A/N: I apologize for taking so long to update, but I had a billion things tugging at my attention for the last couple of months. Happily, however, I recieved my Master's degree in english literature and I can now happily devote my time to more creative endeavors.
Please, as always, read and enjoy, and quite possibly leave a review at the door. They make my day and I'm eager to hear your thoughts on this new chapter! :)
Oh, and don't forget to check out the new cover image I made for the story, I'm rather proud of it, given my limited technical skills. :P
Chapter 14: Doubtful Storms
The storm that had driven them into the cave hadn't slackened in the least as the night wore on.
Large, heavy droplets rang out against the unyielding stone of the mountain in a steady, drubbing rhythm, the sound harsh and torrent. The sand that covered the floor of the cavern dampened in thick, streaming rivulets that flowed and trickled down the cracked, slanting rock. Even the very walls of the cave were wet and glistening, water seeping down to slicken and carve paths down the craggy stone.
Bofur kept his watch near the mouth of the cave as he had been instructed, though his thoughts drifted far from the lonely vigil he kept. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a dull echo of the battle the company had barely survived. Even the snores of the other dwarves were drowned out by the remote crashing of dark clouds.
No one had been expecting legends to come to life in the midst of a thunderstorm. He'd hardly believed it himself when he'd called out over the squall that the stone giants of his people's myths were right before their eyes.
And then the world had literally tilted on them.
It was only the combination of luck and the blessed glance of Mahal that had saved any of them from that terrible battle among the mountains. Thankfully, that blessing had held long enough for them to find shelter, a dry place to sleep for a few, precious hours before pressing on beyond the Misty Mountains.
When he exhaled heavily past chapped lips, his breath hung in the air like the notes of a song. His chin rested in his gloved palms, his elbows resting on the tops of his thighs. The slight shuffling of his feet sent sand scratching beneath his boots, but he didn't pay it much mind. His eyes watched the rain pour heavily against the darkness just outside their sanctuary, though he truly did not see the storm.
Absently, his fingers, exposed at the tips, swept up his rough cheek to the fiery braid that hung from beneath his hat. The woven strands were warm and smooth to the touch, the chilled pads of his thumb and forefinger rubbing the braid between them. Soft heat emanated from the twined hairs, a trait that he suspected, but did not care to think on too much. He'd already given it a great deal of thought. He'd also come to a decision.
Culurien's draconic nature hardly mattered to him. The reason why required even less speculation. He knew the answer to that, its quiet presence a flickering ember in the depths of his mind.
Bofur was a loyal dwarf, to king and friend alike. Thorin was a just and powerful man, and when he regained his kingdom, Bofur had no doubt that Erebor would once again prosper. The promised end of their quest was too great for the crownless prince to risk many chances and there was not a dwarf among them that would question a judgment, once given. The trust between the company was, by necessity, nearly absolute. It had to be; none of them could afford a single sliver of doubt amongst themselves, for it was only within the company that their future, and their survival, could be depended upon.
Gandalf and Culurien's silence on the subject of her nature had, in Thorin's eyes, been a lie by omission and thus, a potential danger to the company. If they could not trust her with the truth, much less considering the actions of her brethren, how could they truly trust her with their lives? Her previous record notwithstanding, the latent possibility of betrayal was too real a risk to take. It was a conclusion that none of them would have disagreed with, Bofur included.
And yet he found himself doubtful.
Perhaps not of Thorin, whose banishment of the half-dragon he understood. Perhaps not of the wizard, whose machinations so far surpassed his simple smith understanding that he could not even fathom a purpose to guess at the Grey Pilgrim's reasoning. Perhaps not of Culurien, either, whose motivations for secrecy he did not blame.
What then, did he doubt?
The troubling question had his complete attention and the fact that he was even contemplating it made him hesitant, an alien sensation. Dwarves, as many could attest, were decisive creatures. Their quick actions and impulsive bursts of emotion could easily attest to that.
To her credit, Culurien had been entirely forthcoming once confronted. If any of the others in the company had grumbled about the circumstances of her birth, he hadn't heard it. As long as they continued towards the mountain and neither her presence nor her absence interfered with that goal, it was unlikely that many of them would be concerned. Friendship, even among kinsman, was a dearly bought luxury that none of them could entirely afford. Given the choice, of course, no one would be left behind, but each of them seemed to understand that choice would not always be theirs to make. Bofur understood this concept, had accepted it even before they had left the Blue Mountains.
And yet he doubted the necessity of it.
Culurien had been a boon to them, establishing herself as one of the most useful members of the company, and she had not been alone. Bilbo had also proved his worth, at least in the green-eyed dwarf's opinion. To dismiss Culurien for her dragon blood was the same as dismissing the hobbit for his fondness of comfort; it was a dismissal based solely on the disdain of their natures.
