A/N: Well we finally see some progress on the journey in this chapter!
For reference, a bare-bones version of the map I drew of the Neverland is available here (remove spaces): theindianwinter. tumblr post /113106575927 /map-of-the-neverland-for-and-straight-on-til
Anyone, thanks to everyone who's read this so far and I hope you guys enjoy this!
Also Candela, I'm sorry for not replying in the A/N for last chapter so: I'm glad you noticed all the details, I'm trying to pay homage to both stories at the same time and as for Wendy, she may come up a bit later. And yes, Bilbo is in skinny jeans and no, I am not sorry. Thank you once again for commenting!
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"Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough. You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it."
THREE
The journey east of Bree was not a difficult one and the clear air sang with the salty tang of stone and sea, putting all in a mild mood. The Eastern Causeway snaked along the coast before turning inland, winding past the base of Amon Lanc where it met the southernmost tip of the Greenwood. The path lay just inside the treeline and Thorin repressed a shudder as they entered, the dark looming trees seeming to press in on all sides. Fortunately, he had never much cause to enter the forest, not beyond their initial passage along the Elven Way when his people had searched out a home. Even then, there had been the uneasy sense of being watched, one which was heightened now and he was glad when they passed out onto the plains. He let out a sigh of relief once the forest rested about a half an hour behind them and called a halt for lunch despite it being mid-afternoon already.
Bombur, accompanied by a smiling Bilbo, prepared the meal, both grousing the entire time at how long it had been since their last meal. Thorin sent the pair a glare, knowing full well they had snuck at least a mouthful of the lembas bread apiece whilst they had been in the Greenwood, and then he moved to stand beside Dwalin as his friend stared out across the Plains of Calenardhon, the hills and dry, yellowed grass stretching as far east as the eye could see. He found it oddly beautiful, in an barren sort of way.
"We're making good time," Dwalin commented and Thorin hummed in agreement. With any luck, they might even make it to Taras-Morn by sunset on the sixth day.
Gandalf had already spoken to the Rohirrim who guarded the plains and the banks of the River Running from their northerly home of the Vale of Edoras, some five days travel through the forest north of Taras Morn. Their small party was granted safe passage, free of an escort as would otherwise have been the case. As such, their progress for the rest of the day was steady and peaceful and the sun was just kissing the northern side of Amon Lanc as they stopped to make camp, hidden from the road by a grassy knoll.
Several members of the Company were sent off into the scrubland on either side of the Causeway in search of firewood whilst Thorin stared at the map, trying to figure out whereabouts they were in Calenardhon. Only when Balin appeared beside him and tapped a spot on the map he realised he had somehow been searching on the wrong bank of the River Running and at the amused glance his friend cast him, he guessed Balin had known this. Thorin was immensely glad their journey so far had relied on following a path, for it meant he could actually lead, and not surrender his place at the head of the company to one who was not likely to lead them horribly astray.
The quiet that had settled upon those that remained was broken as Bilbo returned, arms filled with twigs that he dropped carelessly into the flames of Bifur's small fire. The flames sputtered, sending up a dark, pungent smoke before petering out completely. Bifur let out a harsh curse in Khuzdul, wincing as he removed the offending branches from the fire pit so he could attempt to restart their fire.
"Do you know nothing of the wild?" Thorin asked harshly. He already knew the answer, because it was becoming apparent to him that this pampered child was indeed hopeless out of the books and armchair he often complained at having left behind. Bilbo looked a little chastised, but he still scowled at their leader before moving to help Bombur ration out ingredients for a stew.
"He does try," Balin said, his tone neutral, neither pleading or criticising.
"My patience," Thorin muttered back, earning him a glare from the Grey Fairy who sat over to his left, smoking a pipe and not even bothering to assist Bifur, despite the fire charms Thorin knew he could conjure, having seen him do it each time he chose to have a smoke (something that was occurring with increasing frequency - Thorin was sure he would have to restock his large pipeweed pouch in the markets of Taras-Morn).
Soon, his nephews and Bofur returned with more suitable kindling with which they could begin to cook their meal before darkness fell.
As they ate, Gandalf, who was quite content with just a small corner of lembas bread, regaled them of a tale of a brave king called Edward who had been betrayed by his brother George and had thusly ordered his execution though as it was his brother he allowed George to choose his poison, as it were. From across the fire, he caught the confused frown of Bilbo that stuck out among the interest looks of Bofur and Fíli who sat on either side of him, looks that changed to laughter as it was revealed that George chose to drown himself in a vat of his favourite wine.
