A.N.: This nearly-23-year-old's parents just brought her Harry Potter Lego out from the attic! I am happy beyond all belief; and perhaps I am just gearing up to go and invest in some Hobbit Lego sets? After all, my father still has his original 60s Lego; it's an investment for my future children…that's what I'm telling myself, anyway…

Aria, in the film Arthur pronounces it 'Tristram', and it can be spelled either way in the old stories; personally I think Tristram has more character, I don't know why. But he influenced a lot of my characters, particularly Ilá and one of my other OC characters; Queen Sibylla of Kingdom of Heaven also inspired Ilá, though perhaps only in look and a little in temperament.

To those who criticise my ability to count, I know there were thirteen dwarves; I believe in a previous chapter note, I addressed the fact that I had removed Bombur from the story. That makes twelve dwarves, plus Bilbo (Gandalf goes off by himself) and Ilá becomes the lucky fourteenth.


Nobility is Not a Birth-Right

07

A Short Rest


The fourth day of their journey, the company encountered its first danger, and it waylaid their journey for well over a day and a half. It was not a pack of Orcs, nor Wargs; the spawn of Ungoliant, rumoured in the great East wood, had not traversed the Misty Mountains to hunt them in the Old Forest on the border of The Shire; nor had evil Men waylaid their party for the gold in their pockets and the food in their packs.

The first and worst danger they encountered was the weather. A great thrashing storm, the kind that usually occurred in midwinter, had darkened the skies before the sun could even peek at the earth. The deep rumbling of thunder had the ponies spooked, lightning crackling across the sky, utterly mesmerising. Though the dawn had come briefly, bright and still like polished steel, as it often did before a great frost, the skies had quickly darkened as if some great giant in the clouds had poured ink across it, with great billowing clouds the colour of iron and coal limned by the lightning that had begun just as the company had awoken and started wishing for breakfast.

In their wisdom, Ilá and Gandalf had decided to move the party onwards as far and fast as they could before the storm could waylay them permanently; they still journeyed through the Old Forest, but the East Road wound tenuously through many grassy cliffs and crags, several of which had natural caves extending into their faces, and which Ilá had taken occasion to use in times past.

Glóin had had the sense to bundle some firewood inside his waterproofed bed-roll, as well as several others, before it had started raining, and all that sustained most of them as the ponies clip-clopped on was the thought of a blazing fire. Everyone was entirely miserable within two hours; the skies had darkened to pitch, illuminated only by the lightning, and had not Ilá and Gandalf known their path from memory, they might have found it difficult to navigate the East Road through the Barrow Downs, for the rain had become so thick, Ilá wondered whether giants stood with buckets, throwing the water in their faces in great waves that sent the ponies staggering several times. Gandalf illuminated the tip of his staff for a little light to go by, and remained at the head of the caravan; Ilá, at the back with Fíli and Kíli, rode astride Snowdrop, who had a propensity to want to bolt every time the thunder rumbled and lightning flashed across the great open sky. She also managed Opal, trotting beside them miserably; Fíli and Kíli shared responsibility of Bungo.

In her time, Ilá had been to the Coast, even sailing to the islands of Himling and Tolfolas in the south at the mouth of the Ethir Anduin; there was nothing so terrifying as the sea during a storm. And with the amount of water churning around them, trying to knock them out of their saddles, Ilá thought she was back, battling Corsairs on one of their dark ships during a storm. Water-battles were some of the very worst; for if one did not die of a wound, the water, especially during a storm, would claim you. Waterlogged, she had been lucky to survive that battle at all.

In fact, after going overboard during that battle, in the midst of a storm, Ilá could say that her men had probably been drier than the dwarves now were. Ilá herself had been lucky enough to dress before the storm hit; she had unrolled her quilted, fur-lined underskirt, attaching it to her belt with suede loops, buttons and toggles beneath her tunics and overdress, and thrown on her jacket and her rich fur cloak, which could be worn with the fur on the outside or with the rich purple wool facing out; she had covered her head with an ancient sapphire-blue hood once part of a cloak, with a flap that folded out over her brow to shield her face, and to which she could attach by means of four small buttons a knitted cowl with a quilted lining, warming her neck, chin, and over her cheeks and nose, leaving only her eyes bare to the elements, though she brought her turban, hood and cloak-hood low over them.

