Hello, people! Now, before we get started, many thanks to all those who read, reviewed, followed and favorited the story! I have an announcement to make. Remember in the previous chapter I told some of you that we were going to have a reunion in this one? Please don't kill me, but I apparently messed up the film's timeline, so the reunion is pushed back a couple chapters.
Applejack456: I love you, I really do. Just wanted you to know this and that it is also my honour to have the universe's dominance delayed because of my story.
Lola. Luciana. Drozda: I'm not sure yet, it depends on how things happen in the third film. She's not exactly going to get more weapons in the near future, only might come up with something else... you'll see in two weeks!
GoldCleaver: Yep!
BBMonkey: I'm not sure if it's great, because it's not the reunion you and everyone else probably expected. I am very sorry, hope it's good enough, though :)
Guest 1, thatirishblond, Prost, Furionknight, Guest 2, Hiding in the Shadow, draegon-fire, MaxRideandPercyJackson4ever, luvgirl101, Miriel Tolkien: Thank you very much for your reviews! I know that this chapter will do nothing to ease your possible urge to kill me(?), but I all the same hope you'll like it!
Also, I don't how my mind managed to dig this up from the forgotten days of my youth, but the song the people of Lake-town sing at one point is taken from Anastasia (the 1997 animated film). Lyrics are slightly changed to fit the content.
Of dwarves, schemes and a toilet
Hidden inside of an elvish barrel, covered to the point of asphyxiation with blasted fish... A warrior who had forged his reputation in the heat of battle, renowned for his valiance in all seven Dwarf Realms, now entering a town like smuggled goods would have. This was pure humiliation. On another note, Dwalin had to hand it to the lippy Lake-man... it was a smart plan, up until the bloody fish got in the way. And he made a point of making his irritation known even after the kick his barrel received from Bard.
Thorin, on the other hand, surprisingly didn't mind the fish so much. He thought that working as a blacksmith in a village of Men and being treated like trash by them was when he hit rock bottom, so anything else was acceptable.
Bard was steadily steering the tiller, bringing the barge closer and closer to the town's tollgate, when a loud voice tore through the peace of the early hours of morning and the flimsy mist seemed to break a bit.
"Halt! Goods inspection," Bard heard someone commanding. "Papers, please."
A man then walked out of the small warehouse at the edge of the town beside the tollgate, holding a small oil lamp to the aid of his eyes. "Ah," he said kindly, "it's you, Bard. Anything to declare?"
"Nothing," Bard replied with ease and smiled, temporarily abandoning his place near the tiller and hopping down the dock to present the delivery papers to Percy. "Only that I'm cold and tired and ready for home."
"You and me both," the man sighed tiredly and granted him entrance. "There you are, all in order."
Just as Bard was warily looking around, impatient to get the job done and get the dwarves into the town, their luck started to wear thin.
"Not so fast," a suspicious voice announced behind Percy as a grimy little man appeared out of nowhere, immediately pointing out that the barrels sent from the Woodland Realm should be empty and not full, as well as that Bard was licensed as a bargeman and not a fisherman.
Bombur thought he might piss himself when the fish covering the upper part of his face was removed. The man responsible for this forwent a closer look at the barrel, where he'd spot a goggling eye following him in fright, and instead focused on showcasing the precious little amount of power he thought he held in this place by wiggling a trout in front of the bargeman rather pompously.
Bard gritted his teeth punishingly. He was a man known to be cool-headed even under pressure, with nerves of steel. There were only a few things counted in the fingers of one hand that could get his knickers in a twist, so to speak. As much as Alfrid fancied himself one of the latter, he had yet to achieve ruffling the bargeman's feathers. The Master's counselor —well, 'counselor' was a bit of a stretch, for whoever heard of a counselor emptying his master's chamber pot every day— was one of those people that if one met first thing in the morning, they knew the rest of the day would roll just as badly. And Bard's day had already started not as promising as he would have liked.
"That's none of your business," he said darkly.
"It's the Master's business," Alfrid countered with a smug look on his face that unfortunately allowed his eternally stained, yellow teeth to shine, "which makes it my business."
"Come on, Alfrid," Bard huffed, "have a heart. People need to eat."
"These fish are illegal," the other declared and beckoned half a dozen guards to empty the barrels into the lake.
As much as he wouldn't like to admit, it was one of the few times the bargeman allowed himself to panic. With good reason—the punishment for smuggling was death. "Folk in this town are struggling," he insisted. "Food is scarce."
"That's not my problem," Alfrid dismissed.