When his tale was done, Gandalf sat back proudly as a loud discussion began as to whether Edward should have forgiven his brother or not and Dwalin, for whom a betrayal of his king was a worse crime than any other, asserted that Edward had been lenient in even allowing his brother to choose by what method he was put to death.
Bilbo piped up then, his voice cutting loud and clear through the chatter.
"Gandalf," he began, his tone light, but with an undercurrent of something cautious, suspicious almost, "How do you know of the Duke of Clarence?"
Everyone's attention snapped sharply to their burglar then. Gandalf had told a story of the Everworld?
"Your mother told me," the Fae answered in a measured tone, "And if I remember rightly it was your father who told her."
"Well I should expect so," Bilbo huffed. "He was a medieval historian after all."
"You are an historian, are you not?" Balin asked Bilbo. Thorin frowned, wondering when such a piece of information had come up and how one so young should be a scholar.
"I was training to be," he said, voice trailing off as he stared at the fire wistfully. What was it that had ended his apprenticeship? Or perhaps coming to the Neverland had interrupted? Though that would not explain the strange melancholy laying in those eyes that flashed gold in the firelight.
"So do you know more about this George?" Kíli questioned, oblivious to the sadness emanating from their youngest member, his face bright and curious at the prospect of a more detailed retelling.
"Of course. He was from a period marked by a series of Civil Wars, known as the Wars of the Roses."
"Sounds poncy and ridiculous," Dwalin snorted. Thorin could not help but agree - battles named after flowers? Somehow he doubted they could have been all that terrible.
"Well families arguing is always ridiculous," Bilbo said sharply, "However more than thirty years of fighting over the Crown is hardly poncy."
"Will you tell us the story of these flower wars?" Glóin said, ever one to relish in drama.
"Some - I cannot remember all the facts as it has been quite some time since I studied the period."
"It's not like we would know any different," Kíli pressed, "Please, I do love to hear tales of battles."
Thorin knew that was lie - for his nephew had always found history frightfully dull and mysteriously disappeared whenever the time came for his lesson. Although, he could admit that beyond the flight from Erebor, the story of Durin's Folk and their peaceful, profitable life in the Lonely Mountain could be a little dry.
Interesting history always lay with disorder and turmoil.
"The year is 1377 and the king of fifty years - Edward the Third - has just died-"
"So short!" exclaimed Glóin mournfully.
Bilbo glared at the interruption.
"He was the sixth longest reigning monarch in my country."
"Wow, your kings must get killed an awful lot. Are they dreadfully unpopular?" Oín sounded scandalised. Thorin found himself questioning how one managed to get themselves deposed after so short a reign, and for it to be considered a long one, why the Everworld was indeed a strange place!
"Edward the Third died of old age, his father however…"
"You mean to say your people die after they have lived for a certain amount of time?" Balin asked, the question the one that had risen to Thorin's mind also.
"Yes," Bilbo growled irritably, "Now do you want to hear the story or not?"
The history of Bilbo's part of the Everworld - England, he called it - turned out to be just as chaotic and nonsensical as Thorin had thought. There was a Hundred Years' War which actually lasted for a hundred and sixteen and the successor of the aforementioned Edward, the third of his name, had been deposed by his uncle, Henry. By the time it came for all to bed down, he had not even reached the flowers war and Thorin was rather disgruntled to find he had been listening, and rather intently at that.
However, his penchant for storytelling did not increase his usefulness in any capacity and the man still had absolutely no knowledge of how to survive in the world.
The following morning, Thorin rode once more at the front of their caravan, eyes fixed upon the track that wound through the seemingly endless hills before them.
"Why did Gandalf want us to bring him again?" Balin asked from behind him. Thorin didn't need to ask to know who he meant.
"Aye," Dwalin, who was riding aside his brother, added. "He seems pretty useless to me."
"He is useless," Thorin cut in harshly, "But our bringing him along was Gandalf's only condition in giving us the Dýrmæstone so I'm not going to argue."
Well not much at least. He had explained the situation to the brothers before, though it was a relief to know he was not the only one who continued to question the wizard's judgement.
"Of all the people in the Everworld though," Dwalin mused, "And he picks such an unremarkable wee thing."
"Now brother," Balin chastised, "There may be more to Mr Baggins than meets the eye."