All things considered, she was toasty as a bear in hibernation and would not for the world have come out of her gorgeous little cocoon of warmth and dryness. The others were not so lucky, and perhaps that came from the relative lack of experience of a life always in the wilds. She always carried with her whatever she could possibly have occasion to use, be it a needle and thread, a sleeveless overdress in hot weather, bandages, extra socks or the fur-lined quilted underskirt that she could, unhooking several toggles, loops and buttons, turn into an extra blanket if her bed-roll did not suffice. Fíli and Kíli, the closest to her, were barely visible five feet in front, yet whenever she caught glimpses of them in the flashes of lightning, they looked utterly miserable; they had given up using their hoods, pushed from their heads by the howling wind every time they tucked them into place.

"HOW MUCH FURTHER?" someone shouted at the top of their lungs; it was Thorin, and his anger and impatience was growing with every lash of water that hit them. Ilá recognised the area, knew caves would start to appear in the rock-face as they tottered along sinuous and very dangerous paths on the cliffs' edges, but most of them were downward-sloping, and would be easily flooded, especially with the amount of rain. They had already navigated an open meadow with the trees waterlogged a foot above their roots; she had never seen it so bad around this area. But they were avoiding the Barrow Downs, which had seemed all Bilbo wished for on the outset of this day's leg of the journey.

It could not have been later than midday by the time the light of Gandalf's staff moved off to the left, but it was already darker than dusk in the storm. The continuous lightning showed flashes of the terrain, and Ilá knew exactly which cave the wizard was leading them to, a dome-roofed cavern with a very slight upward-incline, no paths leading from the back except for a hot-spring that took up a corner of the area, naturally guarded with rocks that steamed due to the hot water. It was more than large enough for twelve dwarves, a hobbit, a woman and a wizard and all their steeds and supplies, and Ilá found it great good fortune no other travellers had sourced it as a place of refuge from the storm. Guiding Opal, she was the last one into the cave with Snowdrop, but just as quickly as the others had the ponies unsaddled, their packages and supplies distributed along an internal wall, the ponies shivering and steaming.

Inside the cave, it was dry and, thanks to the hot-spring, a lot warmer than expected; the sounds of the storm were muffled by the considerably small mouth of the cave, and by the time the ponies were all brushed down and their shoes checked, nosebags in place to placate them, Óin and Glóin, who could make a fire anywhere, had the entire cavern blazing with rich amber light. Dori, Ilá thought, was so used to being motherly to his two younger brothers that he took over, and the other dwarves let him; each of the dwarves and Mr Baggins stripped to their smalls, and, using the crags of the rock, Dori constructed a washing-line zigzagging across the cave; while the fire grew higher and hotter, Dori wrung out all of the clothes and pegged them to the line.

The rich furs of Ilá's cloak had shed most of the water thrown her way; so she was for the most part very dry, just her face, fingers and toes very cold.

"It cannot be past midday," Thorin said, wringing out his jerkin with an angry glower while the other dwarves sat as close as they could around the fire, wrapped in their blankets.

"It is three o'clock, as a matter of fact," Gandalf said thoughtfully, tapping out the contents of his pipe. "I find it great good fortune it is only a storm that first befalls this company."

"We shall be trapped here until the storm relents," Thorin growled impatiently.

"Indeed," Gandalf nodded. "It would absolutely be wisest to shelter here until the downpour eases. It is a shame we could not reach Bree last evening." Ilá glanced over at Gandalf very quickly, then bit back a smirk and wrung out her socks, which alone seemed to have been drenched and therefore owed to her icy toes.

"Let us have something to eat," Balin shivered.

"Aye, boil some water," Bofur chattered, "we shall have a cuppa."

"M-my mother used t-to say n-nothing can't be made a little b-better with a n-nice cup of t-tea," Bilbo chattered, shivering. "Especially with a slice of Beryl Cotton's famous fruit-cake."

"That's a good idea, an' all," Dori said happily, his face lighting up. "Where's the fruit-cake gone? Which pony bore them?"

"Opal, I should think," Ilá said, shivering, and wiped her wet face. The fire was stoked, and the dwarves set Dori's kettle over the flame, boiling enough water to give them all a good hot drink.

"Right, boys, I want you all out of those soaking-wet clothes," Dori ordered, for shy Ori had not stripped to his small shorts, and Fíli and Kíli were apparently shivering too much to do anything but stand and try to communicate through the chattering of their teeth, though they had been muttering darkly as they tried to dry their hair with equally-damp, thin towels.

