OK SO WHO CAN TELL HOW MUCH I LOVE THE THORIN/READER BANTER? BECAUSE I REALLY LOVE THE THORIN/READER BANTER.

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You and Bilbo are very sorry to leave Rivendell. The air cools the further you trek from the valley and becomes damp and miserable in the mountains. A heavy storm starts before nightfall. The raindrops are icy and the wind cuts through your pitiful layers like they don't exist. You are so thoroughly dispirited that you give no thought to the future until a great boulder flies through the air and shatters on the mountain face above. You cower close to the mountain as sharp pieces of rock rain down upon the company.

Balin shouts, "This is no thunderstorm, it's a thunder battle! Look!"

Great figures of living stone emerge from the very mountainside. They punch and shove each other and throw boulders, uncaring of the very small and very easily crushed travelers nearby. Bofur is awed by them, and you'd like to share his sentiment, but you'd like to share it from perhaps inside of a nuclear fallout bunker.

The rock beneath your feet trembles and lurches. You squeal and clutch the nearest steady dwarf, which in this case is Kili. You'd forgotten the once-in-a-lifetime ride on the stone giant's legs the company had to endure. You also latch onto Bilbo, who is unashamed in returning the gesture. The ordeal lasts only about a minute, but it's a minute of swirling through open chasm in the wind and rain. Your ride suddenly shudders and tilts full-speed back towards the mountain path. Someone screams to jump, and you do so with all your might, bringing Bilbo with you. Your shoulder hits stationary stone hard, but you are grateful to be on inanimate ground once more.

"All right?" you ask Bilbo breathlessly.

"Y-Yes - thank you for - "

"Don't mention it." You figure the poor hobbit had enough to deal with without the tongue-lashing from Thorin you'd just prevented.

The company reunites and quickly ascends further to escape the stone giants. "In here," Thorin calls finally, motioning to a slit in the wet rock. "We will rest here for tonight."

You make a face; there won't be much resting done, but you enter nonetheless. You can't help but tread carefully on the sandy floor, like one heavy footfall will trigger the trap earlier than intended.

"There's nothing here," Dwalin reports after a sweep of the stone chamber.

Gloin drops an armful of wood and rubs his hands together. "Alright then! Let's get a fire started."

Thorin shakes his head. "No fires, not in this place. Get some sleep. We start at first light."

You shiver in the wet clothes that fire would have surely dried. You nestle into the warmest crevice you can find and burrito yourself in your blankets. You must look as miserable as you feel, for on his way to his bedroll, Thorin casts you an almost pitying look.

"We could start a fire," you grumble.

"No, not here. I would not like to advertise our presence."

"To what, the clouds?"

"Perhaps you should have foreseen the weather and packed accordingly."

"Thorin, would it be mutiny or regicide if I push you off the mountain?"

Thorin's beard twitches, and you get a rush of outrage. He enjoys bothering you! He likes knowing he's gotten to you! He doesn't take your threats seriously; if he did, he'd probably dispose of you in your sleep. You squint at him, not knowing whether you should curse every part of his personality or be glad that there's even one little thing you can do to amuse him.

Try as you might, you can't seem to make yourself go to sleep. The ordeal of a few hours creeps under your skin like the cold of the rock wall seeping through your clothes. You finally give up and join Bofur on watch.

"You should sleep, lass," he scolds gently.

"Can't," you sigh.

"Is it something you've seen that keeps you 'wake?"

You shift uncomfortably and look around the room. You notice Thorin's blue eyes open. "Yeah, you could say that."

"What is it, then? Something bad?"

"It's certainly not pleasant, but it'll be fine. Just remember that no matter what happens, we are all in for a happy ending."

Bofur smiles. "That's a nice thing to hear, especially now. It's hard to keep your spirits up in the rain and the cold. You being here in the company is a comfort to me, if you don't mind me saying."

It's your turn to smile. "Thanks, Bofur. You've always been kind to me and I appreciate it more than I can say, given our, er, differences."

He laughs. "Elf or no, you've proven yourself loyal, and that's all we really care about."

You're about to respond when low creaking reaches your sensitive ears. For a split second you hope it's just the wind - then the sand on the floor begins to disappear.

You jump up. "Ah! It's time! Everybody wake up! Hey, I said wake up!"

There's a flurry of startled limbs and annoyed grumbles as the Dwarves rouse. Thorin starts towards you before the floor gives way.

