"I recognize in thieves, traitors and murderers, in the ruthless and the cunning, a deep beauty - a sunken beauty."

Jean Genet


Chapter 3: Cries in the Wind

A couple hundred yards to the south of Fox's location, making his way past the hills of the Barrow-downs and trudging toward the outskirts of the Old Forest, Thorin Oakenshield pushed off his pony, wiped at the sweat on his brow and shimmied out of the thick warm coat draped on his person.

He decided he would walk another few hours into the Forest, before, settling in for the night. The meeting of kin in the Iron Hills weighed too heavily on his conscience for him to sleep now, he was filled with too much restless energy- too much anger and betrayal- despite knowing in his heart, that Dain and the rest of his kin did indeed do the right thing by not aiding him. His pride would never allow him to fully accept this. Therefore, instead of dwelling on the hopelessness of the quest he was about to embark he focused on the task at hand, repeating the words his wise yet, hot-headed sister had yelled at him as she threw an ax at his head many years ago. Do not waste time dwelling when you can be taking action Thorin Oakenshield!

Grabbing the reins of his pony more roughly than intended, he led the mare to the nearest tree bark and tied her reins to the tree to take his supplies off. Then, pulled off the saddle and ropes to set her free.

Peaches neighed her displeasure at the rough treatment, and Thorin stroked her muzzle softly with his own shaking fingers. Whether they were shaking with fury or fear he did not know, nor did he wish to.

"Apologies my loyal friend." he rumbled. "It is for the best if I continue from here alone. There will b"

The pony nickered softly, enjoying the dwarves touch. Thorin assumed it to be a farewell and turned stomping towards the forest with just his satchel on his back.

It was on the third day of traveling through the blasted forest that Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror admitted he was lost. To his utmost annoyance, he had resorted to following lingering footsteps left behind, in hopes to find his way to what the Grey Wizard had called Bag End.

Wretched Hobbits he thought angrily, spitting on the ground and hiking up his supplies over his shoulder. He desperately wished he carried more Old Toby for his broken pipe and, cursed the day he foolishly finished the weed and threw the pipe in a childish fit of displeasure the day of the meeting with his kinfolk. It has been many years since he's gone without a smoke when he so desires it. He has become spoiled.

Thorin scoffed at the pitifulness of his thoughts. An exiled, homeless King spoiled with smokes.

As soon as the thought appeared Thorin pushed his pathetic musings away before he delved too deep in in them and would have to struggle to escape their clutches. That would take up too much time, he had a Hobbit Hole to reach.

He put all his energy into following the footsteps that left in the soil. They were heading in the general direction he knew the Shire to be in. Iit would lead him there.

As he trekked on Thorin could not escape the feeling of being watched and followed. Many times he found the hairs on the back at his neck had stood at attention or heard a sharp crack of twigs.

Though he told himself that this was a peaceful land, the most peaceful land in all of Middle-Earth actually, he could not ignore his growing unease. With good reason as well because without warning, Thorin heard the sounds of footfalls that were not his own; he only had time to duck before a knife whizzed past the top of his head.

He shot up from his crouch, unsheathing his sword and reared his arm back to swing but, something barrelled into him from the side before he could. With a great humph, the two bodies rolled onto the floor in a pile of limbs and swords.

It was the attacker who gained his footing and stood first after a surprisingly powerful punch in the gut that sent Thorin stumbling again. He scrambled toward Thorin's fallen pack but, despite his upper hand, Thorin had experience on his side and recovered quickly.

Thorin moved swiftly, catching his opponent behind the knee and sending whoever this person was tumbling to the gracefully climbed to his feet and snatched his sword from the floor

"Who are you?" Thorin demanded, standing over his attacker. Without flailing limbs and the light of the sun glinting off steel obstructing his view, Thorin looked at his attacker for the first time. He was tall and lanky, a young man, with dark, unkempt hair and covered in dirt. He looked thin, yet he stared up at Thorin with a glare.

Thorin opened his mouth to demand a response from the attempted thief, but the man swiped at Thorin with a dagger he had pulled from his boot and clambered to his feet.

Thorin readied his sword arm and fell into his stance. He did not wish to enter combat with this thief yet; the thief seemed willing enough. So be it.

"If it is a fight you desire, a fight you shall have," Thorin rumbled lifting his sword.

But a fight never came.

