A/N: Hello, and welcome to Tempest, an incredibly long tale that focuses on the developing relationship between Fili of the House of Durin and an original character. Please note that this is, technically, an AU, as I've introduced my own character and will alter parts of the story accordingly, and that it is based on both film and book lore. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own nothing related to The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, or any of Tolkien's other works. This is a nonprofit work.

"About time for anyone telling you off for all your deeds.
No sign the roaring thunder stopped in cold to read.
Get mine and make no excuses, waste of precious breath.
The sun shines on everyone; everyone love yourself to death."
— "I'm So Sorry," Imagine Dragons

"Absolutely not."

Slender arms cross over a lithe torso while one coltish leg comes to rest atop the other. When her companion continues to puff on his pipe as though she has not spoken, Elias, known to precious few as Emlygien, narrows her eyes, squares her shoulders, and prepares to leave, though her supper is only half-eaten. She had come to the bustling town of Bree to seek what work could be found in the surrounding towns of Staddle, Combe, and Archet, as the harvest is drawing near, and had found lodgings in the Prancing Pony. They were affordable, though coin was tight, and most of her daily earnings went to paying the owners for food and board. The innkeeper, noticing the uncharacteristic slouch to her shoulders when she returned from a particularly rough day, offered her a meal, free of charge, and she had only just begun to sample the stew when a man dressed in gray robes with a pointed hat on his head unceremoniously claimed the bench across from her. A confused greeting was halted by his proclamation that she was exactly who he was looking for to fill the fifteenth spot in a company with plans to reclaim the Lonely Mountain.

"You are one of very few to survive an encounter with a drake," the stranger says, "and you have seen the inside of Erebor. Would you allow them to fail?"

"I won't go," she replies firmly.

"May I speak frankly?"

"Could I stop you?" When her companion merely blows an impressive ring of smoke towards the rafters, she sighs. "Yes."

"My name is Gandalf the Grey, and you are Elias, also known as Emlygien, the daughter of dragons. Without you, this quest is sure to fail. You are the first person in over a century to wander the halls of the Kingdom under the Mountain, or to glimpse the Arkenstone. Not only that, but you are an expert hunter, an astounding marksman, and blessed with the keen senses of the fair folk."

"I am not an elf."

"No? Well, perhaps not, but their blood flows through your veins." Her silence is answer enough to his offer. The wizard stands, throwing her a sidelong glance beneath the brim of his hat. "I can see now that you will not be swayed. Very well. However, there will be a delightful gathering in Hobbiton in one week's time. Simply search for the door with the runes for burglar; it should be easy enough to find."

The end of the week finds her standing on the stoop of a well-kept Hobbit hole. True to Gandalf's word, the place was hardly difficult to locate. Hobbiton is lovely at night, with fairy lights strung over fences and around posts, though this particular garden puts the rest of them to shame. It is remarkably well kept, and she wonders if the Hobbit of this particular hole is aware that, upon the otherwise impeccable green of his or her front door, a certain wizard had carved the three runes for burglar, danger, and reward, and how well he or she had taken it, if he or she knows. The sounds of laughter resonate from within, the warm light of a hearth fire and lamps spilling from the windows, and Elias, still not entirely sure why she is here, raises a hand and knocks politely against the painted wood. She can barely make out the distressed words coming closer, so she does her best to look as harmless as possible — a feat in itself, given the quiver and bow at her back and the sword at her hip.

The door is yanked open to reveal a ruffled Hobbit with honey-colored hair and toffee eyes, who lets out a noise not unlike a whimper at the sight of her. Uncertain due to his reaction (a burglar for hire should hardly be surprised to find people on his doorstep at strange hours), she nonetheless bows and says, "Mae g'ovannen. Elias, at your service. I was told to come by Gandalf. Is he inside?"

"Gandalf?" The Hobbit's mouth twitches, and, for moment, she thinks he might scream. "Yes. Yes, he is. Would you, ah . . . Please, come in."