You scream all the way down the rock tunnel slides. Each hard surface you hit leaves a bruise or worse and earns a particularly sharp cry. You feel like you've been in a dryer with a load of bricks by the time you fall on top of the mound of bodies.

You hardly know up from down before the awful shrieks of the goblins echo off the high ceiling of the cavern. You just close your eyes and don't fight the flow; it's painful enough being stabbed with ragged claws every time you are passed to a new captor. One goblin scratches you viciously on a whim. You yelp and open your eyes.

Goblin Town is, despite its unsavory inhabitants, a feat of engineering. Hundreds of levels of rickety wooden platforms lashed together with moldy rope are somehow capable of supporting the weight of thousands of goblins. You find yourself marveling at the mechanics of it all before you're pushed roughly into Dwalin's back. The convoy has halted.

The Great Goblin, even uglier in person, crunches several other goblins as he rises in a huff. "Who would be so bold as to come armed into my kingdom?" he cries. "Spies? Thieves? Assassins?"

"Dwarves, Your Malevolence," the goblin in front reports.

"Dwarves?!"

"We found them on the front porch."

"Well, don't just stand there! Search them! Every crack, every crevice!"

Nasty hands tear at your person. They rip away your sword, but that's all you really have to take. The Dwarves put up a bit more of a fight. Oin's ear trumpet becomes a casualty.

Once every weapon has been confiscated, the Great Goblin demands, "What are you doing in these parts? Speak!"

No one so much as opens their mouths. You're rather impressed by their pride.

"Well then, if they will not talk, we'll make them squawk! Bring out the Mangler! Bring out the Bone Breaker! Start with the youngest."

Ori looks terrified as goblins grab for him. Thorin shouts, "Wait!" and emerges from the back of the group. You roll your eyes; enough time with Thorin has made you somewhat immune to his theatrics.

The Great Goblin squints and smiles maliciously. "Well, well, well, look who it is. Thorin son of Thrain, son of Thror; King under the Mountain." He bows dramatically and sarcastically before "remembering", "Oh, but I'm forgetting, you don't have a mountain. And you're not a king. Which makes you nobody, really."

Thorin glowers up at the Goblin King. Your blood boils at the insult. You consider tearing the foul-smelling blob a new one; the struggle against the two goblins holding you earns you a swift swipe across the chest with filthy fingernails.

"I know someone who would pay a pretty price for your head," the Great Goblin continues. "Just the head, nothing attached. Perhaps you know of whom I speak: an old enemy of yours. A Pale Orc astride a White Warg."

Some of the color drains from Thorin's face. He hisses, "Azog the Defiler was destroyed. He was slain in battle long ago!"

"So you think his defiling days are done, do you?" the Great Goblin laughs darkly. He says in an aside to a deformed little thing in a basket, "Send word to the Pale Orc. Tell him I have found his prize."

The surrounding goblins shriek with savage amusement.

"The rest are of no use to me. Let us have them as entertainment!"

The goblins are quick about dragging their oversized torture devices up from the depths of the cavern. The Great Goblin sang his awful song, whipping his subjects into more of an excited frenzy over the "entertainment" that will never come.

The goblin going through the pile of swords suddenly squeals and stumbles backwards. The reaction spreads to all the surrounding goblins; the Great Goblin recoils into his throne and gasps, "I know that sword! It is the Goblin-Cleaver, the Biter, the blade that sliced a thousand necks!"

The goblins surrounding the company froth with rage. One punches you in the stomach and another leaps on your back. You can't think of anything to do but return the favor. You gouge and bite at anything that moves.

"Slash them! Beat them! Kill them! Kill them all! Cut off his head!"

Thorin is tackled to the ground in front of the group. Momentarily forgetting all you know, you scramble towards him, but your two particular adversaries pull you back.

A powerful shockwave and flash of light from your left sends you sprawling on the wooden ground. You shake your head, a bit daze from smashing it on someone's boot.

"Take up arms. Fight. Fight!"

Your heart soars. You have never been so relieved to hear anyone's voice in your life. You kick the goblins off you and grab your sword out of the pile. You've had all of three days worth of training and you are ready to kick some goblin ass.

You follow Gandalf closely, swinging your sharp metal weapon wildly whenever an enemy gets too close. More than once your lack of experience almost costs a Dwarf an eye or ear; Dwalin finds the seconds to send you a look that clearly says you're in for some brutal training if anyone makes it out alive. But you know that everyone will make it out alive, so you are having a blast.