Suddenly, the man froze in his stance and, for a fleeting second, his entire form went rigid before the tenseness seemed to drain from his body. Thorin could only gape as the dark-haired Man melted onto the floor, foaming at the mouth.

He stood still in shock, sword still raised as if his enemy were not dead at his feet. Then a light shuffling noise sounded to his left, small enough to pass as only a stirring of the leaves. It shook Thorin from his stillness nonetheless, and he spun toward the noise, swinging his sword over his head and slashing in the direction of the invisible murderer. That was a form of warfare Thorin had only heard about in legend. He understood now why the man seemed so desperate.

One who wields a poison dart … an assassin… A blade for hire.

There was only one land in Middle Earth where such scum bred.

"Show yourself assassin" he roared, fighting down the urge to take a few steps backward to use the bark of a tree as a shield for his back- at least there his backside would be safe – but, his pride would not let him. He was a warrior and a King; he would not show this savage any weakness.

"Show yourself!" he barked again. "Come out and, face me Eastern coward -"

Any other insults he was prepared to yell was cut off by a voice coming from the trees above. The voice was unexpected. It was low and feminine, with an agreeable trace of raspiness that hinted at an accent Thorin had never heard before.

"You are a funny Dwarve, " it called, "and an ignorant one. You call me Eastern, yet accuse me of being hasharin, an assassin, who hail from the South."

Thorin's blade lowered on instinct.

"You are a woman?"

"And you need to revisit your geography lessons, " the voice – she – responded mockingly. "Now we have both stated the obvious."

So thrown off balance was Thorin that he barely registered her mockery or the sound of shifting branches as the woman slithered down the tree she was occupying. It was not until a small, lithe figure dropped onto the ground, with such a softness that the sound of her boots hitting the earth only compared to the pitter of a raindrop, did Thorin realize this mysterious killer was now in front of him

Thorin was shocked at what he saw. Never before had he seen such…

He had heard the stories of these Men from the far lands but, he had underestimated the difference of these people from the Men he had encountered in his travels.

She stood just around his height, small, limber and curvy. She was not as tall, or full figured as most females of the race of Men yet, not as sturdy or bearded as the females of his own kin. Most likely she had ancestors of both Man and Dwarve. They did not have the same reservations in regards to relationships of different races in the East. Her skin was the color of melted honey; her features were delicate – a small nose studded with the tiniest of diamonds, full red lips and, beauty marks dusted across her cheeks like constellations. Her hair, a warm brown color with concealed strands of red revealed in the sunlight, spilled down her bare shoulders in knotted curls. There was no question that she was beautiful in the face, for a daughter of Man, but Thorin saw past the deceiving youthful beauty in her features. He noticed something else. It was a secret hidden in the scars splattered throughout her skin, in her upturned lips that taunted Thorin though she did not say a word and it was written in the black tattooed ink that lined her collarbone with words he could not read. Most of all, it was a secret hidden in the severity laced in her bearing despite her grin.

Tainted… He thought. She is tainted.

Said woman glanced at him with eyes such a light brown they were gold and raised a single brow.

There was a beat of silence while the woman and dwarf stared at one another. He knew she waited for a response, but he would not grace her with one. She did not deserve it nor did he know what to say.

"Oh, you are dull," she drawled around her smile after a moment,"no wit."

This insult did not merit a response. Thorin gave one anyway.

"And you are a disgrace, girl," Thorin gritted out. "You would kill a man with his back turned, with poison instead of a blade. You kill with no honor! Be gone! Before I forsake my morals and do with you as you did him."

His vexation only seemed to amuse her more, though he did not miss the subtle tightening of her eyes. "Fox." she said, "I am the Fox, not girl. I assure you I am of age. You did call me 'woman' just moments ago."

Thorin's jaw jumped. He did not want her name. He wished to know what she was doing in this Forest

instead of the Dust Bowls of her people. More so, he wanted her as far away from him as possible.

"I did not ask for your name, I commanded you to leave," he repeated hotly. Still, she did not move.

"I did not give you a name, I said I am the Fox. You are not a very good listener are you, dwarve?"

Thorin went to respond but, at last, she budged and to his utmost annoyance, she advanced closer instead of farther. Thorin immediately moved back to put distance between them, raising his sword with one hand and his shield in the other.

