Chapter 3

If Darcy thought he'd frightened Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, he widely missed the mark. Thorin's face turned darker than Darcy thought possible. The dwarf king reminded him of a cornered wolf. Baring his teeth and thrusting out his chest, he looked like a warrior king of old or a fierce though miniature Viking raider. His hand twitched on his dagger, and Darcy wondered how fast he was with it. A gun trumped a knife certainly, but he was left with the unmistakable impression that this Thorin Oakenshield had killed many in his time without hesitation.

No actor this. No, no actor would face down a man with a cocked pistol. Stranger and stranger, and he again entertained troubling thoughts about his sanity. Furrowing his brow, he flicked his eyes up at the sunny, blue sky, almost daring it to answer this conundrum. However, no portent, no sign was forthcoming. Thorin followed his gaze and startled as though he had just realized something. Tense shoulders dropped, and a look of bewilderment replaced his anger. He stared around at the trees before settling again on Darcy. His bearing changed, and he stood without a hint of unease, not even looking at the gun. He reached for a leather pouch hanging from his belt.

"Keep your hands where I can see them!" Thorin stopped and held up both hands before lifting the plump pouch tied to his belt. Darcy waved the pistol for him to stand down, but Thorin shook his head.

"I have no weapons save what you see." He snorted then and looked himself over. "And two more throwing knives in my boots." Darcy looked lower, saw the tips of steel protruding from his unusual fur and leather-strapped boots, and cursed under his breath. "And the hand ax under my coat." He pulled aside his coat to reveal a small hand ax indeed tucked into his broad belt. "And a knife on my other side." He chuckled and gestured to the pistol in Darcy's hand. "I'm supposing that each pistol fires once. Dwarves are hardy folk. You may shoot your one shot, but I'll kill you before I'm dead."

"Not if I shoot you in the head."

"Not even then," Thorin said, not at all bothered. "I have in my pouch a map." He loosened the strings and pulled it open. Darcy felt unreasonable irritation at his disregard of his pistol and determined to stand his ground. Distracting one's opponent was an old trick.

"You doubt my aim? I assure you I'm a good shot."

Thorin continued as though he hadn't heard. "Perhaps you can show me where your Kingdom of Pemberley is." He looked up again at the trees and frowned. "Though by the Valar, I suspect you won't know either."

He showed Darcy a leather and ink map unlike any he had ever seen.

"I came from here," Thorin said with a poke of his thick forefinger. He traced along a route. "From the Blue Mountains through the Shire. Now, here"—and he twirled his finger at a blank spot—"is where I lost my way, but there is no Kingdom of Pemberley there. Nor ever was, I suspect." Darcy perused it with great confusion, although he did not betray it in his demeanor. He was master here, and no stranger, no matter how bizarrely dressed, would shake his confidence while he was on ancestral lands.

"I do not recognize any of this."

"I thought as much."

"This is madness."

"Oh?" Thorin looked affronted, and he scoffed. "Because a dwarf king stands before you? Mad you may be, but I assure you I am not." Darcy said nothing while he thought through what to do. Perhaps it was time to put animosity aside and figure out this strange business.

"You asked for answers, Fitzwilliam Darcy," Thorin said, his arms folding across his broad chest, "but If what you say is true, I've none to give you. I do not recognize these lands. I left the Shire a fortnight ago, a land of rolling hills and farm fields but not so well-tended as these. There are many lands I have not traveled, but I've never heard tell of your Kingdom of Pemberley. There is no record of it, and no one in my long years has ever claimed to be from it. I can only conclude that I am no longer where I was." He peered at Darcy's ears. "You are no elf, so not one of the woodland realms." Darcy raised his brows, and Thorin did not act surprised.

"They are unknown to you as you said?" he asked. Darcy nodded. "Good. I cannot stomach elves for long, so this isn't of their doing, yet a potent magic is upon this." He took a deep breath and faced Darcy squarely.