"Not your problem– You work for the Master!" Bard protested. "You're supposed to help people, not add to their misery!"
Two of the barrels were already being leaned over the side, and the dwarves in them felt a disturbance in their balance. The ground suddenly felt too far from the bottom and fish started to fall out by the dozens.
Bard had long ago stopped caring about himself. He could pinpoint the exact moment that happened when his wife died and he was left alone to raise three children. If he wanted not to blow the cover, he had to think. Fast. "And when the people hear the Master is dumping fish back in the lake," he said, "when the rioting starts... will it be your problem then?"
That man and his eternal radical beliefs. If Alfrid could replace the fish in the barrels with Bard himself, he would have done it ages ago and be done with him. But he was smart enough to acknowledge a solid threat that could at any moment become full-blown reality. Finally, admitting temporary defeat, he motioned the guards to stop.
The breath that was stuck somewhere between troat and lungs moved, and Bard exhaled deeply. Honestly, deep down he'd rather have a riot start than let the Master and his wicked minions keep defalcating the town's wealth at the expense of the people.
"Ever the people's champion, eh, Bard?" Alfrid mocked with a sneer, obviously displeased. "Protector of the common folk..." His snake-like features were pulled into a warning glare, "You might have their favour now, but know that opinions can change even with the smallest of sparks."
Bard let a long-suffering sigh. For the past ten years or so he was abiding the same threats and warnings. That little speech had ended up so used and unaltered, he had acquired the habit of mock-mouthing the words and shaking his head as Alfrid continued his preaching.
The moment he hopped back into the barge after Percy's order for the gate to be raised, the counselor spoke again in the most malicious tone he could muster, "The Master has his eye on you. And remember that we know where you live."
An eye-roll was all Bard responded with, not even bothering to look in his direction as he led the barge ahead. "'Tis a small town, Alfrid," he said scathingly. "Everyone knows where everyone lives."
After maneuvering his way through the numerous canals, either big or small, that connected every part of the town with the rest, Bard docked the barge in the most remote part of the market.
"That was close," he muttered as he left the tiller and footsteps echoed across the boat. "You're lucky I–"
"Cease your babbling and release us from this irksome confinement!" a voice protested. Most bet that it was Dwalin.
One by one the barrels were tipped over and the dwarves finally breathed in the fresh air again. Several denied the bargeman's aid and simply flung themselves out of the barrels, scattering fish around the boat and extricating clothes and skin alike from the myriads of fish scales that were stuck on them.
"Get your hands off me," an irate Dwalin growled at him before his head even popped out of the barrel, while a seething Bifur rose from the pile of fish with one forked on the axe in his head.
The rest of the dwarves followed suit, some being pulled out by those who were already free and others struggling in vain to clean their clothes off the slime and fish scales.
"You didn't see them. They were never here," Bard whispered to a man that waited for him on the dock surprised and put a silver coin in his palm. Before he ushered the dwarves along, he turned to the man again with a thoughtful look, "The fish you can have for nothing."
By then the whole company was set to move with the sole exception of Bilbo, who was once again cursing his decision to leave Bag End and his beloved armchair back and take part in this madness, and Fili who was fussing over his brother.
"What is this place?" asked the hobbit in wonder.
Several memories flooded Thorin's mind; others were bad, others not so bad, and a few were simply awful. "This, master Baggins," he grunted, "is the world of Men."
He didn't seem very pleased and no one blamed him for it. Leaving aside the mild discomfort that the wet clothes, chilly air and the tall folk bustling about caused, the dwarves aligned in two small groups in front of the tall man who ordered to follow him, his eyes constantly flickering around at every corner to take note of anything or anyone ill-disposed.
Kili's leg had started to wobble like a mere twig in the wind but, when two pairs of eyes fell upon him, he straightened up like a bowstring returning to place. Thorin spared him a look or two, starting to suspect something was wrong, and Fili kept an awfully close eye to him as the bargeman led the company through the infinite maze of docks and back alleys of the town.
Suddenly a boy rounded a corner like the wind, his steps urgent and his features pulled into a nervous mask. "Da!" he exclaimed. "Our house, it's being watched!"
Their stop was rather abrupt considering their quick pace, so the bargeman was panting lightly when he searched around for prying eyes. He didn't know what exactly he was looking for, more spies perhaps, or even Alfrid himself, swaddled in a ragged cloak and pretending to be a beggar—that foul, loathsome, evil little rat had already made his arrangements.
