Aranel

Trumpets blare from outside the mountain early the next morning. Bilbo and I both jolt awake, still blurry eyed and exhausted. The two of us sit up with the others to see a single runner dashing along the narrow path, entering the mountain.

At a distance, he stops.

"Hail Thorin!" he calls. "The Elvenking and the men of Laketown request another embassy, if your highness would hear it, as new tidings have come to light. What say the King Under the Mountain?"

"That will be Dain!" Thorin grins, looking around at all of us. "They will have got wind of his coming. I thought that would alter their mood! Bid them come, few in number and weaponless, and I will hear!"

The messengers bows and runs back out of the mountain.

Bilbo and I both exchange uneasy glances.

No doubt, Bilbo's feeling guilty for deceiving the others. However, I know it's for the best. After all, we're not only thinking about Thorin, but also of his people and countless others. Another battle on already bloody soil will only cultivate more hatred and death. Neither of which can result in anyone enjoying this bountiful wealth, or moving forward from the past.

Something the people from my land learned from experience. And I'm not about to sit back and watch it happen again here, if it can be avoided.

Even if it means arguing with the dwarves, the wizard, or that blighted prince.


About midday, the spearmen bearing the banners of the Forest and Lake return, just as I finish sharpening up my daggers.

I peer out at the narrow pathway to the mountain. A company of twenty humans and elves approaches. As they reach the beginning of the narrow walkway, they lay down their swords and spears and near the collapsed gate.

Bard, Thranduil, and Legolas stand among the front lines of the group, accompanied by an old, hooded man, carrying a strong casket of iron-bound wood, adorned in a long, grey cloak. The Arkenstone must rest inside the box. Why else would they carry it at the front? But I can only imagine what Thorin thinks.

"Hail Thorin!" Bard calls out to us as the company stops before the gate's crumbled remains. "Are you still of the same mind?"

Thorin snorts hard through his nose. "My mind does not change with the rising and setting of a few suns! Did you come to ask me idle questions?" he asks, scowling at the shem. "Still, the elf-host has not departed as I bade! Till then, you come in vain to bargain with me."

Bard purses his lips and nods his head, perhaps contemplating his next words or actions. "Is there then nothing for which you would yield any of your gold?" Bard continues, and for a moment, I notice him glance in Bilbo's and my direction.

Bilbo fidgets with his hands beside me.

I gulp and look to Thorin, hoping to play off the nerves and maintain my act of ignorance.

"Nothing that you or your friends have to offer," Thorin answers.

Bard then pauses and turns to the old man. "What of the Arkenstone of Thrain?" he asks, and the old man opens the casket to hold the Arkenstone aloft. Light leaps from the gem, and Thorin and the other dwarves' jaws drop.

Silence descends the golden hall.

All of the dwarves gawk at the jewel, as if cast under an unknown spell.

Thorin's face burns bright red. He clenches his fists so tightly I can see them start to shake. "That stone was my father's and is mine! Why should I purchase my own?" he yells.

His expression softens, as if hit by a sudden, dreaded realization.

"But how came you by the heirloom of my house—if there is need to ask such a question of thieves?" he all but whispers, taking a step back.

"We are not thieves," Bard quips. "Your own we will give back in return for our own."

"How came you by it?" Thorin shouts, leaning over the wall, his anger returning with a vengeance.

Bilbo squeaks with fright. "I gave it to them!"

Thorin turns upon Bilbo, the blood draining from his face. "You! You!" He reaches for Bilbo, but I swiftly step in front of him, blocking him. "You miserable hobbit! You undersized—burglar! By the beard of Durin! I wish I had Gandalf here!" Thorin shouts, pointing one finger furiously at Bilbo. "Curse him for his choice of you! May his beard wither! As for you, I will throw you to the rocks myself!" Thorin takes a giant step forward, and I draw my daggers, pointing them at him, and stopping him in his tracks.

"You will do no such thing," I insist and glare the dwarf lord down.

"You would defend this cowardly traitor?" he snaps, his dark eyes filled with rage.

"I defend those whom I believe deserve protection." I answer, and Maenor lands on my shoulder, squawking in agreement. "And if you have half-a-mind, you will stand down. Now, friend."

Maenor squawks again.

Thorin's face grows redder than a tomato. His fists shake tight by his sides, as if he's about to explode. He then raises one of them, and I brace myself for potential impact. Not really wanting to fight one of our friends, if just a punch can solve this.

"Stay, Thorin! Your wish is granted!" a familiar, gruff voice calls from the other company down below.

Thorin halts. We all look down at the old man, who throws his cloak aside to reveal none other than Gandalf the Grey, looking the same as when he recruited me back in Fereldan.

"Here is Gandalf! And none too soon it seems," he says and smiles at me.

I sigh and lower my shoulders in relief.

Thank Mythal. That's at least one less problem to worry about.

Gandalf nods, as if reading my thoughts. He then looks back at Thorin, a stern expression back on his face. "If you don't like my Burglar, please don't damage him. Listen first to what he has to say!" he reasons.

Thorin steps back, his eyes wide and face pale. "You all seem in league," he mumbles in a disparaging tone, squeezing at my heart. "Never again will I have dealings with any wizard or his friends." He pauses and shakes his head. He glares at Bilbo, dead in the eyes. "What have you to say, you descendant of rats?"

