Yeah, I literally have no excuse for how late this update is. I just ran out of inspiration/motivation while rewriting and this chapter in particular was extremely difficult to dive back into for some reason. I'm sorry if it seems disjointed or abrupt because of that. I will try to do better moving forward.

Thank you for your patience and all of your support! I really do appreciate it!

Chapter Eighteen

Beorn

When Fíli awoke the next morning, it was to find a goat in his face, sniffing at one of his mustache braids before nibbling on it experimentally.

"Oi!" He shoved the goat away as it bleated in indignation. "Get off!" The goat shot him a dirty look before it walked away, and Fíli checked his braid for damage, grumbling irritably all the while.

Luckily, his braid was intact, but the rest of him did not feel the same as he sat up from his spot on the floor, a terrible ache beginning to throb in his head. He inwardly groaned, rubbing his temples. He hadn't realized just how strong that honey-mead brew was, and he vaguely remembered drinking a lot of it the night before.

He heard low voices to his left and swung his head in that direction. Gandalf and Thorin both sat at the huge table in the kitchen, conversing quietly as another man moved behind them—a giant Man that bore the look of the Wild.

He was at least eight feet tall, with broad shoulders and bulging arms covered in hair. Hair seemed to sprout from everywhere on his body—his face, his chest, his head—all of it black and thick and coarse. His eyes were large and glowed yellow in the morning sunlight streaming through the windows, and they glinted when they caught Fíli's gaze. With a rather dry swallow, Fíli realized that this must be the owner of the house they sought refuge in: Beorn, the man who could walk in the skin of a great bear.

The same bear that they had watched take down an orc and warg in one fell swoop the day before.

Beorn beckoned him over with one large, long-nailed finger. Trying to look as dignified as he could after waking up still semi-drunk, Fíli walked to the kitchen and took the seat next to Thorin.

"What is your name, dwarf?" the skin-changer asked. His voice was deep and held the timbre of the earth, guttural and ancient.

"I am Fíli," he said. Beorn nodded, pouring milk into a wooden mug and sliding it over to him. He caught it, the tankard so wide he could barely fit his hands all the way around it; nonetheless, he took a deep drag, trying to wash away the remains of the drink from last night.

"Son of yours?" Beorn questioned, looking at Thorin.

The dwarf king shook his head. "Nephew."

Beorn nodded slowly, refilling Gandalf's mug as the wizard puffed on his pipe, sending trails of smoke around the room.

"And this Company of yours… relatives?" Beorn said. "Though not all, I should think."

He glanced pointedly at the sleeping forms of Bilbo and Alison, and Thorin nodded.

"Most of them are my distant kin, yes," he replied, tapping his fingers against his mug. He did not elaborate, and Beorn's sharp eyes strayed to Alison again.

"I know of the Ashburne warriors," Beorn said. "Jonathan is one of them." It was then that Fíli noticed that the other Hero was missing. There was no sign of him anywhere in the house. "It was that which made me decide to offer him sanctuary. He said he was the Second Hero, and that he was to await another warrior like him to cross his path so he could help them—a warrior that you seem to be traveling with already."

"Indeed?" Thorin said, but Beorn did not answer, for the others were beginning to stir in the other room, grumbling about headaches and sore legs as they made their way into the kitchen.

"I will prepare breakfast," Beorn said, and when he turned around Fíli saw the others staring at him with slack jaws at his sheer size and wildness.

The dwarves climbed into seats around the table, and Thorin gave up his place beside Fíli for Kíli, who hopped onto the bench and pulled a mug toward him without reservation, gulping it down instantly and sloshing a bit on his chin. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and grinned when he caught Fíli's judgmental gaze.

When everyone was seated around the table and they had all been served a warm breakfast of porridge and bread with jam, then did Beorn speak again.

"Tell me, Oakenshield," the skin-changer mused. He sat at the head of the table, in the grandest chair of all, winged and carved with animals both familiar and foreign. He mulled over his own tankard, swirling the dregs within. "Why is Azog the Defiler hunting you?"