"Why interrupt my duel?" Thorin asked, "Was it murder for sport or a hired job?" And, if so, did they send you for me as well, was his unasked question. Thorin knew of the bounty over his head. He would not put it past his enemies to send one of the Black Men to finish the job.

"Neither. I hunted him."

Thorin figured as much. "You were sent." he surmised, clutching the sword hilt in his palm harder. For me?

"No one commands me, dwarve. I do as I please when I please... I sent myself."

"Then this was personal. Did the thief steal something of yours?"

The sharp bones in her cheeks lifted as Fox's closed mouth smirk grew to epic proportions. Thorin could not decipher if the stark curve of her lips displayed malice or mirth or some sort of hybrid of both.

"Oh, he tried."

His impatience multiplied at her evasiveness. She was toying with him, yet he was still trapped. Thorin could not go and risk this woman following him like a stray, not with the fragility of the quest he was about to embark on, nor could he leave in good conscious knowing this obviously unhinged woman could kill again. He also could not simply kill the girl and be on his way either.

Dwarves do not kill women, not unless necessary- especially younger ones like the one in front of him.

"I grow tired of your games Fox," he grunted. "Be honest with me. What is it you want?"

"Fidgety Old Wolf" she snickered. Old Wolf?… "What I want is to know why is it I am dishonorable for ending him when you were prepared to do the same."

"The fact that you need ask why killing a man with his back turned, yielding poison thus leaving him without a chance to defend his own life is answer enough to that question. Not only did you bring dishonor to yourself but, you gave him a death with no glory, no dignity..." Thorin trailed off, overwhelmed with disgust for a moment. "It is unforgivable.".

For the first time since the strange woman revealed herself to him, she grew serious, pensive even. The roguery faded from her demeanor, her lips loosened from their smirk, her brows smoothened in thought and her eyes cool downed until Thorin was left staring into pools of melted gold instead of yellow flames. Thorin was surprised at what he saw; she looked younger, smaller, less dangerous - less tainted.

He dispelled those thoughts immediately. Thorin focused in on the inky line of black paint outlining the female's eyes, the inappropriateness of the clothes on her person that left her arms and midriff revealed. He reminded himself of his disgust at her heinous actions, the primitive culture, Fox seemed to wear like a badge.

Do not underestimate her.

"What you say may be true dwarf, but then if you had killed him, by your logic, you would be just as guilty as I," she said slowly. "You knew he would die when you raised your sword. I know how dwarves age, from your looks you are at least a hundred years old, if not older. He looked to be only a couple years older than I. He was younger than you, had obviously seen less battle than you, and was starving which was why he stole from your pouch. You knew all this, yet you raised your sword against him, while he only had a dagger. You might not have brought dishonor to yourself but, you would have also given him a death without dignity or glory." Her eyes went hard with the same underlying severity that had fallen from her expression before. "I killed him swiftly and, humanely. You would've ended him with your ego and, humiliated him while doing so. You are no better than I."

Fox glared, as if daring Thorin to argue and, due to the strength of his outrage, he did.

"How dare you." he bellowed, red clouding his vision. Suddenly, Thorin felt the rage he had been carrying around since the firedrake had claimed Erebor burst from a dark part of his soul, and sweep through his entire being. All the bitterness, the regret, the betrayal, the lost welled up in Thorin and, without his permission, his body moved. He threw his sword into the soil and stalked toward the woman.

In the haze, he vaguely noticed she did not flinch at his actions, but he was too gone to grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and slammed her into the bark of a tree.

"How… how…" Thorin was panting now, unfocused; there was too much feeling, too much. He wanted it to stop. "How dare you."

Something seemed to shift in the Fox pinned to the tree, her chin tilted in defiance, her nose flared and her chest puffed out to bump against his, challenging him. He had her pinned, but she did not act as if at his mercy, she was leering at him, poised to strike.

He wished she would.

"Not so talkative now, girl" Thorin snarled, his vision still tinged with blood and, in his eyes, she was drenched in it.

"Violent aren't you," Fox seethed, rolling her shoulders lightly, like a cat ready to pounce her prey. "and forward…. That was not very honorable of you, Wolf."

Thorin blindly banged the small woman he held against the tree. "Do not call me that."He did not understand why the nickname made his ire grow as it did, so much so he overlooked the innuendo.

At that moment, it mattered not.

