Chapter Six:

To Cook a Dwarf

"Trolls!"

Before I know it we are all of us racing through the thickets of the trees, I myself armed with nothing but Bofur's small hunting knife, salvaged from beside the fire. When Fíli motions for us to slow down, I see through the mesh of trees exactly what we are dealing with. Three ten-foot monsters lumber about a clearing, a small fire and cauldron in the midst of them, each one I gaze upon uglier than the last. One of them has something small and wriggling clutched in its hand. I stare fixated at the trio as we crouch down low in the bushes; Fíli points out that his brother is across from us, crouching behind a rock slick with the blood of whatever unfortunate animal has already found its way into the cooking pot.

"Stay here, and stay hidden," the blond Dwarf orders me, priming his dual weapons.

"Aye," Gloin adds, keeping his voice in a low whisper, "the battlefield is no place for a lady."

"I can't just sit here while the rest of you fight-!"

"You cannot fight-"

"Because I'm a woman-"

"Aye, without training, and without a weapon!"

I show him the hunting knife. He narrows his eyes.

"That is for killing rabbits, not Trolls."

"Surely I can do something-!"

Our skirmish comes to an end as Kíli springs out suddenly from his hiding place, running before the monstrous creatures and stabbing his sword into the foot of the nearest to him. As the beast yells a deafening cry he spins his sword in the air and shouts,

"Drop him!"

It is then that I see that the struggling creature in the hopping Dwarf's hand is Bilbo Baggins. I throw a hand over my mouth to silence my surprise as I see him now passed along and suspended from the fingertips of one of the other Trolls, hung upside-down by his large hairy feet. Kíli is breathing heavily, looking about for backup.

"I said, drop him!"

With that Thorin throws a gesture to the other Dwarves and leads his cavalry into the fray with a triumphant cry; I watch them go, half-stunned by the fury of them, seeing them slash and bite and kick at opponents ten times their size. I squeeze the handle of the knife in my fist and swallow back my fear, scoping out the battle; I'm no fighter, but I can't just sit here and do nothing. There must be some way I can help, something I can do…

That is when I catch sight of Bilbo, who has now been liberated and is crawling about in the dirt as the battle rages on, avoiding giant footfalls and searching for some place of safety. I sprint along the thicket of the forest edge and get as close to him as I can, pulling him to his feet when I can reach him and pulling both of us back into the shade of the forest's edge.

"The ponies!" he says in alarm, and immediately begins to bolt through the ruffage over to where a small paddock has been built up. The two of us fight with the ropes holding the four ponies captive, me with the hunting knife and bilbo with his proportionately large hands. Behind us we here the Dwarves stab and roar and cry out, being thrown to and fro in their attempts to cull the three bumbling beasts. I watch as Ori fires a stone into the eye of one of the creatures, who proceeds to pick him up by his head as he tries to dart out of harm's way. Thorin uses Dwalin's broad back as a stepping stone to gain leverage and jumps at the beast, slashing a thick red gash at the creature's arm. Dori rams his blade up the backside of the Troll who threw his younger brother, and the beast falls to the floor with a squeal before Dwalin knocks his teeth out of its skull with a metal mallet.

"They're loose!" Bilbo announces, and we haul open the gate to release Myrtle, Minty, Daisy and Bungle back into the wild of the forest; the moment I look away I see that one of the Trolls has its huge first wrapped around Bofur's waist, the Dwarf's hands fumbling for his sword as the monster squeezes the life out of him. Without thinking I charge at the creature, stabbing through the nail of its thumb with the hunting knife. The beast shrieks in pain and releases Bofur, batting me away with the palm of its other hand. I jolt, still clinging to the blade which is now lodged in the nail of the beast, and it tries to shake me loose- realising I'll probably be safer getting the hell out of its way rather than clinging onto the knife like a mosquito to puckering flesh, I release my grip and go flying through the air, making contact with something solid and roaring which just happens to be the Dwarven King, sending the pair of us to the ground. Thorin pushes me off him then hauls me to my feet by the front of my dress and, with a forceful shove, throws me back towards the forest.

A few more moments pass before it appears that the battle has reached a stalemate. All the Dwarves are gathered together, silent and heaving exhausted breaths, none of them daring to make a move. I follow the direction of Thorin's eyes and see why.

"Bilbo!" Kíli yells, trying to run forwards, but his uncle stops him.

"Lay down your arms!" one of the Trolls growls, holding Bilbo outstretched like Prometheus waiting for Ethon to come picking at his liver. "Or we'll rip his off!"

After a tense moment Thorin obliges, setting off a chain reaction; Kíli throws him a wild disbelieving look and a series of almost comical double-takes, but stabs his sword into the soil all the same. I do a mental head-count and see that everyone is present and alive... for now, at least.

"Get the sacks!" the leader of the Trolls yammers, "stick 'em in the sacks!"

Despite our protests and attempts to escape the Troll's hands, soon enough all of us are bagged up like sausages at the meat market.