"—now, don't be daft, Ori, we've all got the same bits! Strip down, now! You too, Fíli, Kíli, or you shall catch your deaths of pneumonia, and what a merry party we shall be, going to your mother to tell her your fate."

"But—" Ori shot Ilá a shy glance.

"Come on, Ori," Fíli shuddered, shaking violently as he fumbled to undo his belt-buckles, glancing quickly at Ilá with the faintest hint of a blush. "Take your clothes off. Our lady won't mind."

"You've already seen her bare legs. Anyway, if the sight of Óin and Glóin in their smalls does not send her into a fainting fit, I doubt naught can," Kíli chattered, shivering as he wrestled his way out of a sopping-wet hooded tunic. He got stuck. "Fíli. Fíli! I can't get out. Help…" Fíli tugged on his brother's tunic, to the amusement of several as the tunic came free and Fíli almost went flying, stumbling backwards with the momentum of his tugs. The same happened when the boys each tugged the other's boots off; Dori whisked the boots away to line them in a circle directly around the fire to dry them off.

While Fíli and Kíli had been helping to extricate each other from their sopping clothes, and Dori had been coaxing Ori to undress in front of the other dwarves, Bilbo and Gandalf, Ilá had slipped behind the overdress and under-skirt that she had pegged up, and climbed out of everything but her smalls, which were really a pair of small-shorts attached to a sleeveless short-tunic by a pair of buttons front and back, crimson in colour and made of cotton with faded embroidery at the hems; she also unbound her hair, for at the front her turban was soaked.

She pegged the long length of fabric beside her skirts and it felt very odd to have her two thick, incredibly long plaits weighing down her back and over her shoulder. A length of suede-cord crossed her hairline, wrapped throughout the two plaits, where she had bound the ends, and she carefully unknotted the suede, gently unravelling the long, heavy plaits. She unwrapped her little bar of elf-made soap from the inside of her pack and stepped to the steaming rocks that acted as a natural barrier from the hot-spring, tested the temperature with her toe, and, vaguely aware of eyes on her, stepped into the water. She stepped out into the pool until the water was waist-height, then dipped down, until her shoulders were submerged. Warmth flowed over her, searing her skin, thawing her frozen toes and fingertips, making her utterly relaxed.

She saw Fíli and Kíli exchange a look, both dressed down to their smalls, and no sooner could they get the clasps out of their hair than they had barrelled into the water with a whoop! Great sighs of relief and delighted laughter echoed off the cavern-walls, and good-humoured Bofur joined them, wearing nothing but his hat, with his lit pipe clamped between his lips, making Ilá laugh for the first time all day. The hot water did wonders for their temper; "the lads" were soon yelling with delight and splashing about, as if they were children in the stream on a hot afternoon; even Bilbo set his feet in the hot water, smiling at the brothers' antics as Bofur paddled about, keeping his chin (and his pipe) carefully above the water. When Kíli splashed at Ilá, she retaliated, ducking him under the water; Fíli swam up behind her under the water, tickling her waist, making her shriek a giggle and splutter as she almost choked on a mouthful of water. When Fíli cornered his brother with a bar of soap, Bofur had to help hold the younger dwarf still so Fíli could work the soap on the knots that had formed in Kíli's hair due to the wind.

"But Fíli, I don't want—"

"You'll be whining when you come to comb it," Fíli frowned, also with his pipe between his teeth, and Ilá thought them such a picture she would remember it always, a pouting Kíli drowned in his long, dark hair, guarded either side by Bofur in his suede hat and long pipe, Fíli's frown of concentration with his brass-capped pipe flashing in the firelight as he lathered his brother's hair with soap. The fact that Bofur had his bare backside to her, with Fíli and Kíli seemingly not noticing or caring about the transparent nature of their smalls, only made her laugh louder to herself as she lathered her own hair with the elf-made soap and Kíli continued to pout and splutter, arms crossed tight over his chest; she could not help notice, either, that Fíli's clothing hid an extraordinarily well-toned physique. A faint dusting of hair gleamed golden in the firelight on his forearms and upper-chest, down to the hem of his smalls; his muscles were not overly large but tight, especially his back and shoulders.

They would have stayed in the water until their skin pruned, for it was deliciously warm and soothing, but when Ilá had finished rinsing the soap out of her hair, Fíli doused his brother with a last bowl of water, and Bofur strutted out of the water so confidently that Ilá couldn't stop laughing despite his nudity (not including the hat).

