Wasn't that fun? Two of my favorite male leads meeting up!

Chapter 2

Man and dwarf stared at one another, taking each other's measure. Darcy instinctively knew that this man was someone to reckon with and reconsidered whether he was an actor. He possessed almost too much charisma for his size, and even though he didn't come up to Darcy's shoulder, he projected enormous presence. Surely, if he was an actor, he would be famous or well-known at least, but Darcy had heard nothing of the troupe in Lambton save its presence. This Thorin did mention a company though, but he betrayed no artifice, no stagecraft, no persona. If he was playing a part he had buried himself in it up to the hilt of his broadsword, an expertly crafted piece of steel of which Darcy had never seen the like. It's oddly geometric styling and wide blade would take considerable strength to wield, but this dwarf had pulled it out and cut his holly bushes in half like butter.

Another glance revealed a jeweled dagger in its sheath. Darcy had seen enough real gems to recognize paste, and the cut and sparkle of these dazzled the eye, but despite their appearance, they couldn't be real. If they were, they'd be worth a fortune, something far outside any actor's income. No wealthy lord or tradesman he knew of would compromise himself by acting in the theater and, furthermore, he knew of no wealthy lord or tradesman so short.

Darcy ran through reasonable possibilities to explain the supposed king's presence. None came to mind other than his appearance after Darcy had appealed to Providence, but that was a flight of fancy no rational mind could accept. Besides, he hardly looked the part of guardian angel. In fact, his fierce appearance and perpetual glower suggested quite the opposite. Was he in a fever then? No, he felt as whole as ever. Had his anguish over Elizabeth Bennet driven him mad? Here Fitzwilliam Alexander Darcy paused to consider. He hadn't been himself, not since his ill-fated proposal some weeks ago.

Have I gone mad?

The thought was frightening, but he had heard that if one questioned one's sanity then in all likelihood one was sane. Circular logic perhaps, but he would cling to it. Besides, he didn't think a richly dressed and armored dwarf from the Middle Ages would be his choice if he were insane.

I would conjure Elizabeth, and she would love me as I do her.

If Darcy was sane, then it stood to reason that this Thorin was real, though possibly not an actor. Who was this man then? None of the pieces fit. He wondered if Thorin was thinking the same thing because he kept staring at Darcy and his clothes as if trying to place him.

"Not from Gondor," the dwarf muttered. "Too fine for Rohan or a ranger." He leaned to one side to examine Darcy's cream waistcoat. "No weapons either."

"I wouldn't say that, my lord," Darcy said, and he pulled out one of his pistols from behind his back under his coat. "I am well-prepared for anyone untoward. We haven't had poachers here for some time, but it's prudent to be prepared." Thorin snorted and eyed it with contempt.

"Too small for a club, Fitzwilliam Darcy," he said with a dismissive wave of his fingers, "and unbalanced as a throwing stick. Hardly a thing to stop robbers." He yanked out his gleaming dagger. "This is better for both close range and distance if quickness be the aim." Chuckling at his pun, he twirled the knife in his fingers and hefted its weight before handing it to Darcy. He stepped back then and folded his arms with a smug smile, nodding at Darcy to inspect his weapon that was as beautiful as a piece of jewelry.

To say that the Master of Pemberley was surprised was an understatement, but he kept his expression neutral. The hilt had a large emerald-like jewel on the crosspiece and a flawless crystal the color of sapphire and the size of a large grape set into the pommel. Crystals that flashed like diamonds tipped the crosspiece. The length of the blade held a ripped pattern, evidence of folded steel, and angular rune-like letters reached almost to the tip of the blade. This was no toy nor prop.

"This is Deathless," Thorin said while patting the scabbard of his sword, "and the dagger is Vengeance."

"Aptly named."

"Aye, though it is too pretty for my taste, but it was a gift, and the blade is as fine as any of dwarven make."

"I see. A gift from whom?"

"Merchants. They gifted this to me after they reestablished themselves at Erebor. A small token of appreciation."

"Small?" Darcy looked at the jewels and held them up to the light. They were flawless.