The woman's eyes burned at his abuse, throwing her head back she released a shrill yowl of fury from curled lips, a sound that unnerved Thorin deeply. It was a cry of pure ferocity that rustled the trees and resonated with the winds. With that show of anger he knew her patience had run out, Thorin even welcomed it.

I grow tired of words, let us finish this so I may be on my way.

Yet, she did not reach for the strange blade at her hip, nor did she attack. She somehow placated herself, relaxing her posture and easing her shoulders; becoming limp under Thorin's hands. However, she could not tame her eyes; they trapped an inferno. Still, she restrained herself.

To Thorin's surprise, she glanced up at him through her lashes and a curtain of unkempt hair in wonder.

"You are like me," she whispered.

"I have nothing in common with the likes of you." Thorin strained in response, tightening his hold on her. He was a King of the line of Durin, a warrior and nobleman. "You are dirt under my boots."

"You are haunted Wol,f" Fox stated heavily, "and at war with yourself. It will be your ruin."

She might as well had gone ahead and struck him with the way her words impacted Thorin. Letting go of her hastily, he stumbled back. Memories of mad Kings, fallen dwarves, mountains of gold and, a rainbow jewel at the head of a throne rushed through him.

"You know nothing." Thorin breathed, "you do not know of being haunted or war or lost. All you know is games…. and deceit. You unbalance those around you just as you have gone demented you…. you… rukhsul menu." Child of an Orc.

She acted as if Thorin had not spoken and his temper flared. His fingers tightened around air, and he regretted throwing his sword to the ground.

"Look at me," he thundered, but she continued to pay him no mind.

Without sparing a glance in Thorin's direction, Fox made her way to the body of the fallen man and kneeled at his side. "This is the second time this week I have stood over a dead body and argued. I continue to forget myself."

Fox spoke bluntly, yet there was an undertone of sadness weaved into her husky voice, just barely noticeable.

"You slay him, yet grieve his death?" he asked, feeling out of sorts. The anger and annoyance he felt just a second ago was fading. In its wake he felt tired and, drained.

Why had he reacted the way he did? No, he knew why, because she goaded him. Plucked at his strained nerves until he snapped, that's why.

Only mere moments in Fox's presence and his head was spinning. Though he was loathe to admit, Thorin was genuinely afraid of the Fox. Thorin always carried strong emotions; it was a burden he bared, but never had he lost control so quickly, so thoroughly in someone's presence before.

Yes, she must be at fault.

"You and your assumptions. I do not grieve my kills, I set them free," Fox admitted with exasperation. Her voice softened exponentially at her next words. "That is how I give them honor," she whispered, caressing her hand against his neck, removing the dart.

She glanced up at him, studying his disturbed expression with knowing eyes. " Don't be afraid, Wolf. I don't have magic or sorcery; I did not force you into acting the way you did. Maybe you are just terrible at self-control, it certainly seems so - I barely had to say anything to get a reaction out of you. Though I am very skilled in the art of revealing one's true self, therefore, admittedly that might have had a hand in your… tantrum."

"It seems more likely you bring out the worse in them."

"That's one in the same, Wolf," she said wryly, "the good, the bad, the dishonorable as you call it. That's all a part of who you are. The more you deny it with your rules and pointless etiquette, the more you deny yourself." Abruptly her lips twitched slightly, "I will admit you are the likes of which I've never met before. Your animal, your wolf, lingers close to the surface, closer than anyone I've ever encountered before. You won't accept him because of fear and instead, you choose to pretend to be someone- something- you are not. It's quite entertaining to watch."

Thorin knew not where to even begin asking this woman-girl- what in Durin's name she could be speaking of but, in truth, he did not want to know. He was rattled and worn. No doubt, If he continued to entertain this wildling, they would talk in circles for hours and get nowhere. He didn't even wish to speak with her, to begin with. He had just wanted to ensure she was not a threat. Now, Thorin knew she most definitely was a threat but, what type of threat, he could not figure out. At this point, it mattered not. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and pretend this encounter never occurred.

Instead of responding, he turned his back to her, collected his sword, oaken shield and pack from where he discarded them on the ground.

All the while attempting to ignore the holes her eyes burned into his clothes as she watched.

Once he gathered his items, Thorin began his trek in the direction he came from originally, with as much dignity as his weak state could muster.