He took a deep breath as his mind began to mould a plan. Valar help him, if the dwarves were nagging about the fish in the barrels, he wished not to know what they'd do when they'd hear what his plan involved.
The remaining hours of the night had passed in relative silence, with the dwarf snoozing and snoring every so often, and the Ranger more or less opening a pit in the ground as she trudged up and down the rocks with eyes and ears all over and her hands slowly caressing the hilts of her daggers. Oh, how she wished to have a bow with her.
When the first light of the new dawn lightened the sky's deep blue colour turning it into a paler hue, she decided it was time for them to move on. The bridge would be visible during midday, but the road ahead was still long enough to warrant another night out in the Wild, with no cover whatsoever.
Bofur woke with a battle cry when he felt his whole body juddering as though the earth was splitting in two, only to discover that the world was as he'd left it and a hand was shaking his shoulder with the force of a bloody earthquake. His eyes narrowed in slits and he discerned the outline of the Ranger's gloomy figure, sighing in disappointment; he thought everything had been a dream. Eh, what can ye do, he mused. One can't have it all ways. Bless his luck, at least he was stuck with her and not on his tod.
"Oi, sleeping beauty," she greeted. "About time. We must move on."
"And top o' the mornin' to yerself," he replied in a wry tone, taking in her grim face. Brushing his comment aside, she motioned him to get up, take a piss or whatever else he needed so they would get going.
Another long walk commenced as they followed the path along the shore, as monotonous as that of the day before. Arya would speak but a few sentences and glance around every other minute as he followed behind her with an evidently lighter mood, humming tunes under his breath. She made no move to order him to stop this time, though, for he had taken great care to be quiet enough to not attract unwanted attention.
At noontime, Bofur could already feel his legs aching terribly. He didn't mind walking so much, but it was the swift pace —almost running— that exhausted him. "Are we there yet?" he panted out.
"No," was her sole answer.
And the silent trek continued.
What ensued after Bard's explanation of the new plan so that the dwarves could enter his house could only be described by the word 'riot'. Even his son, Bain, noted that the size of the dwarves' mouths was completely disproportionate to their forms. Their grumbles and protests ended up sounding like a buzzing to the ear, until they were forced to comply and one by one disappeared into the frozen water beneath the wooden houses.
Bain followed his father around as if nothing was afoot, both casual as ever, leaving the Master's spies signaling each other after every step on their way to their house.
The bargeman was divided between getting angry or laughing at those antics. Did those people really call themselves spies? Some were ridiculously noticeable and unabashed. And yet there were others who were as sneaky and stealthy as the people who had hired them.
Swiftly they ascended the stairs up to the door and after his son walked inside, Bard decided to make a mockery of it all, whistling down at the two fishermen and throwing them an orange as a reward for all the trouble they went through. "You can tell the Master I'm done for the day," he said cheerfully before closing the door behind him.
A small rush of warmth emitted by the small hearth hit him on the face full-force, and before he could even speak, think or even feel, a body crashed against him.
"Da, where have you been?!" chirped one voice, followed by another, "We were worried!"
The two girls knocked the breath out of his lungs, genuinely pleased to see him after two days of absence. He kissed the top of their heads with a smile, but the thought of thirteen dwarves hovered somewhere in the back of his head and made him frown. "Bain," he said quietly, discreetly glancing out of the window to check if the two fishermen were still watching, "get them in."
The boy flew down the stairs and took a ginger look around before knocking thrice on the wall.
A partly bald, tattooed head slowly rose through the toilet at the signal's hearing. Just when he thought he'd been already degraded enough for a lifetime, this happened. Dwalin had to admit, that was a new low, even for him. The boy moved closer to help him out, only to have his hand slapped aside.
"If you speak of this to anyone," Dwalin growled under his breath, and the cover of the toilet seat lifted as he hoisted himself up from the frozen water and anything else that was down there and fortunately or not did not float, "I'll rip your arms off."
The dwarf was glowering at him the entire time he was extricating himself from the toilet's confinement, and Bain was all too happy to direct him immediately towards the stairs. Next in line was another small person, who he doubted to be a dwarf and looked far too flabbergasted tο have actually consented to this. This one Bain helped out, for he seemed pretty stunned to communicate with the environment just yet. Most of them denied aid, but there were two —much younger than the rest obviously— who gladly accepted it. Especially the dark-haired one, who seemed to have difficulty in using all his strength.
"Are you alright?"
The prince turned to the boy with surprise. "I'm... fine. Just a small injury, thank you."