"Pretty, aye, but it came in handy enough when we crossed paths with a band of thieves. They came upon our campground two nights past."

"Where are they now?"

"Dead."

With that answer, Darcy reached the limit of his patience. Intriguing though this event was, he could not play along any longer without answers, without the truth. He would be cordial and even helpful, if necessary, but something was afoot, and he needed to determine whether this man or anything related to him could pose a threat. Georgiana was home, perhaps even riding through the grounds nearby. Drawing himself up to his full height, he handed the dagger back with a nod and cocked his pistol.

"Your weapons are indeed formidable," he said evenly, "but I am not defenseless. Allow me to demonstrate." Perhaps this Thorin needed to see that he was willing to use force if necessary. Darcy knew that some considered gentlemen a pampered lot only too happy to let others work their estates while they sat back and sipped their port, but he wouldn't—couldn't—show himself weak. Perhaps there was a mannerly way to show force. He could heed recent reproofs yet show himself not a fool while earning some respect from the dwarf whose mocking posture needed correction.

"Observe, if you please." He took aim at a thin sapling and fired through the trunk. The tree collapsed in half, and he turned to see Thorin standing thunderstruck. He looked from the tree to the pistol and back again.

"What is that weapon?" Thorin turn to stare open-mouthed at the smoking gun, and Darcy felt all the satisfaction of one-upmanship and masculine superiority, although he did his best to remain respectful. His point had been made. He did not, however, account for Thorin's response. The dwarf grabbed the gun and looked down its barrel before sniffing the residue. He fingered the trigger and felt the weight of the pistol in his hand. Yanking on the hammer and mimicking Darcy's actions, Thorin dissected its workings while mumbling something about "flash-fire." Darcy pulled out his other pistol as security and waved it as a warning. Thorin handed over its mate but grudgingly. "How does it work? I will pay handsomely for a supply."

Darcy took a deep breath. It was time or past time, rather.

"Before I answer you, I want to know who you are, why you're dressed like that, why you're carrying outlandish weapons, and what you're doing on my property." In answer, the dwarf twisted his neck and let out a low growl. Darcy was not amused and widened his stance.

"If you were less ignorant, Fitzwilliam Darcy," Thorin returned with obvious frustration, "you would know who I am, and I would not need to explain." He tapped his belt and the runes on the vambraces on his arms. "I am Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, of the House of Durin, his direct descendant. Any fool can see the royal sigil on my belt and guards." He held out his clenched fist where a large ruby ring winked and glittered on his finger. "Men may not read Khuzdul, but no one mistakes the symbol of the House of Durin." He threw his shoulders back and lifted his chin proudly.

Darcy was sure that no stage performance could ever match the ferocity of this man's passion. "Not now, not after we reclaimed our homeland. Stories have been told these later years and songs have been sung. All dwarves, men, and elves know of us now." He pounded his chest. "We have reclaimed our rightful place, and our fame has spread to the farthest corners of Middle-earth. Why you have no knowledge is a mystery I do not have time for." Darcy stared astounded before pinching bridge of his nose. He knew he had the upper hand as far as weapons were concerned, but the dwarf certainly had the element of surprise.

"Let me be clear," Darcy said, struggling to keep his calm. Elizabeth Bennet's words became a chant in his head, but this situation, he was sure, could not conform to the rules of polite society—not where the safety of his sister and his people were concerned. "I am not ignorant. You are not from here, not from anywhere in the surrounding towns and villages. No one today dresses like someone from 500 years ago, nor carries broadswords and daggers in his belt, nor comes from a race of dwarves. This is England, not Middle-earth. There are no elves here and there never have been. Anywhere. Not in the whole of the world. So, Master Oakenshield," and he held up his hand to forestall Thorin's outrage, "you will tell me who you are and what you're doing on my property. I am the master here, and you will answer me." With that he took position and aimed his loaded pistol.

I am having far, far too much fun with this. P&P fans are welcome to read my Thorin fics, and if you head over to Middle-earth, let me know! Please review!