2 February TA 2942
Ríkin stalked through Erebor's halls, eyebrows lowered and nostrils flared. The six, thick braids containing his silvery-gray hair jounced against his back with his every step. All around, he saw signs of tampering. Oh, aye, as his own brothers were quick to note, much of the tampering benefitted them all: clothes and blankets mended, needed items materializing from elsewhere in Erebor's bowels, and the comforts of home waiting when a dwarf retired after a hard day's work.
Such frivolities swayed him not. As Dwalin's second-in-command, the burden of Erebor's security weighed upon his shoulders. Unknown and unseen these invaders were, and he was none too pleased that every effort thus far to bring them to light had failed. In all his ninety-seven years, he'd never encountered the like. Prince Kíli's coaxing had not done the trick, nor had Thorin's outright commands. (He growled all the more at that slight. Ignoring Prince Kíli? Aye, he could understand that. But to refuse a direct order from the king?)
Ríkin caught movement through his clouded left eye and whipped towards it, his hand tight about his favored weapon, a weighty halberd handed down through his grandsire's family line. An oddity, the weapon, even among the Ironfist House his grandsire had belonged to, but the weapon fit his big hands with perfection.
A rat, he grumbled, watching the wee creature scurry down the hall. His steps faltered as some invisible force lifted the rat up by its tail before his very eyes. "By Durin." The creatures dared? Before his very eyes?
Weeks of frustration came to a head. With a roar, he charged, halberd swinging. The shrillest scream echoed through the hallway in response, drawing many an eye. The rat dropped to the ground, released by the unseen hand as his halberd dashed through naught but air.
Footsteps raced from him, but before he could follow, a small body collided with him, arms and legs circling him like a child from behind. "Don't hurt her," a female voice begged. Ríkin's nostrils were flooded with the scent of cinnamon. "We'll leave the rats alone."
Leave the rats…? The daft intruder thought he was riled because of the rat? Ríkin growled and dragged her from his back, free hand clamped tight about one scrawny arm. Weak, he sniffed to himself. Just as he'd supposed. All cowards were weak. "Show yourself," he thundered.
Silence.
His temper climbed. "I ordered ye to sight, creature," he said, shaking her once. Did the female believe he jested?
Then he straightened. Was that a snide comment he heard whispered? His scowl deepened. Surely she could not be so brash as to insult him? He stiffened, his temper near to boiling over. With a mutter, he abandoned efforts to reason with the obstinate thing. Let Thorin decide what was to be done.
OoOoOo
"Got one," Rikin informed him, and at first, Thorin did not follow. But then, he noted how the junior captain's hand was wrapped around nothing but air.
Thorin straightened. "Well done," he said. "Very well done." Thorin signaled Dwalin's second-in-command to remain as he was. Swift steps carried him to the door. He picked up the wooden slat sitting beside it and dropped it into the metal brackets affixed to the doorframe, sealing them all in. No one was coming in or going out.
Turning, Thorin studied the young dwarf's face, hoping he and Dwalin had taken his measure aright. Ríkin was young for the duties he'd been given, but Thorin had been impressed with the Iron Hills dwarf from the day he'd recovered sufficiently from his wounds to step in and aid in securing Erebor. With Ironfist blood in his veins, Ríkin was more apt to suspicion than the Longbeards, but Thorin judged him to be fair, if gruff for even a dwarf.
Thorin folded his arms before his chest. With brows lowered and eyes intent upon his dwarf, he said, "Some information that must remain secret may be revealed in the next few minutes, Ríkin. Can I trust in your silence?"
The dwarf frowned, right hand rotating the shaft of the halberd he held. His other hand pulled this way and that as the invisible being wiggled for freedom. Ríkin paid its struggles no mind, his blue eye meeting Thorin's with a directness Thorin found reassuring. "Ye have my loyalty, my king. If 'tis silence you're needing, 'tis silence you'll have."
Thorin inclined his head. "Thank you." Turning his attention to where the invisible creature must be, he commanded, "Reveal yourself."
Ríkin's hand jerked to one side as the creature again wrestled for freedom. The gray-haired dwarf tugged the creature closer. Both heard the scrape of shoes upon the stone floor as it resisted. "Enough," Ríkin snapped. "Concede."
The intruder must have objected, for Thorin saw Ríkin's gray brows fly upwards. At Thorin's questioning glance, he explained, "Stamped on my foot, she did."
Despite himself, Thorin's lips twitched. "She?"
Halberd set aside, Ríkin's other hand joined the tussle to contain the creature. "Tried to tackle me earlier," he said. "Aye, she." To the female disputing his hold, the dwarf growled, "Cease." He got hold of what Thorin assumed were her shoulders and drew her right up to him. "You're days of sneaking and thieving—"
"Thieving?" a female voice squawked.
"Aye, thieving," Ríkin asserted. "Why else hide from view like a scoundrel. Quit your struggles ere I hurt you, female."