Above the staircase Sigrid, the eldest, was left staring at the numerous people that seemed to appear literally out of thin air, her gaze alternating between them and her father. "Da..." she said gingerly, "why are there dwarves climbing out of our toiler?"
Her sister Tilda, on the other hand, the youngest of Bard's brood, had no reservations whatsoever about a bunch of dwarves climbing up the stairs. She had always been curious and this was the first time in her life she was seeing dwarves from up close. "Will they bring us luck?" she said with an eyebrow raised in pure fascination.
Each dwarf had taken a seat around the house, wrapped under numerous layers of blankets and close enough to the fire to have their clothes dry off, while Bard's children handed out new garments and mugs of hot tea to them. The former were not fitted for their size, but they would do the job of keeping them warm just fine.
Bombur and his cousin were sitting quietly in a corner, Bifur having finally persuaded him into uttering a word or so. They had put in a distance from the rest, and didn't mind it. Loosing Bofur was another blow to their family, but they'd recover from it as they did all the times before. They had to.
Bilbo had already two blankets wrapped around his shoulders and chose to sit very close to the fire, for he felt a cold taking him under its wing. He had already started to sneeze regularly and a light sniffle was torturing his red nose. Nice timing to get sick on his birthday. He hadn't revealed this piece of information to anyone, though, for little would it matter. Arya was the only one to know, he thought wistfully; he'd told her when they were still in Mirkwood and, in turn, she revealed her own birthday. It was in two months and six days from now, but she would not be able to celebrate it. And then it occurred to him. Did anyone else beside them know that she was dead? What would they say to Gandalf when they met him again, or what would he then say to her Chieftain? Bloody hell–
A hand, smaller even than his own which was already small enough, pulled him out of his worrisome thoughts, and he saw the little girl handing him a pair of dry clothes. "Thank you," he whispered with a nod of his head and his gaze immediately fell to her next receiver, who tried to suppress a pained groan as he sat on a chair, eyes flicking down to the crudely bound wound on his leg.
The younger prince was deemed fitted by fate to be offered the new, dry clothes by Bard's youngest daughter, a little funny thing called Tilda, according to her sayings. She pointed out her brother's revelation that one of the dwarves was injured and her sharp eye did not take long to spot him.
"I am Kili, at your service." He forced something that could pass for a smile on his face, not able to mask all the pain that rested there, and her eyes squinted a bit at the corners. "I would bow to you, little lady, but I don't think my leg will comply with my wish."
She murmured something under her breath, as though she weighed his words, and decided that he seemed decent enough for her taste. "Kili," she said hesitantly, tasting the strange name in her mouth, and the dwarf locked eyes with her, "I can bring you something to drink that will make you feel better."
Without waiting for an answer, off she was and returned a few minutes later holding a steaming cup of a kind of herbal tea, which name he did not remember. She stood there in front of him, waiting for him to drink it to the last drop.
Kili had to admit it helped him slightly, for his stomach had been empty for three days, but in the end did nothing to ease off the pain. He didn't want to embitter her, though, so he mustered the most convincing smile he could and handed her the cup back. There was another smile and off she popped again to the aid of the rest.
A heavy sigh left his mouth and was lost in the air like dust in the wind. He wondered how it would be if they hadn't lost Bofur and Arya, if they were here with them as well. Tilda would probably be thoroughly amused by the toymaker, his stories and his crafts, Kili reckoned. And if Arya was there too, he wouldn't feel bad at all. Her presence alone would be a natural balm to his pain and he would by all means abide her raging rant about his stupidity and recklessness.
Loud voices snapped him out of his reverie and his eyes quickly sought out the source. How did the conversation come to this and how did it escalate so quickly?
The boy, Bain, was defending Lord Girion of Dale and his attempt to kill the dragon back then rather fervently, while his father stood beside him with a look full of suspicion and something that resembled guilt. To the boy's claim that Girion had actually managed to loosen a scale from Smaug's armour, Dwalin scoffed and brushed it off as nothing more than a fairytale. Agreeing with his friend, Thorin decided he had enough of fairytales and ghost-stories, and demanded the weapons they had been promised.
Somewhere in the middle of their argument Bard left, only to walk in a while later with the promised weapons in hand and put an end to it as the dwarves quieted down and gathered around the table. Even Kili did, despite the painful pinches round the wound. The precious quiet was doomed to be short-termed when, after the exchange of a few looks, insults and accusations of deceit and robbery started to fly across the table with the rate of raindrops during a storm.
"You won't– Listen to me!" Bard said loudly. "You won't find better outside the city armoury. All iron-forged weapons are held there under lock and key."