"Put some on the spit to roast," the leader barks; the huge hand carrying me seems to hover between the open fire and the slowly growing pile of Dwarves who are to be saved for later, alive to keep the meat fresh, Thorin and Kíli included. Fíli lies at the bottom of the pile, crushed by his brother, face-down in the mud and mumbling loudly in Dwarvish.

Please not the spit roast, please not the spit roast...

By some miracle my prayers are answered, and I am carelessly dropped into the pile with Kíli and the others. I end up with my feet by Thorin's head and my head by Kíli's feet, trying my best to wriggle out of Thorin's way; he already dislikes me enough without having to deal with a face full of poorly-ventilated foot to add to his disdain. By some squalid design the Trolls take up a hapless tune and begin to sing, grunting and belching through every grimace-inducing line.

'Oh, what shall we do with the funny little things?

Roast 'em alive, or stew them in a pot;

fry them, boil them and eat them hot?

To light the night for our delight,

Bake and toast 'em, fry and roast 'em

till beards blaze, and eyes glaze;

till hair smells and skins crack,

fat melts, and bones black

in cinders lie,

beneath the sky!

So dwarves shall die,

and light the night for our delight!'

"Alright, alright, that's quite enough of that!" I hear myself yell. "It's one thing roasting us alive, but I'll be damned if I'm going to listen to you sing and dance about it!"

"Oh!" Bofur yelps from the slowly turning spitroast, his face aflame with sweat, "that's hot, that's hot, that's hot-!"

"We are the descendants of Durin the Deathless!" Dwalin roars, fire in his eyes, "you cannot cook the descendants of Durin the Deathless!"

"He's right!" the skinniest Troll whines, "don't bother cooking 'em. Let us just sit on 'em and squash 'em into jelly!"

"No!" another Troll who seems to fancy himself quite the Gordon Ramsay proclaims, "they should be sautéed and grilled with a sprinkle of sage!"

"Never mind the seasoning," the most competent of the three bellows. "We ain't got all night, and the dawn ain't far away. Let's get a move on; I don't fancy being turned to stone."

"Wait!" Bilbo cries, struggling to his feet and jumping before the Trolls, "you are making a terrible mistake!"

"You can't reason with them!" Dori wails, "they're half-wits!"

"'Half-wits?!'" Bofur cries, the ends of his plaits singing in the flames, "then what does that make us?!"

"I... I meant with the seasoning," Bilbo tries desperately, struggling to stay upright within the sack.

This catches the attention of Gordon Ramsay. "What about the seasoning?"

"Well, have you smelt them? You're going to need something stronger than sage before you plate this lot up!"

The entire company burst with cries of "Traitor! Pest! Blaggard!", those above of the spitroast spitting down at Bilbo, landing most of their disdain upon their fellow Dwarves.

"I'll tear you limb from limb, Half-man!" Dwalin yells, "you'll rue the day your wee mother birthed you!"

"Shut up!" a troll yells to the group of us writhing on the floor, "let the Flurgaburbur-Hobbit talk. What do you know about cooking Dwarf?"

"Well... uh... the secret to cooking Dwarf is... to uh... uh... "

"Traitor!" Gloin yells, "he's trying to save his own skin!"

"...To skin them first!"

"What?!" Nori yammers, quaking on the spit-roast, "skin us?! What do you want to skin us for, what have we ever done to you?! Is this about your Mother's pottery? It is, isn't it?!"

"I'll skin you, you little hairy-footed worm!" Dwalin roars, "Traitor! I won't forget this, Hobbit! Curse you and all your weakling kin!"

"What a load of rubbish!" the thinnest of the Trolls growls, "I've eaten plenty with their skins on. Scoff 'em, I say, boots and all. Nothing wrong with a bit of raw Dwarf... nice and crunchy."

"You can't eat Al-dente Dwarf!" I try, wriggling within the bag, "it's not good for the digestive tract!"

A giant hand comes down upon us, and the Troll takes hold of Bombur and purses him dangling above his lips.

"Quite the meaty morsel, this one is. Plump and juicy. "

Another hand comes down and hovers over Kíli then Balin; I kick out at its thumb angrily, yelling with the others, and the hand picks me up instead. Wonderful.

I fly through the air, screaming the whole time, to hang upside-down above the stinking hole in the Troll's face. I look down hopelessly at the roaring Dwarves below, all of whom are protesting against mine and Bombur's predicament- all but Thorin, who looks as though my being consumed by three salivating Trolls would serve only as a relief.

"I haven't tasted girl in weeks, what a treat!" Gordon Ramsay grins as he swings me about in the air, still screaming hysterically. "And to have female Dwarf! Never before heard of one leaving the mountains. They say the meat is softer on the females, less gristle. Bert, pass me a rock, a good blunt one, the meat'll need tenderizing!"

"I'll tenderize you in a minute, you ugly git!" Kíli roars at the creature, "put her down!"

"And what's this, another one!" the beast guffaws, "Bert, take a look! A girl each!"

"I am not a woman!" Kíli roars as he's swung up into the air beside me.

