"I'm sorry, I can't sign this."
Bilbo's words are met with silence. Trying to remain staunch under the partly disapproving, partly disappointed faces of the dwarves, he places the unsigned contract on the table and leaves the room.
He is just stepping into his bedroom when the bell rings.
Bilbo stops in his tracks, then, completely resigned to his fate by now, slowly turns around and walks back up the hallway.
Passing the doorway to the dining room, he sees the dwarves looking round at each other in surprise. Not another dwarf, then, he thinks as he pulls open the door for the sixth time that evening - probably one of the neighbours complaining about all the noise.
But it is not a hobbit, either. A young woman stands before him, and Bilbo involuntarily steps backwards, even though she is already hanging back slightly from the doorstep. She seems very tall to him, and her body is lean and clad in drab clothes that look like they have seen better days. Her long dark hair is tied back, a few strands hanging about her pale and angular face.
The stranger says nothing, simply studies him with two pale green eyes. Bilbo clears his throat and somewhat nervously states, "Bilbo Baggins… at your service."
She nods as if in recognition, and then inquires, "Thorin… Oakenshield?" Her voice is low and slightly raspy, the voice of a person who rarely speaks.
"Yes," replies Bilbo, "He's here. Would you like to see him?"
The stranger nods again, and Bilbo swings the door open wider against every bit of common sense he has. He has no real reason to be afraid, and yet there is something about this person that makes her emanate an air of danger; some sort of negative aura.
He shakes the thought from his mind and leads her into the dining room after tightly closing the door.
Everyone bears the same look of surprise as they enter - except Gandalf, that is, who is sitting in the corner, shrouded in smoke from his pipe and looking quite content.
Of course, Bilbo thinks. It's his doing, sending this stranger. Perhaps she is to replace me. An unpleasant feeling pervades him at that thought, and he has to remind himself that he really doesn't want to go on this adventure.
"Lys," says Gandalf warmly, standing up and walking over to her. He places a hand on her shoulder. "I'm glad you arrived safely."
Bilbo notices her whole body tense up at his touch. "Who are you?"
"I am Gandalf," the wizard replies. "I have been… watching you for some time, and I decided that it was high time to bring you home."
"Home," whispers Lys, then, slightly louder, "But I've never been here."
"Ah, but you belong here," says Gandalf gravely. He turns towards the mystified dwarves. "This is Lys Kent."
Lys surveys them warily as they, in turn, stand up and introduce themselves in the conventional manner. After all the bowing and at-your-service-ing is over, Gandalf addresses Thorin. "Perhaps you had better tell her about the quest."
Thorin furrows his brow. "Gandalf, you can't mean…"
"And why not?" interrupts Gandalf. "I believe you may find her to be very useful."
Thorin studies the newcomer with critical interest. She definitely seems more suited to an adventure than Bilbo, however, he feels some sort of instinctive distrust towards her. She is not in any way menacing, and yet some sort of violence radiates from her. And the conversation between her and Gandalf was definitely very strange. Where exactly is she from? And who is she?
"What quest?" the young woman asks, fixing her eerie pale gaze on him.
Thorin inhales deeply. "Sit down," he says, gesturing towards an empty chair. She settles onto it, drawing up her knees and wrapping her wiry arms around them, and listens attentively as, for the second time that evening, Thorin recounts the tale of Erebor and its destruction.
Lys remains silent for a few moments when he is done, then says, "So you're dwarves."
"Yes," replies Thorin with a touch of indignation.
"But there's humans here too?" inquires Lys, eyes flashing towards Gandalf, who has resumed smoking in the corner.
"Yes," repeats Thorin, "There are many speaking races in Middle-earth."
"And you've got dragons, too."
"Unfortunately," Thorin agrees grimly.
Lys considers this. If she is amazed at all by the existence of dwarves and dragons, she does not show it.
"So, do you want me along on your… quest?"
"That depends," replies Thorin slowly. "What skills do you have?"
"I fight," replies Lys.
There is a quiet vehemence in these simple words that fills the whole room with a sense of power.
Thorin wonders at the strange wording of the statement: not "I can fight" but "I fight" - as if it is a way of life rather than an ability.
"Do you have your weapon with you?" he asks, mentally going through the members of his company who might be able to spare a sword or a knife.
To his surprise, Lys nods. "I always do." She holds up her fists.
A ripple of soft laughter runs through the group of dwarves, expressing… amusement? Astonishment? Contempt?
"Lassie," chuckles Dwalin, "You'll not be able to beat an orc with those."
Lys turns towards him. "An orc?"
Dwalin gives a painfully accurate description of said creature, aided by comments and interjections from the others.
"They carry spears, bows, and swords - often curved scimitars," he finishes. "Pray tell me how you would fight one of them weaponless." He looks at her challengingly, arms crossed.
"I'd start by not picking a fight with it," replies Lys impassively.
"Orcs do not need much encouragement to fight," intervenes Thorin darkly. "They love to kill."
"Then my second instinct would be to run."