"How do you know of Azog?" Thorin asked from his place near the wall where he had chosen to lounge instead.

"I would know the Pale Orc from any corner of the world," Beorn said. His eyes darkened, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. "My people were the first to live in the mountains before the orcs came down from the north. The Defiler killed most of my family, and the rest of us were driven out. I've been hunting orcs ever since."

Silence greeted his words. Across the table, Alison looked stricken. Fíli met her eyes and gave her a tiny nod. Beorn's story was not unfamiliar to any of them, but there was a deep sympathy in her gaze that made him wonder just how little hardship she had truly experienced in her own world.

The skin-changer drank deeply before continuing. "You say you need to reach the Lonely Mountain before the last days of autumn."

"Before Durin's Day falls, yes," Gandalf answered.

"You are running out of time," he said. "Summer wanes, and your path will only become more treacherous from here. You need to move quickly if you are to reach the Mountain before then."

"Which is why we must go through Mirkwood," Gandalf replied.

There was a sudden clatter of metal, and the Company looked over to see Alison's spoon rattling on the table.

"Sorry," she squeaked, flushing slightly and picking the utensil back up. Fíli gazed at her curiously as she worried at her lower lip, but he returned his attention to Beorn when he spoke again.

"A darkness lies upon that forest; foul things creep beneath those trees," he said. "There is an alliance between the orcs of Moria and the Necromancer in Dol Guldur. I would not venture there except in great need."

At the word Necromancer, the Company all looked around at each other in confusion. The only one to look unsurprised at this news was Gandalf, who gazed at Beorn intently. Fíli thought about asking what the Necromancer was, but he lost his chance as Gandalf spoke.

"That is why we will take the Elven Road," he said. "Their path is still safe."

"Safe?" Beorn echoed. "The Wood-elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin. They are less wise and more dangerous." He shook his head, setting down his tankard. "But it matters not."

"What do you mean?" Thorin asked.

"These lands are crawling with orcs," he said. "They are growing in number as we speak. I have sent Jonathan to scout for me, but his report will be grim. And you are all on foot. You will never reach the forest alive."

An uneasy silence fell once more as Beorn gazed at Thorin with those eerie yellow eyes. "I don't like dwarves," he said bluntly. "They are greedy and blind—blind to the lives of those they deem less than their own." He held up a hand as the Company swelled in indignation. "But orcs I hate more. So, I will help you this once, Thorin Oakenshield and Company. I will offer you a week of safe lodging. Tell me what you need today, and I will prepare it for you."

Thorin bowed his head. "You have my thanks, Master Beorn."

The Company settled back into a rather tense breakfast, and Fíli tried not to think about the definitive feel of autumn in the air as he ate, or the more ominous deadline weighing above his neck like the executioner's blade.

After what Alison could only describe as the most ominous breakfast of her life, the Company had dispersed around Beorn's house and property to enjoy their first true peace since leaving Rivendell nearly two months before. Alison opted to go outside to escape the smell of animals in the house and found herself following the perimeter of Beorn's high wall shutting them in from the Wild. There were no orc heads on these posts, thankfully, but unease clung to her shoulders all the same as she imagined Azog and his pack just beyond the wall, watching and waiting for the Company to emerge. Beorn may have scattered them briefly, but she doubted their hunters had gone for good. The thought made her reach unconsciously for the swords strapped to her back, and she pulled them free with a sharp scratch of iron.

The Twin Blades glimmered in the late morning sun, resting comfortably in her hands. It was hard for her to imagine ever using them on something—or someone. They felt more like a decoration than anything; a prop for her to use while she continued to play the part of Hero. Still, she thought it wouldn't hurt to get some practice in. She may not have had use for them so far, but she knew that that would not always be the case, especially with what still loomed ahead on their journey.

