Thanks for the continued support, everyone! This chapter was pretty fun to write, so I hope you guys like it =)

ooo OOO ooo OOO ooo

#7. Entertaining Guests.

Balin was the one who was at the door next, with a great white beard and kind, twinkling eyes. Balin and Dwalin, apparently brothers? Lorne may have missed something while she was watching them reunite with huge, startled eyes. And, now. . .

Dwarves. There are literally dwarves everywhere -and she is so overwhelmed that she doesn't even know where to begin. She lost sight of poor, spluttering Bilbo around the same time that the youngest pair burst into the house, a blond with a nicely braided moustache, and one with darker hair and barely any wisp of a beard at all. Fili and Kili? God, how is she going to remember all of their names? Does she have to remember all of them?

Wait -why the hell are they even here, again? She really wants to ask, but. . . well. She's also a bit nervous about being surrounded by this many. . . um, boisterous strangers. So, she kind of keeps to herself. Says her name when asked. Smiles when someone smiles back. And she attempts to stay in her little corner of the dining room while lingering unconsciously close to Dwalin. She has finally found an interesting topic of conversation that he is willing to offer more than a handful of blunt sentences on.

Which would be weapons, by the way. He is very passionate about weapons -axes in particular, as he happens to wield two double-bladed ones that Lorne is trying desperately hard not to beg to see.

"How large are they? Are they made with some kind of steel alloy?" Her eyes are wide and utterly impossible to ignore. "Nickel-infused? Titanium, maybe? Though, titanium isn't really the easiest metal to work with. . ."

"Steel -and they're probably too heavy for yah to even lift, lass." He huffs over his ale. "You look as if a light wind might knock you over."

"Hah, hah. Like I haven't heard that one before. But, really -I think that I'd surprise you, Mister Dwalin." She grins crookedly. "I'm much more capable than I look, you know."

Yeah, he seems to consider her own fascination with the subject amusing and rather baffling. She asks about the different types of materials that the dwarves usually forge with, how long certain types of weapons take to create, along with dozens of other questions that, of course, the dwarf doesn't exactly answer. They simply leave him staring at her with this twist of a smirk, as if he could be thinking: and this crazy kid actually believes that she can compete with dwarvish smiths? Don't make me laugh. . .

It's a little patronizing and a lot annoying, and it only makes her even more determined to prove that she does know what she is talking about. Why? She. . . has no idea. Dwalin still remains the very first dwarf that she has ever met in Middle-earth, and. . . that's important to her. And, if this is going to be the only night she gets to hang out with this weird, enthusiastic crowd, she wants him to remember that crazy kid who wanted to craft her own swords and shields and battle axes with, at the very least, some fond exasperation.

She can live with just plain exasperation, too.

Eventually, Dwalin is drawn into a debate with the dark-haired dwarf wearing an ear-flap hat, seated across from them at the table. Bofur? Bifur? Lorne has truly forgotten which. Her eyes flicker between the pair, but she quickly slips back into observation mode and begins scanning the room, a rather stupid grin on her face.

And there is the wizard. You can't forget the wizard -not that she ever could. Old and tall, about as tall as she is, dressed in loose grey robes with the staff and the pointed hat and everything, accepting a glass from an older dwarf with braids and, yeah. A wizard. Gandalf the Grey -and his name is probably the only unsurprising thing about this entire night.

She would truly like to ask him some questions -mainly, how did he know that she was staying here? And how much more does he know about her, exactly? And. . .

Oh, hey -Bilbo! Lorne suddenly spies him smack in the middle of the whirling chaos, flushing red and his curls shaking furiously as he attempts to argue with one of the dwarves, or any of the dwarves who will listen, it seems. Which would be: none of them. In fact, they appear to be having the time of their lives here and, as guilty as she feels about the mud over the floors and all of their food from the pantry being taken and piled onto the table, she is just so caught up in the sheer volume of energy roaring through Bag End right now. . . that she simply can't help but be swept along for the ride.

She is also afraid to move in case she knocks something, or someone, over. That possibility is seeming more and more likely as the chaos continues.

"So! What was your name again, lass? And, beggin' your pardon, but you don't appear to be from anywhere around these parts. . . are yeh?"

Lorne turns back to the table and to the dwarf with the ear-flap hat. He is watching her with big, curious brown eyes, and she feels her face automatically growing warm at the attention as the dwarves sitting closest to them also decide to tune in.