Dwalin exchanges a brief glance with Thorin. I thought she was a fighter.
"Say you were cornered."
"Well," says Lys, "I suppose they wouldn't be shooting arrows from a short distance, so it would be pretty easy to duck under whatever weapon they used, and then you'd have the whole back exposed to you. I would probably go for the neck with a knife-hand strike, knock him out instantly, or you could move in and catch the arm, and then the possibilities are endless. Simplest would be to go straight for the face. Elbow, palm, fist, whatever you like. Or you could take him down and go from there. Or, if you want to be posh, you could do an arm lock and either break the arm or just lead him around like a dog on a leash."
The dwarves stare at her. She has said the whole thing very matter-of-factly, making small gestures as she imagines the scenario. Now she looks around at them, as expressionless as ever.
Dwalin still has his arms crossed and bears a look of extreme skepticism. Thorin is regarding her with renewed interest, albeit also somewhat skeptical.
"I don't understand," says Bofur.
Kíli jumps up, drawing his sword. "Show us!"
Lys unfolds from the chair and rises to her feet as he advances towards her.
The dwarves stir uneasily. "Kíli, leave the sheath on," says Thorin.
"Yes, I don't want any bloodstains on my carpet, thank you very much," adds Bilbo from the doorway where he has been standing, unnoticed.
"No," says Lys. She looks towards Bilbo. "There will be no bloodstains." She gestures for Kíli to attack her.
The dwarves stand up and grasp their weapons apprehensively.
Kíli glances at Thorin for approval, then steps forward and swings at Lys's midsection.
His sword cuts through empty air as she drops down, performs a roll and comes up behind him, all within a second. She strikes his neck with the side of her hand and he lurches to the side, stunned.
Fíli, who has followed his brother. has decided to attack her as well and is already swinging his sword towards her neck when she spins around, ducks under the strike, and advances diagonally so as to place both hands on his arm. Without much apparent effort from Lys, Fíli gives a slight gasp and collapses at the waist, his sword clattering to the ground. Lys pushes slightly harder, turning, and he staggers around her in a half-circle, knees bent and back hunched over, evidently in pain.
A number of angry dwarves spring forward to pull her away. She does not resist, however, and once Thorin notices that Fíli has straightened up and is grinning, albeit rubbing his arm, he relaxes his tight grip on Lys's shoulder.
"So you can fight," he says.
They look at each other for a moment, the tension almost tangible between the two figures that each radiate their own type of power, then Thorin turns and retrieves the abandoned contract. He hands it to Lys, telling her to read it.
She raises her eyebrows as the parchment unrolls to its full length in her hands, then, sucking in her cheeks and squinting slightly in the dim light, begins to read. After a few minutes of restless silence, she looks up.
"I only made it through a few lines. Could you just tell me what it says?"
Faintly amused, Thorin summarizes the contract for her. She does not react to the mention of probable death, however, seems startled when he states that she will receive a share of the treasure.
"I don't need any treasure."
Thorin shrugs, ignoring the surprised murmurs from all around. "Of course you don't have to. But that can be decided later. Will you sign it?"
Once again the room falls silent.
"Yes," says Lys.
Thorin produces a quill pen. She somewhat awkwardly takes it - with her left hand, he notices - and scrawls a hasty signature on the rough parchment before returning contract and pen to him.
There is a moment of silence, then Thorin says, "Well, I suppose we'd all better get some sleep."
As the dwarves disperse throughout the hobbit-hole in search of places to sleep, Lys approaches Gandalf.
He stands up and faces her, taking his pipe out of his mouth.
"I suppose you have a few questions."
She nods. "You said you were… watching me." Her eyes narrow. "I don't understand."
"Well," begins Gandalf, "One of the responsibilities of the Istari is to keep an eye one those inhabitants of Middle-earth who have been… misplaced, so to speak."
"Istari?" she asks when he pauses.
"The conventional term would be wizards," he explains. "There are five of us."
"All right," she says. "So I've been misplaced?"
He nods. "Born into the wrong universe. Usually we do not intervene unless it is absolutely necessary, because the transfer of matter from one universe to another can create some complications. In your case, however, it was… necessary."
Her eyes wander to the side, a slightly perturbed look on her face, and then she changes the subject.
"What is Bilbo? Is he a dwarf too?"
Gandalf smiles. "No, he is a hobbit. A strange folk they are, and perhaps I have overestimated them."
"He's not coming. But he was supposed to," deduces Lys, looking at Gandalf once more.
He nods. "He had just refused to sign the contract before you came. Very good timing, actually. Although I had hoped for you to be the fifteenth and not the fourteenth member."
"He wants to, doesn't he?" asks Lys. "I saw him, standing at the doorway the whole time, listening. He left when I signed it. He looked… sad."
Gandalf sighs. "Well, perhaps Mr. Baggins will change his mind. Do you think you can sleep?"
Lys shrugs, her expression one of resignation to many sleepless nights. "I'll try."
They wish each other goodnight and, like the others, go in search of an unoccupied bed or chair in which to spend the night.