"—what do you mean, you didn't pack an extra pair of long-johns?" came Dori's indignant voice, and a bashful Ori mumbled embarrassedly in response. "Where was I when Nori was dropping you on your head? What else did you forget to pack?"

"I didn't…" Ori mumbled, flushing embarrassedly; Dori gave him such a blistering frown that Ori scuttled to find his pack, taking from it a sturdy leather-bound book before handing it over to his eldest brother, who quickly unbuckled it and made disparaging noises and frowned at the contents.

While Fíli and Kíli dressed themselves in their dry spare garments, and Bofur refilled his pipe, sitting in nothing but his blanket while his only clothes dried, laughing loudly with Dwalin and Glóin, Ilá dressed in fresh smalls and socks, her long-johns, legwarmers, a long muslin under-dress, and her long, full-skirted dress of richly-embroidered deep-purple wool with long sleeves to her wrists; she drew a fresh length of fabric around her shoulders as a makeshift shawl, using a thin towel to squeeze-dry her hair. The purple dress was relatively new, and a favourite for cooler weather, for it was thick and incredibly warm.

She sat cross-legged on her bed-roll beside Fíli, who had his brother sitting right in front of him on his blanket, both sat cross-legged while Fíli attempted to comb the knots from his little-brother's hair. As he had predicted, Kíli was whining and grimacing, wincing every time Fíli had to exert a little pressure to get the comb through a tangle. It was so familiar a scene that, watching them, Ilá's heart ached, even as it sang for the familiarity, and the boys this vision reminded her of.

After spending the last hour at least laughing at Bofur's antics as he teased Kíli, Fíli grinning easier and happier, eyes twinkling whenever he caught her glance, the memory made her stomach sink, her shoulders grown heavy, and she sighed, no longer smiling, and turned away, toward the fire, absentmindedly drying her hair.

Very soon, everyone having taken time to catch their breaths, pack their pipes and warm their toes by the fire, Dori poured everyone a cup of tea—passing through a small village earlier, they had shared the cost of eggs, fresh milk, sausages and beef from the nearest farm—and they took equal portions of one of Mrs Cotton's famous almond-decorated fruit-cakes. "—to tide you over till dinner," Dori said, smiling as he handed Ilá a cup of tea and a slice of cake, with a slight bow.

"I think we shall use those root-vegetables and beef tonight," she said, and Dori nodded.

"I think so, too; a good hearty stew would set us right up," he said, glancing around the cave, glowing with warmth from the fire, the drying clothes steaming on the precarious washing-line. The dwarves were becoming merry, with something hot to drink and sweet and filling to eat, sending smoke-rings to the ceiling; Bifur and Nori were playing some kind of game involving dice while Balin and Óin laughed creakily, eyes crinkling and tears shining upon their withered cheeks, and even Thorin seemed to be smiling in the shadows as he rested. What a difference a nice cup of tea and a slice of cake could make, even amongst a party of rough-and-ready dwarves used to a rugged life. Bilbo too was happier than he had seemed in a while; for though he had signed his contract, Ilá was certain he still had misgivings about 'adventures' when the weather was so terrible, and he had to stand watch for an hour or so, now that they were nearing the lands of Men rather than hobbits.

Ilá sat, slowly drying her hair, using her fingers to comb through most of it, keeping an ear out for Fíli and Kíli; the younger-brother didn't want his hair plaited, he was adamant about that. He quietly gave Thorin a look as Fíli rolled his eyes, instead gathering his younger-brother's dry, neatly-combed hair away from his face with an embossed clasp at the back of his head. Ilá used her fingers to comb her long hair; she had long ago ceased carrying a comb with her, plaiting and binding her hair to avoid knots and tangles. It was amusing to watch Fíli nimbly comb and separate his hair with two plaits either side of his face, keeping his hair from his temples and thus out of his face, with his own embellished clasp clipped at the back of his head. He actually had two such clasps, and the only bit he seemed to have trouble with was plaiting the hair he had gathered in the first clasp; Kíli braided it for him, using the second clasp to keep the plait in place.

In the corner, embarrassed and berated, Ori had his head tucked down and was using his fingers to comb out the plaits he had put in his ginger hair, carefully redoing the braids, his shoulders slumped, still pink-cheeked from Dori's telling-off. No weapon and no spare long-johns, Dori wondered how he could survive at all on his own; but drawing out a writing-kit from his pack, Ori seemed a little happier as he sipped his tea and ate his cake, scribbling in the leather-bound book, occasionally smiling to himself or glancing up across the cavern at various dwarves, Bilbo, even Ilá.