"It's, um, Lorne. MacGrath." She scratches the side of her neck with an awkward smile. "And, no. I've only been living in the Shire for about a year, now. Bilbo has, very graciously, been allowing me to stay with him at Bag End."

"Why, yeh hear that, lads?" Bofur flashes his grin at a few others -Oin and Nori? before he aims it back at her. He looks positively delighted. "Gandalf was right! That accent. . ." He lets out a low whistle. "Where in the world are yeh from, Miss Lorne?"

Huh? Gandalf was right -? How could he have. . ?

"Oh, well. . . pretty far away. Extremely far away, to be honest." She stammers. "You could probably say that I'm from a whole other world, and that still wouldn't be close enough."

"Aye, I believe it!" Bofur laughs. "Especially with clothes like that."

Wait, what's wrong with her clothes. . ?

"Is it also true that you're a craftsman?" Nori -he has the tall flop of red hair, doesn't he? asks from the other side of Dwalin -and the latter dwarf gives her a brief look that might almost be considered surprised.

What -he didn't think she was serious before? With all of those questions on making weapons? Man, who would even care about those sorts of things if they weren't serious about learning how to build them?

"Gandalf says so." Nori adds lightly, at her dumbfounded expression. "He says, you were one of the most talented smiths in your village! 'Course, that was before they closed down your shop. . . isn't that what happened?"

Good Lord. Does this wizard know everything about her?

"Ah. . . yes. I mean, about the closing down the shop, part." Lorne fights down another bright, hopeless blush, though her ears must be violently red by this point. "And I like to think that I'm pretty good at what I do. Or, what I used to do." She shrugs. "It's mostly repairing gates, animal pens, and garden fences around the Shire, though. Nothing to get excited about. . ."

She leans back in her chair just as someone is passing behind her. A startled voice curses and she yelps out when something cold sloshes down her shirt -and then she is toppling over too fast to even be surprised.

But, no. Something stops her before she falls. Dwalin lashes out and grabs the edge of her chair, and another hand is suddenly digging into her shoulder, keeping her upright until she can find her balance again.

"Are you all right, Miss Lorne? Oh, Mahal -I wasn't even looking. . ."

"No -I mean, yeah. I'm fine. It was kind of my fault, too." Lorne shakes her head, plucking at the bottom of her damp shirt with a frown. It smells like. . . yep. The dwarf spilled his ale on her. Awesome.

She glances up and her eyes land on the fingers still attached to her shoulder. When her frown deepens, they almost immediately let go. "Don't worry about it." She tells him. "I'm sure something like this was bound to happen, sooner or later. Sort of easy to trip over me, considering. . ." She holds her hand over her head to sheepishly indicate her size.

And this is met with a laugh and a brilliant smile amidst his mane of long, blond hair. "I'm sorry about that, as well -make no mistake." The dwarf jokes. "May I offer you this as compensation, perhaps?" He moves to give her one of the full tankards of ale in his other hand, but. . . she doesn't take it.

Actually, all Lorne can do is stare at him. In retrospect, that might have been a little weird. She squints at him with what must be the strangest expression on her face, and the grin slowly slips from his as the silence between them hovers into awkward.

She almost wants to blurt out: Do I know you from somewhere? Which would be ridiculous, of course. Because, how? How could she possibly know him? She was there when Bilbo opened the front door and let him and the other young dwarf into the house for the first time, and nothing had. . . He didn't seem. . .

She shakes her head again and her mouth curls into a strained smile. "No, thanks. I'm not really big on ale, Fili." His name is easy to remember, now. It burst into her mind with such a weird sense of clarity -she likely won't be forgetting it ever again. "I appreciate it, though." She reassures him, feeling a twinge of guilt at his disappointment.

"As do I, lad." Dwalin grins, and he snatches the offered ale to replace his own empty tankard, drawing some raucous laughs from the other dwarves who were watching. And then, he proceeds to pour the entire thing down the hearing aid Oin is using.

Amazing.

Lorne bursts into laughter, herself, as she makes to get up. Her shirt is now beginning to stick to her back and it is incredibly uncomfortable. She flashes Fili another awkward grin, waving him off as he opens his mouth to apologize again.

