeying from the North, and Mr Baggins had made no note of an evening engagement—indeed, it was far too late for any respectable hobbit to be announcing themselves as guests in their neighbours' homes. Who then was it?

Eyes shining in the dark, Mr Baggins got up stiffly from the little stool on which he had been perched by the fire, nibbling a biscuit (his appetite quite gone after the assault on his larders and his wine-cellar by these dwarves who had invited themselves in) and, shaking like a leaf, stumbled to his front-door. Wondering who now he would find on his doorstep—another dwarf? another wizard? (were there other wizards, he thought) or a neighbour complaining about the noise the raucous dwarves had no doubt been making while they feasted on his prized heritage tomatoes and the cured gammon he had bought from the butcher's not two days ago.

Half terrified to do so, Mr Baggins opened his front-door for the final time that evening; a figure, exceedingly tall to him but little more than a head taller than Dwalin, the largest and most intimidating of the dwarves in his dining-room, stood just outside the lamplight splashing over his garden-path. In the darkening dusk, Mr Baggins trembled at the figure, tall and clad in dark, weathered cloth that had seen time and hardship. In the dark he could see only that the figure had a pale face, and the lamplight reflected off something silvery clasped at their shoulder.

"Good evening," he squeaked, and the figure stepped forward.

It was a woman. No woman as Bilbo had ever seen, used as he was to merry hobbit-girls with their beribboned curls and colourful frocks, but she was indeed female; though sombre and pale, her features were nevertheless lovely, and probably would have been more so in a silken dress; but her hair was bound beneath a turban of twisted cloth wrapped around her head, and the slender column of a graceful white throat was thrown into relief against the velvety darkness of the evening sky and the ragged, dusty clothing she wore. Long dark tunics were layered over a quilted skirt and under-dress to just above her ankles; had she given a full inventory of her dress, long-johns and small drawers were worn beneath the skirt and long, embroidered tunics, over which she wore a long belted jacket. Across her front several embellished straps bound leather bundles, a bed-roll and scabbards for more weaponry to her back.

In the oiled leather pack she carried a bow, a full quiver of arrows, no fewer than three long knives, and a great sword, forged by the High Elves in a lost age of the world. Gauntlets over her forearms glinted in the soft amber light of his porch-light, one concealing another blade, the one strapped to her left arm embellished on the inner-forearm with a strip of scarred leather; her fore- and middle-finger on her right hand were half-covered with fraying leather, protecting her fingertips and her palm from a bow's string. Bilbo caught glimpses of detail in her clothing, the intricate geometric embroidery on the hems of her tunics, the hints of glossy honey-coloured fur shining beneath a weathered cloak, the rich woven detail on the hem of an underskirt, the glint of maille rings beneath her jacket, the neckline of a delicately-hemmed white under-dress.

Mr Baggins could do naught but stare. At the end of his tether after the excitement and unexpectedness of his interrupted suppertime, the woman's appearance in the light of his hall-lamps, slender-throated, pale-skinned, solemn but beautiful despite her ragged clothing and strangely-bound head, left him in awe.

"Good evening," she said quietly, and there was a surprising gentleness to her voice, rich and warm, despite her rather ragged physical appearance. She looked to Bilbo as if she had just staggered from a battlefield, and to tell the truth his guess was not far off.

"At you and your family's," Mr Baggins spluttered, flushing hotly. The woman quirked one slender dark eyebrow, and Bilbo jumped as someone giant approached from his parlour; Gandalf.

"Ah, and here you are at last," he said warmly, smiling at the woman, who, to Bilbo's surprise, gestured to Mr Gandalf in the Elvish fashion, with some very pretty words in the Elvish tongue, of which Bilbo caught nothing but 'Mithrandir', which sounded to him like a name.

"Ilá, welcome to the home of the esteemed Master Baggins," Gandalf said, smiling warmly at the solemn woman.