"Right, boys, come on, you're going to help," Dori exclaimed, and Fíli and Kíli glanced up, giving their best wide-eyed expressions. "Don't give me that look, you shall peel potatoes; you shall help! It's been me and Lady Ilá doing all the cooking since we set out. And I've had Dwalin and Óin's cooking…"

"Is this a lesson in humility?" Kíli asked, crestfallen, and his brother chuckled. Kíli glanced hopefully at Thorin, who arched an eyebrow.

"It's character-building," he said, and Kíli deflated, obviously having hoped the older dwarf would excuse him.

"I have plenty character!"

"Very well. It's character-improving."

"Oi!" Kíli gaped. "You know I'm still scarred from the last time I had to work in the kitchens." And he held up his forefinger. Ilá raised her eyebrows and leaned closer.

"I don't see anything."

"Well, of course not, takes a trained eye trained in medicine to see such a thing," he said, snatching his finger back and pouting as he brought his knife from his quiver, while Fíli sighed and whipped a knife out of one of his gauntlets (he still sat in only his smalls, wrapped in a blanket, but his hair was shining cleanly, and his eyes sparkled); Ori was recruited—after much argument, apparently he was "doing something…important…" but he would not give further details, and he dared anybody to touch his leather-bound book while the ink dried. He was apparently very self-conscious of the contents of that book, for while Dori set him up with a knife and a good heap of potatoes, Ori kept shooting the book guarded looks.

While Dori bustled around the cavern, seeking out the beef, the sealed pot of flour, the onions and the fresh herbs, Fíli, Kíli and Ori sat knee-to-knee, cross-legged with a pile of root-vegetables before them; Fíli was in charge of the turnips, his brother the Swede, and Ori the potatoes, while Ilá took up her knife and sat deftly peeling carrots in one long ringlet peel from root to tip.

"Do you mind if I give you a hand?" Bilbo had hovered over uncertainly, and his smile was at once friendly and tentative, as if he felt, as Ilá did, he was not yet part of the group, and felt awkward making himself noticed by the dwarves.

"Ah, Mr Baggins, if you would be so kind as to cut up some onions," Dori said, bustling past with the cooking-pot, to secure it over the fireplace with a tri-legged trivet. "Give me one chopped fine to sweat down for the flavour and the gravy, first, then just quarter them, I think… Do we all like onions? Kíli! If I see you do that to Ori again, I shall have Lady Ilá take one of your fingers, it'll make it more difficult to hold the knife!"

"You wouldn't!" Kíli glanced wide-eyed at Dori, who raised an eyebrow, and then glanced at Ilá, who slowly and carefully trimmed the tip off a carrot, eyeing Dori earnestly, saying lightly, "I could take more than a finger to teach a lesson, Master Dwarf."

Kíli and Fíli gazed uncomfortably from the circumcised carrot to her face, eyes wide. Kíli visibly gulped, while Fíli caught her eye, receiving a subtle wink she sent him as Kíli tightened his knees together, and she chuckled softly.

"I think just the finger would do," Dori said, and she shrugged delicately.

"Fíli, Bofur, hold him down—"

"No! I'll behave!" Kíli blurted, wide-eyed. "I need all my bits!" Fíli laughed.

"For what? You've no lady," he said.

"It is you who cannot keep a lady in his bed," Kíli protested indignantly, wide-eyed.

"That right, Fíli?" Bofur grinned.

"Unfortunately, Kíli flashes them a smile and they would chase him to the ends of the earth," Fíli said, in a display of good-humour and an uncanny tendency not to hold a grudge Whether it was true or not, Ilá did not know, perhaps it was that Kíli was his brother, or there was not much affection between him and the girls he had bedded.

"We could give ye a few pointers, lad," Dwalin spoke up, and Ilá coughed and sputtered, trying not to burst out laughing. Dwalin, teach the lovely Fíli a thing or two about ensnaring a lady into his bed? Kíli bursting into a fit of hysterical giggles did her; she couldn't hold it back any longer and laughed. "I'll have ye both know, you impudent mongrel, when I were your age lasses would no' leave my bed."

"Manacles?"