As she warmed up her muscles, twirling her wrists and shuffling her feet in the way Fíli had been teaching her, her thoughts kept straying back to the book and her conversation with Gandalf two nights prior.

They had reached Beorn's, which meant that next would be Mirkwood. Her throat closed at the reminder of the giant spiders Bilbo had encountered in the story, and she vehemently hoped that that would be one of the things different from the plot. She'd been half-serious with Jonathan before—she couldn't stand spiders. But after that…

"The Wood-elves of Mirkwood are not like their kin. They are less wise and more dangerous."

She involuntarily shuddered at Beorn's words. After Rivendell, she hadn't been too concerned about the Elves of Mirkwood; in fact, she'd almost been looking forward to running into them. But if they were captured, she didn't know what she could do. Maybe ensuring that events stayed true to the book and protecting Bilbo from getting taken with the rest of them? But that was if they were captured at all and not just killed on the spot, or killed by the giant spiders, or killed by Azog and his hunters on their way to the forest—

"Do you normally mutter to yourself while swinging your swords about?"

She nearly dropped her swords at Jonathan's voice and turned sheepishly to find him smirking at her. She assumed he had followed her path from the house, but she hadn't heard him approach through the tall grass at all. She hoped that that was because she'd been thinking too deeply, and not because she was just that oblivious to her surroundings. She didn't need to feel any more inadequate than she already did.

She lowered her blades with a grimace. "No. I just, uh, have a lot on my mind." She appraised him, noting that he was still wearing his armor and weapons. "Did you go somewhere this morning? You weren't at breakfast."

He nodded. "Beorn asked me to report any movement on the orc pack that had been hunting your Company."

Her heart dropped to her stomach. "And?"

"They've gone." He shrugged at her stupefied expression. "I assume they retreated under cover of night. I suspect they returned to Dol Guldur in the south."

She frowned. Beorn had mentioned something about Dol Guldur earlier, along with what he called the Necromancer. "What is that?"

"An old fortress," he explained. He moved out of the path of a lazily droning bee the size of his fist. "It's been abandoned for centuries, but Beorn thinks that orcs have moved into it and established a base there."

"The ones allied with the Necromancer?"

He looked surprised. "Beorn told you already?"

"Not really," she said. "He just mentioned it."

Jonathan nodded slowly. "Yes. Beorn and I have been on a few expeditions of our own to the ruins, but we've found no evidence. We can only theorize that this Necromancer is using spells to keep himself and the orcs hidden from any outsiders."

"Why would a Necromancer be there, though?" she asked. She racked her brain for any mention of it in the book, but she couldn't remember anything like it. "Like, what's the point?"

He shrugged again. "Only the Necromancer himself would know. Some human sorcerers get a taste for power and want more. The power becomes a disease, an addiction; boldness grows with it as a dark tumor."

She sighed and shook her head. Her problems didn't lie with Dol Guldur and the Necromancer and whatever was happening there. Despite all that Jonathan had just told her, though, she brightened just a bit. Perhaps that was the reason why the Valar had awoken him again. His help was needed to deal with the Necromancer while she continued to Erebor with the Company. Maybe there had just been some sort of misunderstanding.

"You seem relieved," said Jonathan warily.

She chuckled. "I don't know what I am anymore, really." She glanced down at her swords, and he followed her gaze.

"Were you practicing?"

"Only the basics." She looked away, suddenly self-conscious. "I don't know much about fighting. Or being a Hero in general, I guess."

"The skill doesn't come overnight, that I can say with certainty," he said. "Twelve years of war was enough to teach me that."

It took her brain a few moments to catch up. "I'm sorry, what? You said twelve years?" She stared. "How old were you when you came to Middle-earth?"

"Seventeen," he said, his brows furrowing at her growing confusion and shock. "Why?"

"Well – I – because you—" she spluttered. She gestured with Lightgiver. "I mean, you don't look a day over twenty-five!"