And hadn't they shown that one's nature was at best, contradictory?
Bilbo ate nearly as much as Bombur and was the personification of a gentleman if Bofur had ever seen one. Even so, he dared to defy trolls to save them all. Culurien's honorable actions in that same fight had shown a similar inconsistency. Did that not prove that perhaps the dwarves' knowledge of both hobbits and dragons was sorely lacking?
Bofur doubted that he could provide an adequate answer if he was asked the question by another. And what if Culurien had asked him to let her come with them? What if her pride had allowed that? Would his unwavering conviction in her have given him the strength, and more importantly, the words, to convince Thorin that they needed her just as much as they had when they had set out from the Shire? Did they need her…or did he?
And thus did he come full circle in his thoughts, realizing that what he doubted more than anything right then was himself. He knew that he would not have been able to find the argument to make Thorin see what he did not care to, not even in all the songs that he had learnt over his long life.
And as for needing Culurien? Did he?
His fingers had not ceased their gentle stroking of the braid, twisting it round and round the digits in deep thought, the other hand drumming fingertips against his cheek. There he also had doubts. She was important to him, of that he was entirely certain. The why and how much he hadn't truly considered. Perhaps he should. But it would not be that night.
A flicker of movement in his peripheral vision jolted him from his thoughts, his hand dropping from the braided gift as he stood abruptly. Bilbo was silently tip-toeing past towards the mouth of the cave, his pack thrown over his shoulder and walking stick grasped firmly in his thick fingers.
"Where do ya think yer goin'?"
Bilbo stilled, his head rolling back as he half-turned to regard the dwarf with an exasperated expression. He breathed deeply through his nose, his lips thinning as he seemed to steel himself to say something unpleasant.
"Back to Rivendell."
Bofur's eyes widened in genuine surprise as he took a step forward, whispering urgently, his accent thickening in his panic. "No, no, ye can't turn back now, yer one of the company!"
The pleading note in his voice did not escape his notice, but he felt a strange desperation tighten in his chest. How could Bilbo leave them now, when one of their number had already been left behind and the uncertainties only mounted ahead of them? They couldn't afford to lose their burglar as well as their dragon slayer. Their chances only dwindled. Hadn't he signed the contract? Hadn't he given his word to see this quest through?
"Yer one of us," he added in a quieter tone as Bilbo stared at him disbelievingly.
"I'm not, now, am I?" Bilbo asked with a huff that almost sounded like a snorting, derisive laugh, "Thorin said I should never have come and he was right."
Bofur watched him sadly, silently acknowledging the truth of the hobbit's accusation. If he could have, he would have apologized for the doubts he had also harbored, that they all had harbored about the halfling.
The loyal instinct that lied in his heart awoke with a fierce burn and Bofur suddenly understood with painful clarity that his desire to have the hobbit remain stemmed from an entirely different absence than the one Bilbo's departure would present them with.
If they had doubted Bilbo, they had also probably doubted Culurien, even if he had not. He couldn't speak for the others, not entirely, but he suspected as much. None save himself and Nori had really attempted to get to know the fiery-haired woman, and their efforts hadn't exactly been fruitful. He knew so little of her, hadn't wanted to know. He had been content to be close to her, to listen to her songs and watch her movements.
He realized that he had always doubted.
He had doubted if he could find the courage to know her. He had doubted that she would have wanted him to. He had doubted her opinion of Bilbo and her ability to defend herself. He had doubted that she would have wanted to continue with them despite the harsh exchange with Thorin. He hadn't even bothered to ask her.
And, ultimately, he had doubted both his heart and hers.
The knowledge only made the lump in his throat tighter and he swallowed hard to banish it. Whatever she was to be to him and he to her, he had harbored these mistrusts. None of the company had trusted her.
"I'm not a Took, I'm a Baggins," Bilbo's soft words cutting into his musing, "I don't know what I was thinking. I should never have run out my door."
Bofur gave him a sympathetic look, the corners of his lips turning up in a gentle smile.
"Yer homesick. I understand."
But the words he had spoken with the intention of comforting only seemed to infuriate the hobbit.
"No you don't!" he harshly whispered back. "You don't understand, none of you do! You're dwarves. You're used to this life, to living on the road, never staying in one place, not belonging anywhere!"
As soon as the words left his mouth, Bilbo seemed to regret them, Bofur visibly wilting beneath the bitter outburst.
It appeared that even the hobbit had doubted in his turn. The notion only made the considerations that had been tumbling through his mind all evening seem more raw, like salt rubbed over burnt flesh.