Thorin shared a knowing look with Dwalin, which to the trained eye —like Balin's— had but one meaning.
"Thorin," said Balin, causing Bard to do a double take at the sound of the name, "we all have made do with less. We'd better take those and go now if possible."
Bard thought he knew that name; it felt familiar to his tongue. All his thoughts were cast aside when the dwarf suggested departing right away. "Absolutely not," he deadpanned. "There are spies watching every house, dock and wharf in this town. You must wait till nightfall. I'll have a boat arranged to take you across the lake."
The dwarves slumped back in their seats in a choir of disappointed grumbles, resigning themselves to prolong their stay for a few more hours.
Bard walked out of the house to make his arrangements for the aforementioned boat, eager to get rid of them as soon as possible. The name with which the white-bearded dwarf addressed the other kept poking his mind, but he couldn't for the life of him remember where he'd last heard or seen it. He continued to prowl about the remote alleys of the market that was slowly emptying after the sun started to dive in the west, searching for the merchant he was looking for.
Not long after, the deal was made and Bard had already explained what the smuggler's cargo would consist of.
"So they leave tonight?"
"Aye," Bard whispered. The exchange was quick and discreet as he handed him a few coins. "Heading north byway of the lake, visit their kin in the Iron Hills."
The smuggler was ready to leave, but something made him linger in his steps. "The Iron Hills, you say?" Bard nodded in suspicion. "Funny route to take north... Would have thought they travel byway of the Eastern Road."
Forfeiting both the smuggler and the deal, the bargeman found himself sprinting to the opposite direction, back to his house, to confront the dwarves.
Their presence in the town was not obscure knowledge anymore, as some people had managed to catch a glimpse of them and tongues began to roll.
Esgaroth is gloomy, Esgaroth is bleak,
my underwear got frozen, standing here all week.
Since the Desolation, our lives have been so grey,
thank goodness for the gossip that gets us through the day.
Whichever corner Bard rounded, he'd catch something that had to do with the Lonely Mountain and gold. The pieces were slowly coming together.
Have you heard there's a rumour here in Esgaroth?
Have you heard what they're saying on the streets?
Although King Thror did not survive, his heir they say is still alive,
The Lord of Silver Fountains, but please do not repeat.
From mouth to mouth the word was quickly spread, and soon everyone was dreaming of better times and a prosperous future.
It's a rumour, a legend, a mystery,
something whispered in an alleyway or through a crack.
It's a rumour that speaks of the prophecy–
"The prophecy..." Bard gasped as he remembered exactly where he had seen the name 'Thorin' before. And the puzzle was finally completed.
Meanwhile in the house, Sigrid was making dinner, Bain was handing her the ingredients she needed, and Tilda had was too busy keeping her eyes fixed upon a certain dark-haired dwarf to help at all.
Kili had stumbled back towards a small bench tottering like a broomstick in strong wind, although he steadied himself by sitting down again just in time. He tried to seal any difficulty he had in walking or standing away from anyone's eyes, glancing around every so often to check if anyone had witnessed his lack of balance.
"I heard the grumpy dwarf saying that you'll leave tonight," Tilda noted as she approached, pointing towards his uncle and Dwalin, who were discussing stealthily in a dark corner of the house.
He chuckled at the attributed epithet, even though he wasn't sure which of the two she meant. It fitted both Thorin and Dwalin well enough.
"You are not well."
Kili forced a smile and reached out to gently pat her shoulder. Adding the little girl into the list of people in front of whom he had to appear well and able would exhaust him further than he was already. However shrewd she might be, he wished not to burden her with worry over a stranger who barged into her house out of the toilet. "No need to fret, little lady," he said lightly. "Your tea made me feel much better."
"You're still pale and shivering."
Kili had to give it to her; she might be a funny little thing, but had the eyes of a hawk. "It's just my face," he said, mustering one of his most charming laughs, "and it is rather cold outside."
She studied him with an intense gaze a few seconds longer than he was comfortable with, and then decided to leave him in peace.
The prince sighed in relief for having survived the young one's thorough examination and his mind inadvertently travelled to a dark-haired Ranger. She would have found a great supporter in the little one's face regarding her claims of his recklessness has she been here. His silent contemplation expanded further when he pondered on how Arya's attitude towards children would be. His subconscious bore disturbing images of her teaching a little bundle of joy —boy or girl, it didn't matter— how to fight with wooden daggers or a sword, and him taking over the place of the archery teacher and–
Heavens, this had to stop. He couldn't keep daydreaming about what would happen had she still been alive and all went miraculously well so they'd ultimately end up a happy couple with a bunch of charming, dark-haired troubles around them. Νever so far he had so much as a thought about creating a family. Bloody hell, he was seventy-seven years old and she was dead. Musing on family and children with her was bordering on insanity.