"You—"

"Fortunately, Kíli is a notoriously selfish and impatient lover," Fíli said, distracting both Dwalin and his brother. He glanced at Ilá, with a tiny smile and an even fainter blush as he added, "If I lose my lovers it is not long until they realise their mistake and return."

"Who said that?" Kíli blurted indignantly. "Who said I was selfish and impatient as a lover?"

"Fî."

"Fî—you laid with ?" Kíli goggled. He frowned suddenly. "I've never laid with Fî."

"No, she heard it from Løt," Fíli said, clearing his throat softly as he peeled a parsnip. For a second, Kíli's expression was stark; then it turned mulish, and a blush crept high into his cheeks.

"I had training to get to!" he cried indignantly. "She cornered me, what was I supposed to do, reject her, make her feel small and insignificant?"

"Those words might possibly have been bandied about with in the same conversation," Ilá said meaningfully; Fíli and Bofur fell about in hysterical giggles, spurred on only by Kíli's deep crimson blush. He frowned suddenly, eyeing his knife with a glint in his eyes.

"Milady, do you admire your glossy mane the length it is?" he asked lightly.

"It warms my head in cool weather," Ilá shrugged, not answering the question, because she was chuckling and knew what he was implying.

"Because I could give you a nice new haircut," the young dwarf suggested.

"You would not wish to cut Ilá's hair," Fíli said to his brother, with a subtle grin, winking at her, "she might wish to retaliate."

"If I was to retaliate, I would not cut off your hair, or your beard," Ilá said, as Fíli gave her knee a tiny touch, clearing his throat softly, a subtle hint she should play along. "I should scalp you."

"I'm a little worried and at the same time incredibly infatuated by your eagerness to deliver physical harm," Bofur said thoughtfully, eyeing Ilá, who grinned suddenly.

"Have you not met many women inclined to punish you for wrongdoings with physical injury?" Ilá asked curiously.

"Aye, but we tend not to leave them alone with access to weapons," Bofur nodded. Ilá chuckled. "Why d'you think none of us have wives?"

"None of you?"

"The lads are too young," Bofur said fairly, "and Glóin's lad is yet younger than Kíli here, I believe. And Balin and Óin are too old. Most of us prefer to stay determined bachelors dedicated to our wars and our crafts." He winked at Ilá. "But I'm lookin'."

"You wish to be married?"

"Aye! When shall I set the date?" Bofur grinned, and Ilá laughed richly. "Are you married, Ilá?"

"Are you asking?"

"Yes."

"Yes."

"No, hang on, did you think I was asking you to marry me," Bofur blinked quickly, sitting up a little straighter, "or asking if you were married?"

"Yes."

"No, but was that yes, or yes?"

"Yes." She smiled enigmatically, leaving Bofur rather bamboozled. Ilá caught Fíli's expression; he was gazing at her very seriously, head canted to one side as he cut several parsnips into chunks, and she remembered their conversation last evening, about the man who had introduced her to the life of a Ranger.

"Hey, Bilbo—did you leave any bonny lasses lonely for your company in The Shire?" Bofur asked; Bilbo had sat quietly, smiling but shyly not engaging much in the conversation, but the hobbit glanced up from the onions he was quartering (he had his new handkerchief out, daubing at his streaming eyes).

"Me? Oh, no. No, no. It's just me," Bilbo said, smiling contentedly. "No, I… Well, I once thought I'd quite like to marry Primrose Hornblower. She had eyes like cornflowers."

"Why did you not marry her?" Bofur asked incredulously.

"Oh, she married my fourth-cousin once removed on my great-grand-uncle's side," Bilbo sighed, looking for a moment a little glum.

"The complexity of hobbit kinship-networks always amuses me," Ilá smiled softly. "I must say I am fond of your tradition of naming daughters after flowers and jewels."

"I thought some of those ladies in Hobbiton were very fair," Bofur nodded, smiling genially.

"For girls with more hair on their toes than their chins, they were very good-looking," Kíli said, and Ilá laughed richly; his pipe between his teeth, Fíli chuckled and cut the last parsnip into chunks.

"Not every culture appreciates a bearded lady," Bofur said, and Kíli clapped his brother on the back, almost costing Fíli the tip of his thumb.

"I know; Fíli's very picky about his bed-mates," he said.

"Aye, and as first in line, he can have his pick," Bofur grinned, winking at Fíli, who gave a noncommittal smile.

"Not so. Uncle's keen to have him married off to a Firebeard," Kíli grimaced, before laughing and smirking at his elder brother. "Her beard is apparently thicker than yours, Bofur."