She murmurs her thanks as she steps inside, reaching up as she does to unfasten her cloak and hang it on one of the unoccupied pegs. Beneath it, she sets her sword, quiver, and bow, although she keeps the daggers strapped to her forearms and the knife tucked into her boot. Keenly aware that she lacks the name of her host, she turns to inquire about it, only to find him walking with slouched shoulders towards the back of his home. A quirked brow and she follows, and the source of all the racket becomes painfully obvious when they enter what she assumes to be the dining area. Eleven dwarves are settled around a frankly astonishing amount of food, laughing and jostling one another as plates are passed around and morsels thrown, though most of the latter are directed towards a portly ginger against the back wall. Gandalf is seated closest to her, and, when the dwarves fall silent at her entry, he turns, and a smile crinkles his beard.

"Elias! At last!" he exclaims. "Welcome. I trust that Bilbo has seen to your comfort?"

"Yes," she agrees, if only to spare the poor Hobbit from Gandalf's wrath. "I was not aware that so many would be joining us."

"Ah, yes. Let's see, we have Balin —"

An elderly dwarf with hair of the purest white smiles kindly in her direction. "Good evening, lass."

"— Dwalin —"

Setting down his mug, the dwarf with a tattooed scalp grunts, studying her in a way that is both frightening and mildly insulting.

"— Bifur —"

The harsh Khuzdul that leaves his lips in more than likely meant to be a greeting of some sort, but the battle axe embedded in his skull is a bit distracting, so she merely nods in response.

"— Bofur —"

This time, the dwarf in question stands, bowing at the waist, though he nearly loses his hat in the process. "Good to have you, lassie!"

"— Bombur —"

The ginger barely looks up from the plate in front of him, though he does wave a chicken leg in greeting. Elias stifles a laugh, trying her best to keep her attention focused on Gandalf.

"— Dori —"

"Evening." His hair reminds her of starlight on steel. "Would you like a small glass of wine, or a mug of ale?"

"Ale," she responds, and off he goes to acquire it, pressing it into her hands with a smile as he returns to his seat.

"— Nori —"

A friendly look is thrown her way by the dwarf with hair styled into three points. She wonders how he keeps it that way.

"— Ori —"

From the manner of dress and the book resting at his elbow, he must be a scribe, and he ducks his head bashfully when her curious gaze lands on him.

"— Oin, Gloin —"

The two dwarves nod at her, though the one with coppery hair seems a bit kinder than his brother, who merely scowls.

"— Fili, Kili —"

Easily the youngest of those present, the two named stand on ceremony, bowing with simultaneous shouts of, "At your service!" One of them possesses locks of spun gold, while the other shares her own darkly hued strands, and she knows that golden boy is the elder of the two, as his beard is fuller than his brother's.

"— and, of course, you are already acquainted with myself and Bilbo Baggins."

Elias offers all of those present what she hopes to be a warm grin. "Please forgive me if I confuse your names; I don't believe I've ever heard so many at once!"

Chuckles rise around the table, and, apparently having come to some sort of decision regarding her, the dwarves return to their lively meal. She manages to prepare a small plate of her own and moves to one of the corners. Seeing this, one of the youngest brothers — Fili? Kili? — nudges Bofur, whose name she can remember only because of his hat, and beckons her over. The beads in his moustache click against one another as he turns to study her, and she is suddenly incredibly self-conscious about how she handles her food. Bofur engages her in conversation almost immediately, kindly pointing out which name belongs to which dwarf when she becomes confused and seeing that her ale never runs out. When she brushes stray strands of hair behind her ear, his eyes fixate on the point, and his exclamation draws the attention of everyone seated at the table.

"Hey, now! You're an elf!"

"Not entirely," she replies dryly, keenly aware of the range of reactions she is receiving.

"How do you figure?" It is the dark-haired one, Kili, who asks, but his tone is curious, not hostile.

"I . . ." She pauses. From the head of the table, Gandalf nods encouragingly, and she sighs. "As far as I know, I'm only half. Elven, that is."

"I knew it," Bofur says happily. "You're far too short to be full."