"Seriously, I have plenty of other clothes to change into. It was just an accident." She gives him a two-fingered salute before she ducks into the hallway, and he looks relatively more cheerful when he returns to his chair at the opposite corner of the table.

Besides, not only does she need another shirt. . . she has a hobbit to check in on and a wizard to interrogate. Something funny is going on with that Gandalf, and she wants to know exactly what it is. She hurries into her room, peels off her band tee, and shrugs into a plain yellow one only stained across the bottom. But the paint smears are these vibrant reds and oranges, and they look like a really cool sunset design. She happens to be quite fond of it.

By the time she wanders back out into the sitting room again, Bilbo appears to be in the middle of an argument with said wizard.

". . . don't understand what they're doing in my house!" He blusters, cheeks bright pink, his hands on his hips.

Gandalf, meanwhile, is chewing thoughtfully on the end of his pipe with a teasing brightness in his eyes. Lorne doesn't hear his answer, though, as the frustrated hobbit is approached by one of the younger, red-headed dwarves.

"Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt. . ." He says, and she is fairly sure that his name is Ori. . . or Dori? No, no. It's definitely Ori. "But what should I do with my plate?"

Fili abruptly pokes his head around the corner of the dining room, as if waiting for his cue. "Here you go, Ori. Give it to me." He grins, and then he takes the dish and tosses it to his dark-haired brother in one fluid movement.

Oh, well. . . wow. That was impressive. But, it gets even better. Once a few of the dwarves see Fili and Kili throwing their empty plates into the kitchen, where the dwarf with the axe sticking out of his forehead -Bifur? Bombur?- is at the sink, washing them, which is just. . . totally and completely unexpected, by the way. . . the rest join in. Within minutes, the air is full of laughter and flying dishware.

Lorne feels a huge, disbelieving grin stretch across her face at the sight. Of course, she can always talk to Gandalf later. . . when she is less likely to catch a fork through the eye if she crosses the room. Bilbo, naturally, does not look very happy about the treatment of his dishes. He squawks and sputters and attempts to explain that they used to belong to his mother, thank you very much -and they are over a hundred years old!

"And can you not do that, please?" He begs the dwarves at the table, who are now drumming their cutlery together in perfect rhythm across the wood. "You'll blunt them!"

"Oooh, he says we'll blunt the knives!" Bofur chortles.

Okay, sure. Lorne might have been imagining a number of different ways for this scene to end, but none of them honestly involved the dwarves bursting into song. She dissolves into a helpless fit of laughter at the sound, ducking and dodging a few wayward mugs that spiral past her corner.

Can these guys visit Bag End on a regular basis? If Bilbo doesn't have a heart attack, maybe she could convince him. . ? Somehow? Maybe? That would be so awesome. . .

It takes about ten minutes -literally, ten whole minutes- for the dwarves to clean every cup, bowl, and plate in the entire house. And then, they end up stacked into an immaculate pile on the edge of the dining table, not a single piece even scratched.

". . . that was amazing." Lorne feels her wide, toothy grin nearly take over her entire face as the dwarves howl with laughter.

Bilbo doesn't scowl, not quite, as he steps up next to her. He does look like he might want to start yelling again, though. "Ah, no. I wouldn't have called it that." He huffs, but his flustered expression slowly begins to ease when he realizes that his cheerful, uninvited guests haven't actually broke anything.

"You have truly enjoyed this spectacle, haven't you?" He squints up at her. "The crowd, the noise? All of it?" He frowns. "Really?"

Lorne awkwardly rubs the back of her neck. "I know. I'm kind of surprised about that, too. But. . . yeah. This was actually really fun." She chuckles. "And, don't worry -we can restock the pantry, and I'll help clean up any messes that were missed. Floors and everything. It won't be so bad. I mean, since we do we ever have guests?"

The hobbit sighs. "Yes, I suppose. But it might take us quite a long awhile." When his gaze meets hers again, an exasperated smile flickers at the corner of his mouth. "And I still haven't gotten a straight answer as to why all of them are here. . ."

A sudden, heavy knock echoes through Bag End. Everyone falls silent, and fourteen pairs of eyes are automatically straying towards the front door.

"He is here." Gandalf murmurs, his voice solemn.

That sounds. . . ominous. Lorne and Bilbo exchange puzzled frowns. With little other choice, they follow behind the dwarves into the foyer. Something is different about this vistor, that much is clear. The air around everyone is tense, charged. Not anxiously, but almost in. . . anticipation?