As she stepped over the threshold, the tip of her bow and the hilt of her sword scraping subtly against the curved ceiling of Bilbo's hall, she inclined her head politely; and the lamplight threw into effect her full appearance, making him gasp and jump back. Incredibly fine, fair eyes glowed like lit coals in the warm amber of his hall, but a shining pink scar on the left side of her face, jagging from temple to throat, gave her otherwise entrancing features a dangerous, devilish look.

"Master Baggins, may I introduce Ilá, shield-maiden of the Dúnedain," Gandalf said warmly, gazing upon the woman as she unbuckled the pack across her back and set her bow, sword and, Bilbo counted with weakening knees, no fewer than four smaller knives (which, to him, resembled broad-swords in size) and, indeed, a shield, battered and war-scarred, small and round, worked with the motif of a many-pointed star in shining silver, something Bilbo had the presence of mind to think was rather too decorative for a shield that had obviously seen battle if the dents and scars were anything to judge by, yet it was the silver star that bore not a scratch to its surface. The star on the shield echoed the design of the brooch pinning her cloak in place at her shoulder.

Bilbo was left to stagger and close his front-door as Mr Gandalf and the tall lady meandered off—she was twice the height of Mr Baggins, and was indeed a lady, for though he was used to the merry women of The Shire with their ringlets and furry feet, Bilbo immediately saw there was an attitude in her bearing that was not quite befitting her inferior clothing. Though not tall compared to men, she was undoubtedly to Bilbo a striking figure, with long legs, a very slender waist bound in embellished leather, long, elegant fingers and her back straight, shoulders thrown back proudly, her head held high, the column of her white throat incredibly elegant.

He heard the soft, rich feminine voice issuing from the kitchen, and stifling a whimper at the thought of his cellars now being emptied after the pillaging of his larders, Bilbo scuttled to the kitchen, finding Mr Gandalf aiding the woman in scrambling several eggs with a bit of cheese, some tomatoes and some of the most beautiful mushrooms, fresh from a little burlap bag, with a little bit of bacon and a sausage. Half-hiding in the threshold of his own kitchen, Bilbo gazed at the woman; she was again speaking to Mr Gandalf in the tongue of the Elves.

How could a ragged woman with a wicked scar and a battered shield know the language of the Elves? He listened, lulled by the beautiful warmth of the language, and the smell of the fried bacon and mushrooms; a small plate was pressed into his hands, a full fry-up, while a little teacup was offered between the slender, bruised fingers of the strange, scarred woman as she and Mr Gandalf navigated the doorway out of the kitchen. Bilbo gazed down at the plate and steaming cup of tea, his knees feeling a little weak, and he scuttled, a little dazed, after the wizard and his awe-inspiring guest. He perched in the corner of his own dining-room, quiet as a mouse, nibbling on the supper the shield-maiden had given him a portion of, watching the dwarves react to the presence of a lady in their company.

Bilbo noticed she sat close to Bofur, with the scarred side of her face to the hallway, none of the dwarves able to see the damage that had him engrossed; the scar was such that Bilbo couldn't stop staring at it, a sickening and enthralling sight. The injury she had sustained must have been a grievous one to leave such a scar, and he noticed her wince and place a hand carefully to her right thigh once, before returning to her supper.

Dwarves among ladies, Bilbo discovered, were very much as they were amongst themselves; perhaps they did not notice her, or perhaps they were thrown off by the bound hair, the ragged dress; either way the dwarves still laughed raucously and talked lewdly amongst themselves, despite the coolness Bilbo found disarming, which seemed to emanate from the lady, watching the dwarves all but ignore her as she delicately ate from her little plate with fingers and knife. Perhaps they did not regard her as a lady; that the raiment and toughened nature of her appearance gave the false impression that she was a warrior like them. Perhaps she was; in any case, she blended better with the battle-hardened, tattooed, hairy, furred, axe-wielding dwarves than Bilbo ever could!