Thus her height becomes the topic of debate, much to her chagrin, one that lasts until supper is finished. Throughout all of it, Fili continues to watch her from the corner of his eye, attempting to connect her with the tales he and his brother were told during their youth. She is hardly greedy, barely eating one small helping of food, and responds easily, if not hesitantly, to any who speak to her. Her hands are calloused from what he knows to be hard labor, the various nicks testifying to her use of tools and weapons, and she makes a genuine effort to keep up with Bofur's often long-winded tales, nodding in the correct places and expressing incredulity at some of his more exaggerated exploits. There is something else that bothers him, something beneath the surface that he cannot explain nor describe, something to do with her hair. It is a dark and glossy as a raven's feathers, and looks as though it would be soft to the touch, and it takes him a moment to realize that it is unbound. When her eyes, which share the same reddish hue of a topaz, flicker to him, he meets her gaze; after a second or two, she flushes and looks away.

Once they are all fed, they wander away in groups, some huddling by the mantle to speak in hushed tones while others survey the mess they've left behind. It would take ages for one person to clear away, though the dwarves don't appear too concerned by it, much to the irritation of their host. Elias is aware of Bilbo's muttered curses, and she watches as Gandalf approaches him after he wrestles a doily from Nori, who attempts to use it as a dishcloth were apparently insulting. The two make their way to the hall where she is standing, Gandalf's eyes twinkling beneath the bushy expanse of his brow even as Bilbo rants about the harm the dwarves have done to his home. Mud on the carpet seems a strange thing to have a fit over, but she doubts that the state of his floors is what is truly upsetting him, and decides to keep her mouth closed.

"Excuse me." Ori's voice is shy, hesitant, as he stands behind the three of them. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but . . . What should I do with my plate?"

She is entirely unaware of the dwarf standing behind her until he says, "Here you go, Ori. Give it to me."

A jolt of surprise has her whirling around to face the culprit, and she finds Fili standing behind her, mischief written in every line of his face. Instead of moving around her to take the plate, he merely leans, allowing the coarse fur of his mantle to brush against her nose, and reaches for the dish, which Ori hands over willingly. It is a testament to her self-control how patiently she waits for him to move, rather than jumping away like a frightened rabbit; Fili grins and bows to her, again, playfully, before turning to toss the plate to his brother, who, in turn, chucks it into the kitchen. Within minutes, dishes are flying through the air, and Elias and Gandalf have moved to stay clear of the porcelain projectiles.

"Excuse me," Bilbo cries, "that's my mother's West Farthing pottery! It's over a hundred years old!" When the dwarves still seated at the table begin to rhythmically drum on the varnished wood with utensils, he rounds on them. "And can you not do that? You'll blunt them!"

"Oh, d'hear that, lads?" Bofur's teasing tones ring throughout the home. "He says we'll blunt the knives."

Grinning, Kili begins to sing, and it isn't long before the rest join in, cutlery and dishes flying with alarming speed through the air. Elias is quite certain that something is going to get broken, but nothing does, and she finds herself laughing, in spite of the unease she felt earlier.

"Blunt the knives, bend the forks,
smash the bottles and burn the corks,
chip the glasses and crack the plates . . .
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!
Cut the cloth and tread on the fat,
leave the bones on the bedroom mat,
pout the milk on the pantry floor,
splash the wine on every door!
Dump the crocks in a boiling bowl,
pound them up with a thumping pole;
when you've finished, if any are whole,
send them down the hall to roll.
That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!"

For some reason, her eyes stay focused on Fili throughout most of the ordeal, the ease with which he catches and tosses plates and bowls while never losing his footing or stumbling over words impressing her, and she claps when he bounces one dish around on his elbows before sending it over his shoulder to Kili. It is him she winds up next to when they circle around the table, chuckling heartily when Bilbo puffs his chest in anger, only to deflate at the sight of stacks of cleaned dishes. She is certain Gandalf intends to say something, if the way he spreads his hands is any indication, yet all merriment dies when three loud knocks echo down the halls. The wizard turns his head, eyes unusually solemn, and studies the rest of them. If she isn't mistaken, there are vestiges of worry when his eyes fall upon herself and Bilbo, but it is short lived, if there at all.

At last, Gandalf speaks. "He is here."

Translations:

Mae g'ovannen. "You are well met." Used in when speaking to someone familiar to one's self, such as a friend or a stranger of similar social standing.