Thorin glanced back with a snort. "I highly doubt that."
The redhead shrugged, "Say what you like, but you can't deny, that for someone who claims never to have ridden before, he is adapting to a horse incredibly fast."
Humming in acknowledgment, Thorin thoughtfully turned his gaze to the small man, riding between Bofur and Fíli towards the back of the Company. He did have a good seat upon his horse, and a great affinity with the chestnut mare and the other travellers' steeds, especially for someone who claimed never to have touched a horse before he was dumped unceremoniously on the back of one.
Maybe it was one of these things that was in the blood.
Or maybe he was trying to find something about the young man that was of benefit to their quest. Because that irritating smile was not helpful and only confused him. He disliked the feeling of confusion, which only served to annoy him further.
"Perhaps, but that hardly serves a greater purpose than for his own comfort."
As he said this, Thorin shifted uncomfortably in his seat upon Minty (Dwalin had teased him mercilessly for an hour when he learned what Thorin had named his horse, but at least he didn't name his weapons. Well, out loud at least) for the four days spent upon his saddle was starting to take its toll and he would be glad for a rest upon reaching Taras-Morn.
By the time they made camp that evening the very top of the turret of the tower Orthanc could been seen above the crest of the hills that lay on the horizon and he allowed himself the smallest of smiles.
Zegaru Ir-Rûzud sliced through the air in a bright flash of silver, point coming to rest at the exposed throat that lay beneath a braided beard. Dís drew back as Dáin began to laugh so her blade would not catch the skin of his neck, a small satisfied smirk curving her own lips up at her defeat of the dwarf. When it came to swordplay, they were fairly evenly matched which made for quite the rivalry between them. However, his ability with an axe was far superior to hers, though she had him bested when it came to archery. In fact, her skill was only outmatched by that of her youngest son who could give the keen-eyed elves a run for their money.
"Looks like you have bettered me this time, cousin," Dáin said, running a hand through his rust coloured hair. Both of them stood in their breeches and boots, sweating profusely after their intense match. Dís found her present exhaustion relaxing, their bout having taken her mind from its worrying for at least a short while. Her fellow leader had been understanding when she had requested they spar, not asking any questions of her, or holding back as another may have done.
They both moved to the side of the small training ground to dry off their bare torsos. Dís slipped back into her chemise, the material cool against her heated skin.
"Thank you," she told him simply before setting to cleaning her sword. Dáin just grinned and nodded, following in her stead with his own blade, Id-Abram.
Only once they were in the receiving room of her personal Gatekeeper's chambers, safe from any prying ears, did he speak on the matter.
"I hope you do not think any less of me for choosing not to support your brother's venture as much as I could."
"Indeed not," Dís sighed, reaching out to pat his smaller but thicker hand. "In fact I think you are right to question it. It's a fool's venture and I am all the more a fool for allowing him to go. And take my sons with him."
"They will be fine," Dáin said kindly, "They are hearty and hale and have the incredible ability to both find trouble and escape it unharmed."
"That is more than true," she conceded.
"They'll be back before you know it, and you'll miss the quiet then."
She gave him a small, sad smile before standing and moving to the balcony, leaning on the railing to enjoy the rest of this time for herself as soon it would be back to the business of running a kingdom, though now she did not have hers son's cheer to keep her buoyed.
From her balcony, she could see down to the Mountain Hall's gates and the courtyard behind them where a caravan of both dwarves and Durin's Folk alike were assembling, later bound for the markets of Belegost. A lone magpie fluttered past, black and white feathers stark against the bright summer sky and she gave it a small salute.
With a sigh, she turned to go back inside, ready to bid goodbye to Dáin and the small relief he could provide her from her worries; bringing them back to the Mountain Halls from where they floated with her closest kin, hopefully somewhere in Calenardhon now.
"One for sorrow."
It was an exhausted Company that passed through the great dark gates of Taras-Morn, having pushed themselves especially hard that day in order to reach the city before sundown. Orthanc had made it seem tantalisingly close all day, looming ever tall and proud before the horizon. Now they were all too tired to appreciate the strange majesty of the dark city and their thoughts were only upon the beds that laid in wait for them, Gandalf having flown on ahead to ensure their preparation.
It was he who greeted them in the courtyard of the Black Castle itself though its master, they were assured, would welcome his guests the following morning. Thorin was a little anxious at how well-received they would be by the White Fairy as a few offhand comments from his kinsman indicated that he very much disapproved of their venture, or rather more Gandalf's heavy involvement in it.