"I was traveling to Bree to meet up with my kinsmen," he began, "but I woke up to a strange, morning fog. I was alone with my pony tied to a tree while I broke my fast. Afterward I put out my fire, but I had not taken one step before I felt myself falling some distance and found myself entangled in those holly bushes." He pointed to the rise before his eyes bored into Darcy's. "Mind you I did not trip nor stumble. The ground was flat, and the trees had yet to fully green." He looked up and swirled his fingers at the summer growth of the maple and oak leaves above. "When I awoke this morning, it was early spring." He looked resigned as though an unpleasant but inescapable truth had been revealed. "Perhaps this is the work of Gandalf or perhaps Mahal or one of the Valar has seen fit to do this, but it appears that since you know where you are and I do not, I am not in Middle-earth anymore." Darcy shook his head, unwilling to be taken in on words alone.

"What proof do you have that you are who you say you are? Forgive me for being skeptical, but I've never seen anyone like you before in my life." Thorin smiled grimly.

"I owe you no proof, Fitzwilliam Darcy, but perhaps this will convince you." He pulled out a tube and carefully tugged out a scroll. Darcy wondered how much more the dwarf carried on him. There appeared to be a great deal under his heavy coat. "This is a trade agreement with the hobbits of the Shire for pipe weed. It's written in Westron." He held it out, and Darcy unrolled it. It was indeed a contract in flowing script outlining a trade agreement bartering pipeweed for tools and farming implements. At the bottom in were small signatures of various strange-sounding names capped by the large and bold signature of Thorin Oakenshield. He looked to Darcy expectantly but huffed when he didn't get the response he was looking for.

"Perhaps these then, aye?" and he reached further along his belt to pull out another pouch but smaller.

"How much are you carrying on your person?" Darcy asked, increasingly surprised by Thorin's resourcefulness.

"No more than usual while traveling," he replied, and after he looked around to make sure no one was watching him, he open his small pouch. Coins, solid gold coins as well as silver and copper coins poured out into his heavy hand. "Surely you know what these are. Do people of your realm carry these?" Darcy was flabbergasted by the gold coins that had the image of a large mountain stamped on one side and more strange runes on the other.

"Not like these," Darcy muttered, stunned by the wealth of heavy gold Thorin held in his hand.

"You are convinced then?"

"I'm convinced you're no actor at least."

"Actor?" Thorin stepped back aghast. Opening his pouch hastily, he dumped the coins in and yanked the leather tie tight before pacing back and forth, swelling with every puffing breath. Wheeling on Darcy finally, he stabbed his finger at his chest. "You thought me a clown?" A low growl sounded in his throat. Darcy tensed before deciding that their standoff was fruitless. They could go back and forth all day in this manner, and he needed to be on his way. He certainly was not behaving in a gentleman-like manner, but he refused to acknowledge the source and stayed him with his hand.

"I meant no disrespect," he said in a quiet yet commanding tone of voice. Drawing himself up, he bowed slightly, and Thorin's ire faded. The two stared at each other, equally at a loss until Thorin turned on his heel and carefully made his way back up the rise.

"It is muddy here," he said, pointing to area around the holly bushes, "as is the surrounding area."

"Yes, we've had a number of storms in recent weeks." Darcy wondered why he was following that train of thought until he saw Thorin walk his finger along where he had come from. He had been so surprised by Thorin's sudden appearance that he didn't wonder how he arrived there. Ah. Careful not to mar the existing tracks, he followed Thorin up the rise where the dwarf stood triumphant.

"No tracks anywhere except the ones in the bushes and down the rise," Thorin said. Darcy needed no explanation. Thorin Oakenshield did not walk into Pemberley. There were no boot prints anywhere in the soft mud except his own coming down the rise. He did not walk, he fell. Darcy tucked his pistol in his trousers.

"Until I have evidence otherwise," he said with a slow nod, "I will believe you. So, my lord, what happens now? How do you return to where you belong?"

At that, Thorin turned thoughtful and stroked his beard. He looked from the holly bushes to Darcy and then to the trees. "Mahal does nothing without a purpose."

"Mahal?"

"Our maker."

"I see."

"You know nothing of him?"

"No."

"Nor the Valar? Aule? Yavanna?"

"No, and I daresay no one does. You are indeed in another world, my lord. Welcome to Pemberley."

Now begins their journey! I hope I can make it a fun one for you all. Please review! Reviews encourage creative juices!