I reach out for his hands, tears streaming down my face, the pair of us powerless as we're quickly slammed down onto the bloody rock Kíli was hiding behind earlier, the pair of us slipping around in the blood as our captor reaches for a large stone, ready to tenderize the pair of us to perfection.

"Not those two!" Bilbo cries out, "they're infected! They've got worms! In their... tubes? In fact, they all have, they are all infested with parasites. It's a terrible business, I wouldn't risk it, I really wouldn't."

Disgusted, the Troll holding Bombur throws him back into the pile of Dwarves. I yell in pain, falling half-on top of Fíli with a heavy thud.

"Parasites?!" Kíli cries, his arms around me as we slip around in the blood and burlap, "Did he say 'parasites?!' We don't have parasites! You have parasites-!"

The other Dwarves begin to protest; they fall silent when Thorin delivers them a sharp kick in the back, turning to their leader with a sudden realisation. Now it seems that they can find no end to elaborating on the majesty and horror of their imaginary inhabitants.

"I've got parasites as big as my arm!"

"Well," Gloin roars, "I've got nits, to boot!"

"I've got parasites, and so has my brother, too!" Fíli mumbles, as Bofur boasts about the size of his own infestations from the spitroast, blowing the ends of his moustache braids as they catch in the flame.

"I've got huge parasites!" Kíli cries out, joining the fray, "mine are the biggest parasites-!"

"So are mine!" I yelp.

"As are mine!" Fíli intrudes. "Each and every one of us is riddled!"

"Yes, we are, very badly!"

"And very gladly!"

"What would you have us do, then?" one of the Trolls demands of Bilbo, jabbing him in the chest, "let them all go?! You think I don't know what you're up to?! This little ferret is taking us for fools!"

Well, it was worth a shot. I cling on to Bilbo as the rock in the Troll's fist is raised over us once more, the two of us unable to escape its reach. Well, it was good whilst it lasted- goodbye, cruel world.

And then, just as the end is upon us, our salvation arrives in the form of an old man in a dress with a magical stick and an oversized hat. Gandalf looms on the horizon as the darkness begins to leak from the clearing, the sky already turning a creamy pink.

"The dawn will take you all!" The Wizard roars, yielding his staff above his head. With one quick motion he brings it down upon the rock he stands on, and there is a roaring like thunder as the great boulder splits, sending a cascade of fizzy orange sunlight streaming into the clearing. The Trolls scream in anguish as, right before our eyes, their great grey bodies begin to blister and crackle into hard, lifeless stone. Within moments they are statues and nothing more, their grimacing visages watching us with blank, lifeless eyes.

There is cheering, and a lot of it; Gandalf comes down to meet us and begins cutting us free of our restraints. Dumbledore, eat your heart out.

"Gandalf! Now that's good timing!" I sing with relief, sliding down from the rock with Kíli and landing hard on my ankles. The pair of us are smeared with blood from the rock, though we'll shed ourselves of most of it once we're cut from the burlap bags.

I can't help but smile at the Wizard as he meanders about the clearing, cutting the party free from their bonds and extinguishing the fire that burns in the middle.

"You brilliant old thing, I could kiss you, I really could!"

"Wouldn't you sooner kiss me instead?" Fíli jests, ripping open the back of the sack I'm tied in and pulling me out of it; I spin around and fling my arms around his neck with relief, almost squeezing the life out of him. He laughs a little and pats my back uncomfortably, the beads of his moustache tickling my ear.

"I could kiss you all!" I practically shriek, "you and Bombur and Bofur and Bifur and Dori and Nori and- oh, Ori, you beautiful little bearded man!"

I take hold of Ori by his cheeks and kiss his forehead sharply through his long bowl-cut bangs before holding him at arm's length and grinning up at his face; he blushes the colour of a rosebud in spring.

"And Gloin and Oin, and even you, Thorin, you miserable old sock!"

I spin around in my joy to find Kíli stood there, flushed and filthy, his hair dishevelled and his dark eyes gleaming with the relief of having survived the night's perils.

"And me, too?"

I feel all the blood drain from my face and then bloom back into my cheeks with full force. I smile as shyly as Ori had, looking down at my blood-spotted dress before pulling him into an uncomfortable hug and avoiding eye contact once we break away. If only he weren't so pretty and I weren't so prudish.

"Well, lass, we made it!" Bofur sings, ever the saviour, and hooks an arm around my shoulders to lead me into the forest in pursuit of the run-away ponies. We find all but one of them clustered together, still a little skittish but preoccupied with chewing on a patch of wild garlic stems they've sniffed out.

"I told you it was lucky," Bofur grins, gesturing to the bulbs, "can't beat a little garlic. Come in, Lass. You can ride with me today."

"Aren't we going to sleep when we get back to the camp?" I question as Bofur pulls himself into the saddle. "We just nearly died, I think we could do with a rest."

"No rest for the wicked," Bofur says in his familiar cheer, holding a hand out to me. "By order of King Thorin, Durin bless his mighty name."

I oblige him, struggling into the saddle with an exaggerated sigh. I grip Bofur's waist and he clicks his tongue thrice, leading the pony to turn on its tail and heading back towards camp.