Perhaps Culurien had doubted too.
The thought made his stomach turn, but he couldn't blame either of them for it. Not when it was a burden they all shared.
Perhaps that burden had doomed the company from the start.
"I-I'm sorry, I didn't—"
Bilbo looked down at the cave floor shamefully, his cheeks rosy in the dimness. He shook his head silently, as if to dispel the awkward embarrassment his hasty outpouring had caused, to shake away the hurt he knew he must have inflicted with careless accusations.
"No, yer right," Bofur murmured, half-turning to cast his eye over his sleeping companions, "We don't belong anywhere," he continued sadly.
How could they belong, when they could not even trust one another to find such a place to begin with?
Bofur could only hope that, with only the dwaves and the wizard remaining, their doubts would lessen enough for them to finally go home.
The dwarf looked back to Bilbo and gave him another gentle smile, one tinged with melancholy.
"I wish you all the luck in the world," he said quietly, his brogue softening as he reached out and patted Bilbo on the arm, "I really do."
The hobbit returned his smile timidly as he lifted his head and his hand to grasp Bofur's in a mutual clasp. Then he started to step away and into the storm.
It was in that moment that Bofur noticed a spark of light, a tinge of blue glow near the hobbit's waist.
"What's that?" he asked curiously, pointing towards it.
Bilbo turned around and looked to where the dwarf indicated, pulling back his frock and lifting a small knife from its dark leather sheath. The blade shone an eerily color and Bilbo's eyes met Bofur's uneasily.
Bofur started to ask what was the matter, but then a hissing sound reached his ears, followed by a series of creaks. He glanced down, the noise coming from near his boots and saw a thin line beginning to form and deepen in the sand.
Suddenly Thorin sat bolt upright from his bedroll.
"Wake up! Wake up!"
Several of the dwarves responded groggily to the sharp command, but not in time.
The ground gave way beneath Bofur's feet and he plunged head over heels into blackness, the other's screams of surprise and fear echoing around him.
Culurien easily dismounted from Darthan's broad back, her boot sinking into thick, soft grass.
The hills that rolled and loped away from her were a beautiful, vibrant green, despite the lateness of the year. This last summer thunderstorm probably had contributed a great deal to the land's final surge of cheerful color before turning into the more bright and crisp shades of autumn.
Rain ran in cold streams beneath her cloak, dripping from the ends of her braids despite the cover of her hood. She had pulled Darthan to a stop near the base of one of the large hills, a natural outcropping providing minimal shelter from the downpour. Culurien threw back her cowl and shook her head vigorously, sending sprays of droplets in every direction. Not that the movement helped much, water continuing to wash over her in torrents as gusts of wind blew it into the tiny alcove.
"Nasty weather, eh, boy?" she asked of the gelding, who merely snorted dismissively in response, as if to chide her for stating what was clearly obvious.
She chuckled in response, making swift work of the saddle, bags, and bridle. The wet leather had started to chafe against her thighs and bottom, partially leading her to halt for the night.
Through the sheets of water, the Misty Mountains loomed like grey sentinels, reminding her that her journey was less than half over. She still had a fair distance yet to ride, but time was on her side, for the moment. What she had in mind would take nearly all of that time, and she had many places to visit before she could return to the crookedly built hut in the depths of the Green Wood.
Shaking her head again, she tugged up the sodden end of her cloak and wrung it out as best as she could. Then she reached out and stroked gentle fingers through Darthan's tangled mane.
"You're going to need a good brushing when this deluge finally lets up," she murmured, smiling slightly at the wildly curling strands of her friend's tail.
He snorted again, tossing his head as if to ward off the inevitable.
"You might as well resign yourself, my friend. I'll not have you in this sorry state when we cross the Mountains," her eyes were once again drawn towards the white capped peaks, "Though I'd rather not make that passage until after this storm blows over. The giants will be hard at play tonight."
The realization of just how many years it had been since she had set eyes on that very thing suddenly made her age seem like a very heavy thing. Sighing, she patted Darthan on the flank, reaching up to give him a quick scratch behind the ear.
"Get some sleep. I'll keep watch."
The horse bumped his nose against her chest in an almost tender gesture before stepping further into the alcove, wedging his big body against the dirt and rock in order to keep as dry as possible. Culurien, for her part, huddled nearby, watching silently through the water and wind, into the waving pines that dotted the hills.
A long, lonely howl reached her ears from the east and she cast a wary eye in that direction. It was a perfect night for giants and orcs, she thought with a grimace. The rain was hardly a deterrent for the more dangerous occupants of these lands. On the contrary, it was an invitation.
Whether to play or to hunt, all were out and about on this night.