"Uncle would not force a wife upon me whom I could not love or respect," Fíli said softly, sneaking a chunk of carrot from the pile Ilá had cut.

"See, dwarves are a picky race," Bofur said genially to Ilá. "Most of us choose to remain single. That, and I can barely afford to take care of myself and me da', and fund my brother's diet, let alone take care of some gorgeous high-maintenance dwarf-maid. Though I find most dwarf-ladies too stonyhearted; I should cut my wrists from boredom if I could not share a laugh with my lady."

Bifur, his duotone beard freshly plaited from a comb, the tip of a goblin-axe embedded in his brow—Ilá did not know how he survived with the weapon embedded in his skull, and indeed, Mr Baggins' eyes flitted to the half-concealed weapon—shuffled past, saying something in dwarvish.

"What did he say?" Ilá asked, as the brothers chuckled at Bofur's deadpan expression.

"He says, 'Water always finds its level'," Bofur said, shaking his head, as Ilá and the boys chuckled. "Thank you for that, Cousin. I love you, too." Over the past few days, Ilá had come to know the dwarves a little better, not just how to differentiate them from each other—they were all incredibly distinctive in their form of dress and adornments to their hair and beards—but their personalities. Great-hearted as dwarves were, Bofur was an unremittingly cheerful dwarf, loyal and sturdy but also good-humoured, and such a person in a company on a journey like theirs would always earn their place in keeping up morale.

She had learned that whatever had happened when the axe was embedded in his skull, Bifur now only communicated in Khuzdul, the secret language of the dwarves, and hand-gestures, and due perhaps to the injury he was particularly quick to jump into an argument. In contrast, Balin used his wits far more than his weapons, due to old age or preference, she did not know, but his brother Dwalin was a fearsome warrior who kept most of the other dwarves at arm's length through sheer intimidation. Óin was hard-of-hearing now, and there were many arguments between him and Glóin, who became irritated and impatient by Óin's trouble hearing; yet Óin was a master with healing poultices and remedies, Glóin, she had just learned, a father. Dori served both as patriarch and the motherly figure in his little nuclear family of two younger-brothers; Nori had had enough of his elder-brother's mollycoddling and gone out of his own, but due to the lack of a sturdy financial foundation to begin with, he had quickly fallen into a life of thievery. Ori was still incredibly young for a dwarf, still reverently studying his Khuzdul and Cirth-runes, but he had a good heart in the right place.

Kíli was the young, reckless lad, quick to prove his worth but slow to weigh repercussions and think better of risky decisions, making choices that caused problems his introspective, rather more mature elder-brother had to help him out of before Thorin could find out—for she had noticed how the two younger dwarves were around Thorin Oakenshield. The younger sought always Thorin's eye, head a little higher with every hard-earned smile or word of encouragement or approval, flushing with embarrassment at every scolding; Kíli sought first always his elder-brother's eye, and one did not speak without the other pausing to listen, or take their position in an argument or vote. Fíli was harder to read, at least as far as his relationship with Thorin, though Ilá had come to think the two brothers were closer than mere kin to the dwarf-king, and she had seen Fíli wish to not disappoint the dwarf-king. Though only five years stood between them in age, Fíli was decidedly more mature than his brother, though he delighted in joining in Kíli's fun, particularly if at Ori's expense, teasing old Balin or laughing with Bofur.

And as for the leader of the company, Ilá did not like to acknowledge the thought, but he was far too like her. They had both lived hard lives, knew full well the reality of war and the expectations of this quest, had even gone from riches to relative rags, knew intimately the darker nature of the wild lands of Middle Earth, yet she did not bear her bitterness as an impenetrable emotional guard, and that was the difference. While the young "lads" were becoming more at their ease around her, and Bofur laughed heartily at her attempts to pronounce select phrases in Khuzdul, it was Thorin Oakenshield who glowered dangerously and said, "The ancient language of our forefathers is held sacred, Bofur, you know this: We do not teach it to those who would ally with our—"

"Thorin Oakenshield, if Master Bofur wishes to aid Ilá in her attempts to better understand your culture and the words of one of our company, so be it," Gandalf said, rather sharply, though his eyes glittered as he glanced at Bofur. "May he be a lesson to you in friendship and the end of dwarvish exclusivity. At the rate your race is going, less than a third of your number female, the other two-thirds unwilling to marry and pass on their bloodline, the only way your revered language and histories shall survive is through other cultures adopting them."