Nevertheless, the castle was nominally the vagabond fairy's home as well as Saruman's so he tried not to worry too much and at that moment, he was far too tired to anyway. Once he had been shown to his room, he did not bother to even disrobe beyond casting off his heavy leather boots before he collapsed onto the soft bed, drifting instantly into a deep but dreamless sleep.
In the morning when he awoke, it was to a sharp poke in his side that had him diving for his sword where it lay on the floor before he processed the sniggering figure of his eldest nephew.
He sat up, glaring at Fíli, then stretched his arms, feeling his back crack and noting how the decent sleep on something other than the hard ground had done wonders for his aching limbs.
"Breakfast is downstairs," the blond informed him. "Gandalf says Saruman has been called away to Imladris so we don't have to worry at making ourselves presentable."
At this his nephew had glanced pointedly at his rumbled shirt and no doubt tangled hair before leaping to his feet and heading for the door.
"Come along Uncle," he called from the threshold, "I'm hungry but I don't want you to get lost."
Thorin rose from the bed, muttering darkly about insubordination and damn younglings whilst he shoved his feet into his boots. Stomping along in his nephew's wake, he noted with a little annoyance that the day outside was bright and pleasant though he would most likely be spending his in the vast library, searching out a lone map in its dusty shelves.
The rest of his men were already seated around the long table in a room brightened by the light that streamed in through the east facing windows, stuffing their faces with the breads and cold meats laid out on great silver platters and forgoing their manners, much to the horror of the ever-proper Dori.
Thorin slid into the seat that awaited him beside Dwalin, stealing the last piece of the wafer-thin ham from his plate and earning an elbow to his ribs for his troubles.
Fíli resumed the place he had taken for the previous five meals or so, at the side of Bilbo, saying something Thorin could not catch from the other side of the table that made the other man chuckle heartily.
After they had all eaten their fill, Thorin sent them off to do as they wished for the morning, intending to form a plan of attack for their search which would begin in the afternoon.
Accompanied by Balin and Dwalin, he followed Gandalf down a great marble corridor, glancing up at the intricately carved ceiling whenever he could to admire the great battle of old that was depicted there. He could not place which it was, and so contented himself just with marvelling in the craftsmanship of it.
Gandalf came to a halt at a huge set of double doors and he pushed them open to reveal the library.
"Here we are."
When he had been a boy, Thorin had never had much time for books or the library, preferring instead to wreak havoc with Frerin and Dwalin as his accomplices in between lessons spent with dull tomes on the craft of kingship and histories long since passed.
His memories of the Royal Library in Erebor were now naught but vague recollections of great domed ceilings and the fierce green glare of Regin were you to even think about allowing your voice to rise above a whisper.
In the Mountain Halls, the library had fallen into disuse and his people had more need for housing than books so it was left as they had found it. Whenever he visited Dáin, Thorin always had more pressing matters to attend to in Belegost than to pay the library more heed than a slight glance if he passed it by.
As such, the library in the Black Castle was the first he had had chance to properly appreciate and the first he was to spend more than an hour in for some one hundred years.
And what a library it was.
The room was hewn from the same dark stone at the rest of the castle's walls but the ceiling was made from glass and so the corridors that formed between the bookshelves were illuminated as opposed to being dank, as he remember of the underground counterpart in his old home. As far at the eye could see stretched what was doubtless miles upon miles of shelving, filled with a mix of various coloured leather covers, some pristine and some looking as if they would fall apart at the slightest provocation.
Tamping down a mournful sigh, Thorin regarded the library, beginning to comprehend the sheer magnitude of the search that lay before them.
According to the Grey Fairy, the Fae all had a habit of tucking important documents into rarely used books within the library as access was monitored and it was therefore safer than anywhere that was intended for such precious parchments, as those sorts of places would be the first ones where unsavoury sorts would look. Thorin had to admit it was a rather clever plan.
Yet, he was attempting to find one such document when he did not have any clue what sort of book the Blue Fairies would have put it in. At least he had never met them, but Gandalf it seemed was equally clueless.
"Well," he muttered, "So our search begins."
Gandalf grinned beside him, far too happy for one whose week would be spent trawling through the endless shelves searching for a lone map whose existence was quite possibly conjecture in the first place.
"So it begins."