He smirked, and the scar on his face crinkled. "Excellent. I knew I was still handsome."

"But how? You should at least be in your early thirties by now."

"Heroes are blessed with long life in Middle-earth," he said simply. "It was a gift to our line, just like everything else we have been endowed with."

Alison's voice came out hoarse. "How…how long do we live, then? Here?"

He pondered for a moment. "Two hundred? Two hundred and fifty years? Somewhere in there."

Her two blades slipped from her numb fingers and landed with dull thuds in the grass.

Jonathan's eyes raked over her critically. "You really don't know much, do you?"

She tried to speak, but she couldn't. She just shook her head.

"Well, fortunately for you, I happen to make a brilliant teacher." He plopped to the ground and slapped his hands on his knees. "So, little descendant, ask away. What do you want to know? It could be about Heroes, Middle-earth in general—anything. I'll take it upon myself to educate you."

She sank to her knees. "I-I don't even know where to start."

"Just think of something."

Her eyes cast around the grounds and eventually landed on the Twin Blades. The idea came to her instantly. "Can you teach me how to fight?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Me?"

She nodded vigorously. "You said so yourself; you have twelve years of practice. And you're not a dwarf—you're like me. It's hard for me to move like them, but you…"

"Very well," he said easily. "Consider it done." He got to his feet again with a grunt. "After all, that's what I'm here for, yes? To help you."

She scrambled to stand. "Are we starting now?"

His deep blue eyes glinted with amusement as he took in her excited expression. "Why not? Go on; pick up your swords."

She rushed to do as he instructed as he unsheathed his own blade, Firestorm. He grinned then, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"Let's begin."

Evening had fallen, and Kíli had just lost his third game of chess to Fíli when the front door to Beorn's house opened, and in bounded Alison, a broad smile on her red and sweaty face.

"There's the lass," Glóin grunted around his pipe. "Done dancing with your warrior prince, eh?"

The Hero stopped short. "Oh. You saw me practicing with Jonathan today?"

The assembled Company all nodded. Her face bloomed redder, and she repeated, "Oh." She raised her hands. "Well, he has experience. I thought it'd be good to learn from him while I can."

"While you can?" Thorin echoed. "Does this mean you no longer wish for him to journey with us?"

"Nope," she said brightly, beginning to unravel her tangled braid. "What?" she said to the Company's continued staring. "You all heard Beorn this morning, didn't you? There's some Necromancer in Dol Guldur. Jonathan's curious about it. If he goes south while we continue north…"

She made a grand gesture that had Kíli grinning around his pipe stem.

Thorin looked unconvinced. "We shall see about that." He jerked his chin. "Beorn prepared dinner before leaving to patrol his borders. You should get something to eat. Where is Jonathan?"

Alison shrugged as she walked into the kitchen. "No idea. Still outside, I s'pose."

"Doing what?"

"Still doing that flashy dance with his sword?" Glóin needled, and several of the dwarves laughed.

"His fighting style's much easier to follow," said Alison around a whole roll stuffed into her mouth. She glanced at Fíli. "No offense."

Across from Kíli, his brother shrugged. "None taken. Men and dwarves fight quite differently as I'm sure you've discovered."

She nodded, nearly bouncing on her toes. Kíli thought it was rather adorable. "For sure. He explained it like this whole Avatar thing, too, where dwarves were earth, elves were water, normal Men were like fire, and Heroes moved like air—"

"What in Durin's name is an Avatar?" Fíli whispered. "Some kind of elf?"

"No idea," Kíli muttered back, "but she looks happy, so, you know—" He made a shushing motion, and Fíli rolled his eyes.

"As chivalrous and revolting as ever, brother."

He made an obscene motion with his hand that Thorin saw. His uncle glared disapprovingly, and Kíli wilted, mouthing Sorry. Thorin grunted.

"And where are you off to again?" asked Dori when Alison started for the front door, another roll stuffed in her mouth and two more clutched in her hands.