That settled that, and Kíli had great fun teaching Ilá as many lewd phrases in Khuzdul as he could think of; Balin rolled his eyes but smiled, chuckling, and as Bofur grinned incredulously, he said, "It's no wonder Fíli's face is the colour of a ruby, I should get the bar of soap to wash your mouth out, young lady!"

"Does it not bother you to swear?" Bilbo asked curiously.

"Forget the swearing, she's all but engaging in foreplay with the tart," Bofur said, indicating Kíli with a nod (Kíli laughed richly, while his brother blushed even deeper at Bofur drawing attention to his flushed cheeks).

"I have spent many a year in the heart of a battle-camp, Bofur," Ilá said, smiling softly. "I could tell you such jokes and stories as would make Master Glóin's fine beard go white with shock."

"Oh, indeed?"

"Yes."

"Aye, well, tell us some, then!"

"You wish me to?"

So Ilá told them lewd jokes and stories she had picked up over the decades in soldiers' camps; as a rule soldiers always had the best sexual jokes, due to it being the closest thing, besides their own hand, to a sexual encounter. Her stories had Fíli blushing darker as his grin grew, eyes twinkling, tears of mirth dripping down his cheeks, while Kíli giggled uncontrollably, rolling on his back with tears streaming down his face, Bofur shuddering with laughter as Dwalin roared and Kíli used one of his brother's plaits to daub his eyes dry.

Perhaps it was the sight of Kíli's reactions to her jokes and Fíli wiping his eyes, beaming, but Ilá was sure she saw a smile flicker across Thorin's dark face, and as Dori berated Ori for giggling at things "you ought not to understand at your age" the cluster of dwarves around Ilá broke away and Thorin looked more contented than he had since they had met.

Still giggling from Ilá's jokes, now perfectly dry and warm, the fire blazing (Bofur had packed a sack full of coal for just such an occasion when firewood became scarce), their clothes drying and a stew of flour-dredged beef chunks, root vegetables and onions cooking slowly over the fire, the pipe-weed out and the ceiling of the cavern hazy with smoke, the atmosphere within the cavern was akin to that of a well-lit inn full of laughter, raucous conversation, the smell of good food cooking, and, when Fíli was encouraged by his brother to get his fiddle out, music.

Kíli was all for showing off his skill with the bow (on the fiddle as well as with an arrow) but Fíli was the more introspective, almost bashful brother and had to be encouraged by Kíli, Thorin and Bilbo to play; the hobbit was fond of music and, though many of the dwarves' songs were of gold and treasures, some of them spoke of Durin's Awakening, and the creation of the dwarves by Aulë the Smith. Bilbo could sing, relatively well "for my own people" and the young brothers were very adept at creating a melody to accompany him; in his turn, Bilbo sang of beautiful, growing things, he sang ale-songs and played as much of the Springle-ring, a very lively hobbit-dance, as he could on Fíli's fiddle.

Ilá, long having since separated her incredibly long hair into two thick, heavy, shining plaits, had also wound her hair in a turban around her head, and chuckled and grinned, watching Bilbo try to teach Bofur and Kíli the steps to the energetic Springle-ring, laughing with his hands on his knees (now clothed again in his short trousers and striped shirt, his braces dangling around his hips).

When Dori declared that the meat had cooked through beautifully, bowls and forks were passed around and everyone sat down to laugh and enjoy a beautiful stew, melt-in-your-mouth chunks of beef, with hunks of carrot, parsnip, Swede and potato, flavourful and soaked in a rich gravy; with the laughter of the dwarves, the wholesome nature of the meal and the warmth of the fire, the storm outside was quite forgotten.


A.N.: I have a sudden urge, inspired by my hair (which is perfect hobbit-hair, I should've been a body-double for Peter Jackson's films!) to write a story with a female hobbit going along for the journey; something about her arguing with comfortable Bilbo on him going on adventures, when she can whip him at conkers and can wield a walking-stick the way Little John does a staff during his fight with Robin in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, Bilbo going (pinching his forehead for patience) "It's dangerous" and her responding "So why are you going then?" But I can't justify starting a new story, with no real idea what point there'd be to it, who the girl is, what purpose she would serve, how she would change things, I suppose she will forever remain a vague, curly-haired figure who calls Thorin a "stodgy old git" for hoarding the treasures of Erebor when the people of Laketown are starving/dying from exposure.