You accidentally back into Thorin while avoiding a spear. He steadies you and shouts over the din, "Is this what you call fine?!"

You throw him the fastest indignant glance you can spare. "Excuse me? I know you're not blaming me for this!"

"I should just like to be clear on your definition of a good ending!"

You manage to slash an oncoming goblin. "Does it look like it's over yet?"

He beheads several attackers in response.

You continue to rant. "Y'know, I've put up with your attitude and mistrust with good graces. I knew coming into this that you're the hardest-headed Dwarf to ever walk Middle Earth. But I would think that, for as hard as I've tried, I might have earned the benefit of the doubt!"

"You try too hard!"

"Try too hard?! Thorin Oakenshield, I have had it up to here with your - shit!" You barely dodge an arrow; it lodges in a post right by your head.

"Why did you not warn me if you knew this would happen?"

"Shockingly, Thorin, there are bigger things going on in the world than this quest!"

You've managed to bicker your way into being blocked by the Great Goblin; he explodes out of the wooden floor and impedes the path. "You thought you could escape me?" he howls. He swings a massive mace at Gandalf, almost causing the Wizard to fall over. "What are you going to do now, wizard?"

Gandalf's three-part plan is explained via a poke to the eye and a gash across the stomach.

The Great Goblin says as though thoughtfully considering an opponent's argument, "That'll do it."

Gandalf makes his point by cutting the Goblin King's neck. The weight of the falling corpse causes the long-suffering wooden supports of the bridge to give way. With a creak and many snaps, the platform gives way and surfs deeper into the chasm. You scream and clutch Thorin's arm as your stomach launches into your neck; you are astonished when he responds by grabbing a handful of your shirt.

The fallen bridge disintegrates mere feet above the cavern floor. Despite your disorientation, you immediately roll out of the wood and crawl away.

"Well, that could have been worse!" Bofur exclaims.

Then, of course, a particularly giant goblin corpse lands on them.

"You've got to be joking!" Dwalin grunts.

Somehow the rest of the goblins are not far behind. The company digs their way out of the rubble and once more follows Gandalf. You're speed-limping more than running; elf or not, this night has brought more abuse than your poor once-human body and psyche has ever had to bear.

The setting sun bathes you in a warmth most welcome after the dank dampness of Goblin Town. You lean against a tree to catch your breath and collect yourself before the action starts up yet again. Between gasps for air, you curse adrenaline-filled climaxes.

"Five, six, seven, eight...Bifur, Bofur...that's ten...Fili, Kili...that's twelve...and Bombur - that makes thirteen - Aniel, fourteen." Gandalf nods, pleased with his calculations before realizing the sum is off. "Where's Bilbo? Where is our Hobbit? Where is our hobbit?"

Dwalin stomps the ground. "Curse the the halfling! Now he's lost?!"

"Not lost," you pant. "He's coming, just - just give him a minute - "

The minutes tick by. Bilbo does not appear. You don't care all that much, considering your lungs are on fire.

Thorin shakes his head bitterly. "He is not coming back. Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it! He's thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm hearth since first he stepped out of his door! We will not be seeing our Hobbit again. He is long gone."

You squint at Thorin and would reprimand him if you could get enough oxygen to do so.

"No," Bilbo says, appearing from behind a tree, "he isn't."

Bilbo's reappearance is met with gladness from all. You smirk smugly at Thorin, who has the grace to look at least a bit ashamed of himself.

Gandalf, in the midst of all the questions of Bilbo's escape, says with slightly forced cheer, "Well, what does it matter? He's back!"

"It matters," Thorin says, staring hard at Bilbo. "I want to know - why did you come back?"

You're thrilled to see that Bilbo is at the end of his rope with Thorin, enough to finally talk back. "Look, I know you doubt me. I know you always have. And you're right, I often think of Bag End. I miss my books. And my armchair. And my garden. See, that's where I belong. That's home. And that's why I came back - because you don't have one, a home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back if I can."

You beam proudly at Bilbo's eloquence. Thorin nods slightly and backs down, which is an added treat. But the good feeling is gone as soon as it comes: warg howls pierce the dimming day, much too close for comfort.

Thorin growls, "Out of the frying pan..."

"...and into the fire," Gandalf finishes. "Run!"

You groan as your exhausted muscles are forced back into high gear. Your legs tremble as you flee the oncoming warg pack. You hope you can hold out just a little bit longer - it's time for the final showdown.