Bilbo fidgets behind me. "Dear me! Dear me! I am sure this is all very uncomfortable," he says, waving his hands about in front of him. "You may remember saying that I might choose my own fourteenth share? Perhaps I took it too literally—I have been told that dwarves are sometimes politer in word than in deed. The time was, all the same, when you seemed to think that I had been of some service. Descendant of rats, indeed! Is this all the service of you and your family that I was promised, Thorin? Take it that I have disposed of my share, as I wished, and let it go at that!"

"I will," Thorin answers. "And I will let you go at that—and may we never meet again!" His shoulders slump, and he turns away with his head hung low. "I am betrayed," he utters in noticeable misery. He almost seems to shrink into himself, like he's fading into his own shadow. "It was rightly guessed that I could not forbear to redeem the Arkenstone, the treasure of my house. For it, I will give one fourteenth share of the hoard in silver and gold, setting aside the gems; but that shall be accounted the promised share of this traitor. And with that reward, he shall depart. And you can divide it as you will. He will get little enough, I doubt not. Take him, if you wish him to live; and no friendship of mine goes with him."

My heart sinks. Bilbo and I both look at each other, struck speechless. And for a moment, I doubt if that was really what was for the best.

When the moment passes, Thorin shakes his head. "Get down now to your friends, or I will throw you down," he yells.

"W-What about the gold and silver?" Bilbo stutters.

"That shall follow after, as can be arranged," Thorin insists. "Now get down!"

Bilbo flinches, and I quickly help him descend the rubble leading to the others, before Thorin can change his mind. As soon as he's a fair share down below, I follow him, my back never turning away from Thorin for a second.

Maenor soars overhead.

Legolas steps forward and helps us jump down from the rubble at the bottom. There's a warmness back in his eyes now, and in his touch, when he grabs my hand and helps me stand on the walkway beside him. One that sets my heart and nerves aflame; a feeling lingering there that I can't quite place.

We then all look up at Thorin and the other dwarves. They all appear so dejected, so miserable. My heart aches seeing them like this, even when I know we're in the right.

But what other options did we have? They wouldn't listen. Perhaps in the not so near future, they'll come to understand.

We can only hope.

"Until then, we keep the stone," Bard cries, as our company turns and prepares to leave.

Thorin waves us away, and Bilbo and I exit with the shems and elves, leaving our dear dwarven friends behind to cope with our painful and unexpected deception.


When we arrive at what once was the enemy's camp, the shems and elves cheer upon hearing news of our agreement. Celebratory drinks and dancing follow us all around, but Bilbo and I choose not to partake, due to the guilt weighing heavy on our consciences.

After all, we just betrayed our friends. For good or ill, none can walk away from such an encounter unscathed.

The two of us sit together under the trees along the far outskirts of camp. Legolas and Gandalf join us as well, their moods seeming just as downcast as ours.

While we sit in silence, Gandalf smokes from his pipe, blowing large O's out into the sky with ease. After perhaps an hour of watching him do this and dazing in and out, Bard walks up to us, a grim look on his face. "I have told the men that we are to give Thorin until noon tomorrow, before we would return again," he says. "Hopefully, he sends the treasure by then. If not, well . . . " Bard shrugs.

"And what does my Father have to say of this?" Legolas asks, perhaps sensing Bard's uneasy mood as I had.

Bard purses his lips. "He . . . wishes to deceive Thorin, and has threatened to return to the Forest and leave, if we do not comply."

"Of course," I grumble and shake my head.

I should've seen that coming.

Bilbo's head droops and he closes his eyes, probably feeling sorry for our old friends as well.

That King just can't see how difficult this all was, for all of us. To see how much Bilbo and I have both sacrificed, possibly go to waste. And for what purpose? More greed? More deception?

Legolas glances between us and stands up. "I will go speak with him. Perhaps I can change his mind." With a nod to Bard, Legolas rushes off into the encampment.

I watch as he disappears behind the wandering elves and shems, then look again at Bard. "So, all we can do now is wait?"

Bard nods. "I suppose so."

"Very well," Gandalf mumbles. "Let us hope for progress at daybreak. Perhaps things will still change yet."

"Perhaps. But I won't keep my hopes up," I utter and cross my arms. "Sometimes things simply aren't meant to work out, and this is more than likely one such situation. Even you must know that, don't you? Or can't you sense it, lingering in the air? Past transgressions are hardly ever forgotten . . . or so easily dismissed."

"One can never know the future," Gandalf says, lowering his pipe. "For the future is uncertain and full of obstacles. However," he pauses and looks at Bilbo and I, "what's worse is to lose sight of hope because of life's uncertainty and hardships. Without hope, even potential futures fall out of reach and become unattainable. And we wouldn't want that, now would we?" He glances between the two of his, his gray eyebrows arching up high while his mystical eyes gleam with knowing.

I merely stare at him and his scrunched-up wrinkles.

The old wizard smirks and stands up tall, towering over all of us, like an ancient, all-knowing tree. "Tomorrow is a new day," he says, "full of numerous potential opportunities. Let's see what it brings together, shall we?"

Gandalf disappears after this final comment, deep into the depths of the nearby encampment, leaving Bilbo, Bard, and I to ponder his words on our own. None of us more the wiser, if indeed—according to our suspicions—he can predict the future.