Hmm. Lorne stays by the fringe of the group, watching their reactions curiously. Who could this person possibly be, to make such a merry bunch act like this?

Gandalf opens the door and Lorne blinks. And then, she blinks again as the last dwarf strides into Bag End. Shrewd blue eyes set above a long, sharp nose, and his handsome face is framed by thick, black hair streaked with silver. Tall -not as tall as Dwalin, though certainly just as formidable. . .

"Gandalf, I thought you said this place would be easy to find." His accent is low and dark and ridiculously smooth. "I lost my way -twice. And I wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door." He loosens the collar of his traveling cloak with sure, practiced fingers just as Bilbo pushes his way into view.

"What -? Mark?" The hobbit sounds incredibly offended by the notion. "There is no mark on that door, Lorne painted it a week ago!" He snaps.

Which she did, sure. But she can always paint it again -it's not a big deal.

"Yes, there is a mark. I put it there myself." Gandalf gently corrects him, as he closes the door again. For the first time that she has noticed all evening, the wizard actually looks over at her. His smile is barely a whisper across his face, but it is kind, and patient, and reassuring, and Lorne feels a strange brush of relief at the sight of it.

She can't help smiling a little in return.

"Miss MacGrath, Bilbo Baggins. . ." The wizard continues. "Allow me to introduce the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield."

No surprises there. About the leader part, anyways. Said dwarf stops right in front of Bilbo, his blue eyes intent and unblinking upon the smaller man as he folds his arms over his chest. "So, this is the hobbit." His expression might be unreadable, but his heavy stare is incredibly intimidating.

"Tell me, Mr. Baggins -have you done much fighting?" Thorin presses. He saunters around Bilbo like how a shark might circle its prey.

"Ah, pardon me?" Bilbo frowns, attempting to track the dwarf with a mounting stiffness in his posture, a slight pink color in his cheeks.

The dwarf is relentless, though. "Axe or sword?" He demands. "What's your weapon of choice?"

Weapon? What? Lorne feels her own bemused frown flicker into a scowl as this goes on. Bilbo draws himself up and tries to bluff his way through the stream of mocking questions, confused and indignant and, yeah. Okay -enough is enough. This new dwarf is an ass and her friend does not deserve to be spoken to like this! Who the hell cares if he is the so-called leader of this company? His manners just. . . suck. A lot.

"Hey, you. Mister Thorin? Excuse me." A sharp, blistering heat ignites beneath her skin as she inserts herself right into the middle of the interrogation. "I'm pretty sure that you're a guest in his house, aren't you? Instead of jumping down his throat as soon as you walk in, you could just say thank you -because he did feed all of your companions dinner."

Complete silence.

The other dwarves hardly appear to be breathing, let alone about to do any speaking of their own. And, Thorin. . . he surveys her for a long, unsettling moment, his blue eyes flickering from her head to toes before they narrow underneath his brows. And, despite the fact that she towers over the dwarf, her rise of anger begins to waver beneath his sheer force of presence.

"And, you would be -?" The dwarf coldly prompts. "Who? His bodyguard?"

"Well, I was hoping for friend. . . before you started being rude, at least." She weakly admits, with a dull, uncomfortable flush creeping across her face. "I mean, I'm friends with Bilbo. I kind of live here with him. . . and, Lorne. That's my name -did I say that?" She clears her throat as her skin begins to burn. "Look, I'm pretty sure that we started off on the wrong foot, here. . ."

And, that's it. The rest of her anger abruptly melts down her spin like a bucket of ice water, her words failing completely.

He is not impressed with her show, either. Why would he be? Lorne might have the height advantage, but for all of her intelligence and awkward bravado, her short bursts of confidence never last long enough for her to really. . . do anything with them. Especially when she needs them the most.

Thorin gives her another critical look as the tense silence threatens to return. "We do not need a friend -Miss Lorne." He strides right past her into the dining room. "And we certainly do not need a woman who cannot keep her mouth shut."

Lorne doesn't even have a moment to respond before all of the dwarves have followed after him, and she is left standing in the foyer with a silent wizard and a fuming hobbit, her hands shaking down by her sides and the most confusing twist of hurt, rage, and humiliation slapped across her face.