Before he could make it into the grove of trees and out of sight, he heard a peal of laughter follow after him, and he froze at the sound; smooth and honed like the blade he carried in his hand. Fox's voice, reached his ears as soon as the laughter died down.

"I hope you know, once you reach the edge of the forest, you must turn left at the wheat fields to get to the road that leads to The Shire."

Thorin's heart lurched but, he schooled his features quickly. He would not fall victim again to this creature's cynical form of entertainment; he would not give this Fox the satisfaction of watching him lose control again.

"You assume to know where I am heading woman," he said over his shoulder, he did not bother to face her.

"It is the only place to go from here Dwarf." she answered deftly.

He did not respond, opting to continue his march toward a suitable camp for the night despite the sun only now beginning to set.

He walked for miles in a hollow daze. Finally, when the sun had finally finished it's decent, Thorin decided to set up camp; shrugging off his furs, dropping onto his bedroll and falling into slumber instantly.

It was not as deep as a rest as he would've preferred. That night, he slept uneasily; plagued with dreams of wolves chasing foxes, swords trapped in stone and, the echoes of shrill cries traveling with the winds.

When he woke up the next morning, covered in cold sweat. He told himself that he would forget and never speak of what happened the day before. Thorin convinced himself it was an unlucky encounter with a savage that meant absolutely nothing. So much time he spent convincing himself of this, he did not notice the edge of the forest was in sight nor did Thorin pay attention to the fact that once he reached the wheat fields, he turned right instead of left.

Thorin was late, and he knew he was. That wrong turn had cost him many hours and, by the looks of the sky, the time for supper had long since passed. He had searched tirelessly for the blasted mark the Grey One had said he would leave at the door. The natural light of day had gone out hours ago, and Thorin remained stuck circling the area and attempting to sneakily approach the strange doors and find a mark that a Wizard might've left on it.

And, Gandalf said it would be easy to find. Hmph. Obviously not. He thought sourly.

Only after another two laps around the Shire, and a rather rude encounter with a chubby hobbit man with a surprisingly strong walking stick, did he finally see what he was looking for. Truthfully, he almost missed it.

It was a small dwarvish rune, hidden in the shadows of the corner of the door, which twinkled Durin blue. It was quite a small mark really but, there was no mistaking the magic-laced in it.

Finally.

Thorin approached the gate right before the green door and wrenched it open; thankfully it did not make too much racket as he did so; unlike a certain dumpy hobbit. He stalked up the steps, very much aware of the lingering irritation he felt from everything he had been through in the last few weeks. Kin who would not aid me... who abandoned me, a greasy thief, a - he shook his head and skipped past that particular remembrance, and, a fat hobbit with a surprisingly strong sick.

"Mahal save me from my rotten luck," Thorin grumbled reaching the top of the steps and brought his fist up to grumpily knock. Hopefully, Gandalf will be the one to answer, and Thorin can firmly inform him that no, this location was not easy to find; but, then he stopped.

Indeed Thorin had not had a good couple days...or years... or life truthfully but at the moment all those worries and despairs eased out of him at the sound of his Companies festive singing. Even standing outside the strange hobbit hole, he could hear the baritone of his kin from inside. The singing of his Sister's-Sons, Fili, and Kili, especially stuck out to Thorin; their voices jovial and, young warmed Thorin at his core. No doubt they had started this ridiculous song, or maybe it was the work of Bofur; Bofur always had a song to sing and, a tale to share. Thorin heard his distinctive accent in the harmony of dwarves as well. Thorin perked his ears to catch the singing of Dwalin but, Thorin did not hear it. The stone-faced warrior probably sat stiff and grim as the other dwarves celebrated. The thought brought a smile to Thorin's face.

He might've been on a stranger's doorstep, far away from the Mountains of where he was born but a strong feeling of home washed over him. In the presence of these loyal, brave Dwarves, who answered his call to arms with no hesitation, he was home.

With that thought in mind, the sound of boisterous laughter wafting through the door and, a welcomed warmth lingering in his heart- Thorin knocked twice, on the rounded door, just above the luminous dwarvish rune that said 'Thief.'


A/N: Thanks guys for the follows, favs and comments! I'm not quite at where my story was before I re-started it, but we'll get there in time! Thanks for the support and S/O: to Tibbles for sticking through this a second time!

Much love