The unknown creature of Faerie said nothing, only threw herself against Ríkin's hold with renewed vigor.
"Show yourself," Ríkin shouted, blasting the words in the general vicinity of the female's face.
Thorin scratched one eyebrow, wondering if he'd have a sobbing invisible woman to contend with, but instead, the female roared right back, "You didn't give me permission, you lack-wit!"
The snort caught him by surprise. Thorin rubbed a grin from his face. Clearly she was not—
Thorin's eyes flared wide. By Durin. She yanked upon Ríkin's beard, and with a vengeance, at that.
Ríkin's face darkened, but without warning, the dwarf grappled as if he'd lost hold of her. Thorin tensed. Would she fight him for possession of the bar across the door? His jaw clenched, and his hand wrapped around Orcrist's hilt. Well did he remember what some of Faerie's denizens were capable of. This would be his first confrontation with the creatures. It should prove revealing.
"Uncle?" Fíli's voice, muffled through the door. A knock followed.
"Fíli, guard the door. Should anything invisible attempt to pass you, detain it."
"It?" the female shrieked in absolute insult. "IT?"
Thorin had no warning. Before he could draw breath, he was covered in a white powder that blinded his vision and clogged his nostrils. A heartbeat later, Ríkin bellowed his displeasure. Thorin pawed at his eyes, anger escalating, only to lose his balance and crash to one knee as a small body slammed into him. What he knew had to be the door bar clattered to the ground, and the door slammed open. Thorin heard Fíli grunt, followed by a wordless exclamation. He, too, received a face-full of the white substance.
But the riled female was not done. As soon as Thorin had cleared his sight of the powder, another, sandier spray dashed him in the face. Sugar, he immediately identified as sweetness filled nose and lips. And then…
"By Durin," Ríkin bellowed, and Thorin's jaw unhinged to find what appeared to be honey oozing down from the crown of Ríkin's head into his beard and braids.
"You, Ríkin No-brain, have no manners," the female spat. "Why I ever thought you handsome, I'll never know." Another fistful of white powder slapped the gray-haired dwarf in the face, then all three heard light footsteps run past Fíli and from the study.
Thorin's gaze returned to Ríkin and found him nearly apoplectic with fury as he swiped white-caked honey from his face, his glare all for the open doorway. Thorin regained his feet, his pulse pounding in his temples. He'd suspected this interaction would prove illuminating, and he'd been correct. The female retaliated all right – with flour, sugar, and honey. Nothing that would harm any of them. Combined with the knowledge of the work she and her people had done on the dwarves' behalf, Thorin began to feel the veritable heel. He'd bumbled the encounter quite spectacularly.
Not my finest hour, he thought with a sigh, ruffling flour from his hair.
Unbelievably enough, the situation soon worsened. Kíli strode through the open door, brown eyes at first hard and angry, but as his gaze swept through the room, they lit with devilish humor. "Right you are, Brother," Thorin's nephew proclaimed with a smirk. "I can see you do need reinforcements. Shall I go rouse the guard? Clearly, these Helpers are quite dangerous."
Thorin growled, frowning his nephew to silence. Little did he need Kíli crowing that he'd told them the "guests" were benign from the start. Thorin clobbered together the tattered remains of his dignity, slapping the powdery substance from his clothes.
OoOoOo
Kíli chortled the entire way back to his quarters. There they'd been – king, heir, and guard – served up quite well for their foolishness. He'd cherish the memory of a flour- and sugar-coated Thorin for many years to come.
Entering his quarters, he spoke, hoping one of the Helpers was listening, "My kindred are stubborn. Please deliver my apologies to Cinnamon."
His nose detected a whiff of rose. He nodded, satisfied. No one else seemed to have noticed, but each of the Helpers carried with her a different scent wherever she went. If any alternated fragrances, he didn't know, but if each remained consistent, he'd counted sixteen of them thus far.
Not that he'd be sharing that information. "Thank you, Rose," he said.
After collecting his thick coat, he donned a few more daggers and gloves, preparing to venture outside the mountain. Dwalin's guards had sighted orcs. He intended to check for tracks between Erebor and Dale with a handful of Lord Bard's men. They could not allow the orcs to barricade themselves within the abandoned town.
OoOoOo
After the disastrous confrontation, Thorin wondered if his invisible guests would depart Erebor in unified indignation, and he regretted that it was likely. Kíli was correct – they were a generous people. But Thorin had underestimated their stubbornness, for as days passed, his quarters continued to be straightened, and the little acts tending to his comfort – and his dwarves' – continued.
But without the ability to speak with the "Helpers", as Kíli adamantly dubbed them, Thorin feared disaster. If the Nine should discover the people… "Mahal," he muttered. Sauron would want to claim each of them for questioning, and Thorin had a sick suspicion the Dark Lord would desire to make full use of the creatures' ability to move about unseen.
Thorin would have to order his people to silence. None could speak with the creatures or about them. The Nine must not find out about them.