Perhaps because she sat on the very edge of the dining-room and did so in dark clothing, blending with the shadow of the corners of the room, they didn't notice her. But Bilbo did, and he couldn't stop gazing at her from his perch behind Gandalf, as she spoke quietly with him, in the Common Tongue, about a war in Rohan and a king named Théngol, while the dwarves laughed raucously and joked lewdly, teasing the two youngest-looking of their company, the redhead Ori and the dark, handsome Kíli who was perhaps as rowdy as the two brothers, Balin and Dwalin, who had not seen each other for an age and enjoyed catching up over the head of Óin with his ear-horn and Glóin with his enormous beard and even longer russet hair.

The lady did not seem uncomfortable among the presence solely of men; in fact it seemed only Bilbo was unnerved by the raucous gathering in his dining-room, put off by the atrocious table-manners of his unwanted guests as they had a belching contest—won indisputably by the youngest, Ori, who belched with proud gusto, frowned at by silver-haired Dori, who would have upbraided the younger of his two brothers had they not been in company. Raucous laughter of the, to Bilbo, impromptu congregation echoed in the polished halls of Mr Baggins' cosy little hole, and as several of the dwarves left their seats to refill plates, put frying-pans on the stove, raid the kitchen-cupboards for sweet morsels and wash up earthenware mugs and Bilbo's delicate port-glasses, his nerves were stretched to their limits, the odd-haired Nori using one of his mother's hand-crocheted doilies as a dishrag to clean beetroot juice—beetroot juice! On his mother's crochet!—from a hand-glazed bowl.

"Excuse me! That is a doily, not a dishcloth!"

"But it's full of holes!" Bofur remarked bemusedly, frowning at Bilbo as he whirled like a dervish around the kitchen with its warm stove, tiled ceiling and dried herbs.

"It's supposed to look like that," Bilbo replied flatly; "It's crochet."

"Oh, and a wonderful game it is, too," Bofur smirked playfully, "if you've got the balls for it!"

"Bebother and confusticate these dwarves!" Bilbo swore, about to start knocking his head against the wall as Bofur and several of the other dwarves—Bilbo only knew Bofur's name due to his pleasant voice and smiling personality; the brothers Fíli and Kíli in their finer, embroidered clothing; and young Ori, who had arrived bearing no weapon but a slingshot, taking Bilbo momentarily back to the days of his youth as a lad exploring the rolling hills for fairies, trailing twigs and fireflies back to his mother's supper-table in the twilight.

"My dear Bilbo, what on earth is the matter?" asked someone, and a long swathe of grey wool moved toward Bilbo from the corner of his eye; as Gandalf stooped further into the kitchen, overseeing Nori's return of Bilbo's silver serving-spoons—part of a cutlery set gifted as a wedding-present from Old Took to his daughter Belladonna on her marriage to Bungo Baggins—to their proper place in the polished, velvet-lined wooden box with the dainty golden clasp, and Bilbo staggered after the wizard in disbelief.

"What's the matter?" he gasped. "I am surrounded by dwarves. What are they doing here?" he added on a frustrated whisper, as Nori and Bofur started a tussle over a length of sausages Bilbo had had delivered from the butcher yesterday morning.

"Oh, they're quite a merry gathering," Gandalf said warmly, "once you get used to them."

"I—don't—want—to—get—used—to—them!" Bilbo hissed, leading Gandalf by his robe to the doorway. "Look at the state of my kitchen! There's mud trod into my carpet, they—they—they've pillaged the pantry—I'm not even going to tell you what they've done in the bathroom, they've all but destroyed the plumbing! I don't understand what they're doing in my house!"

"Excuse me," said a quiet, uncertain voice, and Bilbo, hands on hips and fuming, frustrated beyond belief and facing the daunting prospect of refilling his pantry—having enjoyed none of his recent spoils from the market—half-jumped as young Ori shuffled into view shyly holding a sullied dinner-plate. "Sorry to interrupt…but what should I do with my plate?"

"Here you go, Ori, give it to me," said a warm, pleasant voice, but Bilbo's mouth dropped in complete horror as the straight-shouldered Fíli, recognisable as the only blonde dwarf amongst the large gathering, taller than Bilbo by a head and twice as wide in his fur-trimmed coat, took hold of the plate as if it were a bit of tat and tossed it down the corridor—Gandalf dodging out of the way as quickly as his size in the squat little hobbit-hole allowed him to—to his brother, grinning, playful young Kíli, who then reminded Bilbo so much of the hooligan young hobbit-boys who frequently found amusement in pelting unwary passersby with conkers that he wished to give the dwarf a sharp clip round the ear.