The image had nonetheless caused an onslaught of emotions. Once again he held himself back, remembering that he was still in the presence of others. He didn't know when he'd finally break, but it was not going to be a nice sight.
"We are leaving," announced Thorin, startling everyone to their feet.
"So soon?" Tilda squeaked. "It's not even dark yet outside!"
None of the others paid heed to the little one that tried to question their sudden hurry to depart against her father's advice.
Only Kili managed a crooked smile at her. "Farewell, little lady. Thank you for all the help."
Fili made to go to him and help him up, but Bilbo got there first, so he limited to follow closely behind. After his brother and the burglar, he was the only one to offer his thanks to Bard's children, who stood in line watching them go, not really knowing what to do.
Down at the dock the blond found Kili waiting for him, an arm casually resting on Bilbo's shoulders, though Fili could tell he was leaning his weight on the hobbit, given how his right leg was barely touching the ground. Bilbo, for his part, refrained from making even the tiniest grimace.
"They are good people," Kili noted, glancing at the house over his shoulder as they walked away.
"Indeed," Bilbo agreed. "Quite helpful, although some should be really ashamed for not even thanking them," his tone was purposefully raised a few volumes as he glared at certain people ahead of him who intentionally ignored him.
"I thanked them on everyone's behalf," said Fili, his voice covered by Thorin barking an order for everyone to hurry. The prince let a sigh, quite displeased with his uncle's lack of manners, despite that they had to leave if the plan was to run smoothly. Thorin had informed him of the short stop they were going to make at the town's armoury before departing for the Mountain, so he resolved to get this over with and, after his brother's curt dismissal, chose to ignore how the last light of the setting sun made Kili look even paler.
"Say, remember back in the mountains," Bofur pondered loudly some time after they decided to to stop and take refuge for the night, "right 'fore the goblins, when I'd said the lad likes ye?"
A dramatic whimper was ready to boom out of her in all its might. "What is it with those moods of yours every night? I don't want to talk about it. Savvy?"
"Make no mistake," Bofur explained as he took a small swig of the wine he carried, not really caring that he hadn't eaten in two days and would probably get pissed at half a bottle, "merely feels lonely when ye're stuck with a person who refuses to utter a word for a whole day."
Her head was slumped down in her hands as he spoke, until she suddenly raised it and let a loud sigh. "Aye, master dwarf, your words have etched themselves in my memory. Why?"
"Nothing," Bofur said casually. "Only... I was right."
"Yes, you were," she agreed with another sigh. "Yet discussing this matter in public, even in the middle of nowhere, not only makes me uncomfortable, but also puts him in danger. So can we please put an end to it?"
The dwarf raised the bottle of wine before his eyes, watching her figure through the half empty part of the glass for awhile, and then narrowed his eyes in question. He lost her at the part about endangering Kili and didn't know what to make of it. Perhaps the wine was already affecting him in the best ways. Without giving too much thought to it, he cracked a sympathetic smile and hiccuped. "He'll be alright... Fili's with him and Oin's an expert in his field." Another hiccup. "Do not lose hope."
Arya looked at him dead in the eye. "I will not," she whispered, "but you might lose an arm or, even worse, a head if you continue to speak."
The dwarf guffawed, raising his one free hand to show that he had no intention of parting with his dear head. "You may kill me yet, but I think you'd feel sad about it," he said and took another swig of wine from his bottle.
Everything went according to plan. Complications had naturally arose, ensued, but were eventually overcome. They even had been lucky enough to find a way to enter the practically sealed armoury without being noticed.
That was, until Kili tripped over his own feet and all hell broke loose. He took such a tumble down the stairs that the weapons he was carrying scattered around and crashed against the floor and other weapons, the latter of which, in turn, produced whirring sounds of equal volume, making the noise resonate in the peace of the night like bells of unavoidable doom.
Quite fillerish, without action, I know, but I wanted to set a foundation for the relationship between some of the dwarves and the people of Lake-town. Also, yes, Arya is a little pain in the ass here, but she will make amends soon.
Please resist the urge to do anything akin to murder, torture or voodoo because I've delayed the reunion. Better yet, go to the cinema and see the Winter Soldier. Bucky Barnes—be still, my beating heart. Cheers!