Another plate followed the first—then another; the dwarves seemed united in their attempt to drive Bilbo to an early grave, or at the very least a nervous breakdown over the smashing of his mother's finest china. "Excuse me! That's my mother's West Farthing pottery; it's over a hundred years old!"

Grinning, Fíli bounced two bowls off his shoulders before flinging them toward his brother, who tossed them to someone unseen in Bilbo's kitchen—where, only two hours ago, Bilbo had been about to sit down to his solitary fish supper—and the dwarves nestled around the dinner-table started to stamp their heavily-booted feet, the ring of cutlery scraping against itself cutting to Bilbo's marrow as the dwarves chuckled and watched Fíli catch each plate with a different flourish.

The shield-maiden remained resolutely out of the way, with, Bilbo noticed, a tiny smile illuminating her velvety-dark eyes despite a twinge that shivered across her face when she listed to the side on the chair she had moved just inside the pantry. Young Ori watched Fíli and Kíli's display of dinnerware acrobatics with the delighted innocence of a child, but the stamping, the ring of the cutlery, finest West Farthing china flying through the air, the mud caked into his hand-woven rug, the prospect of having to clean the bathroom, the empty nature of his pantry (unheard of) it was all too much; on top of an almost-empty stomach, Bilbo reached the end of his tether.

"C-can you not do that! You'll blunt them!" he snapped angrily at the four dwarves stamping their feet and ringing the knives, pounding the forks upon the polished table.

"Ooh, d'you hear that, lads? He says we'll blunt the knives!" cooed Bofur with delighted indifference.

"Blunt the knives, bend the forks—" sang Kíli in a deep voice, his broad, handsome face illuminated with delight as his brother tossed him another plate;

"Smash the bottles and burn the corks—" Fíli grinned, bouncing a plate off his elbows and sending it toward his brother; Bilbo tried to dive for it but—too late, another plate and a bowl made their way into the kitchen via Kíli.

"Chip the glasses and crack the plates…!" the other dwarves joined in joyously. "That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!"

"Cut the cloth and tread on the fat,

Leave the bones on the bedroom-mat!

Pour the milk on the pantry-floor,

Splash the wine on every door!

Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl,

And when you've finished, if any are whole,

Send them down the hall to roll!

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!"

As Bilbo pushed his way past Fíli, Ori and Nori, frustrated to tears, hungry and irritable, wishing he had never good-morninged Gandalf, let alone opened his door to Dwalin, his eyes fell upon the kitchen-table, whereupon numerous columns of freshly-washed crockery—seemingly every piece of fine china and glazed earthenware Bilbo owned—were precariously piled. His expression seemed to amuse the dwarves to no end as they laughed raucously, drinking his fine Green Dragon ale out of his newly-polished tankards. Each of the dwarves, laughing at him, was chuckling something he could not hear, each voice overriding the others, even Gandalf, smiling around his pipe, was chuckling something incoherent.

The only thing that cut through the noise was a loud knocking on Bilbo's front-door. It wasn't the gentle but purposeful knock of the shield-maiden, who smiled in on the rowdy kitchen congregation from the doorway into the hall; it had sounded as if someone had used a battering-ram to break down Bilbo's beautiful freshly-painted green door.

Silence fell like a thick fog, all eyes darting quickly to each other, features growing solemn, darkening, a shared breath held in anticipation.

Quietly, Gandalf said simply, "He is here."

A.N.: Please review! I've had this idea in my head since the trailer for The Hobbit came out over a year ago, and now that I've seen it three times in the cinema, the dwarves are all clamouring (as only dwarves can) for me to write the story! Also, I think I want the dwarves' and Bilbo's journey to start in late-August, because I love autumn—the food, the clothes, hot spiced apple-juice, conkers, snuggling, the turning leaves…