"Stargazing," came her barely discernible reply. She gestured vaguely. "Sky pretty tonight."

Kíli grinned to himself at Dori's poorly disguised worry as the older dwarf sat back, grumbling. It seemed to him that the mother hen had found another chick to worry about other than Ori and Nori.

Alison slipped back outside, and Kíli cursed when Fíli checked his final king.

"Four back-to-back victories," Fíli gloated. "You know, Kee, you should really work on a strategy other than 'charge in and see what happens.'"

"Why? It's never failed me before – in real battle," he said to his brother's pointed look. "Now, if you'll excuse me…"

"Off to woo your Hero?" asked Fíli snidely as Kíli put out his pipe and stood. Kíli rolled his eyes. "As your elder brother, I should put a stop to this."

"And as the younger brother, I will continue to ignore your thumb-twiddling and meddling," said Kíli cheerfully. "You have nothing to worry about."

"If only," Fíli muttered, but Kíli was already walking toward the front door, shaking his head.

The looming breath of autumn was in the air when Kíli ventured out into the twilit shadows of Beorn's grounds, and the grass was stiff under his boots when he walked, crunching loudly and alerting Alison to his presence from where she stood out in the yard, gazing up at the sky and the appearing sparks of stars.

"I hope you don't mind me joining you?" he asked as he neared. "Thought I'd like a spot of stargazing, myself."

"Not at all," she said, a small smile gracing her features. Kíli had once thought them strangely delicate and small, but now, they just seemed familiar. "If it was a bit warmer, this would be a perfect night for it."

"I didn't know you were so fond of the stars," Kíli teased, coming to stand by her shoulder.

Instead of answering, she looked back up to the sky.

"You know, I always wondered about constellations," she admitted. "I mean, I don't know if you would have the same ones here as we do in the mortal world, or if you do and you just call them different names." She sighed, her expression turning wistful. "It's hard to imagine being under the same sky when you're in an entirely different world."

Kíli turned his own gaze upward, pointing to the sky.

"There's one constellation there," he said, and Alison looked up, watching his finger trace an idle shape in the stars. "I don't know if they have a name for it in your world, but here it is known as the Anvil of Aulë."

She followed his finger's movements with bright eyes. "Who is Aulë?"

"He is one of the Valar who watches over Middle-earth," he said, and Alison looked at him in interest at the mention of Valar. He quirked a grin and continued. "For us dwarves, we call him Mahal or the Maker. He is the one who created our race, and he represents invention and craftsmanship, hence the Anvil."

Of course, there was much more to it than that, but for simplicity's sake, it would suffice for her.

"Makes sense," she said. "I still can't see it though, so I can't really appreciate your history lesson."

"It's right there, to the left of the moon," he said, coming up behind her and pointing over her shoulder. She shivered, and he grinned.

"Um, I still don't see it," she said, but he merely chuckled, grabbing her hand and pointing it up with his own, beginning to trace a pattern in the air.

"Do you see it now?" he asked, and she nodded, beginning to connect the dots of the stars until it did indeed form into a constellation of an anvil.

"I can see it!" she said excitedly. "That is so cool. All we have is, like, the Big Dipper, but that's so lame compared to this."

She turned, beaming, only to stiffen against his chest when she realized how close they were. "Oh. Um. Hi."

"Hi," he repeated softly.

Their sudden proximity reminded him of the caves beneath Goblin-town when he'd kissed her to keep her conscious. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about kissing her again in better circumstances. She was witty and brave in her own way and fighting tooth and nail to survive in their world, and he was endlessly fascinated by such spirit and fire. It was reckless and incredibly foolish to want to get closer to her, to want to feel that fire against his skin, but there was a reason that Fíli was considered the smart brother, the level-headed prince, and not him.

He leaned in just as Alison shrank away.

"I – I'm sorry," she said, looking anywhere but at him as she shrugged out from under his hand. "I'm so sorry, Kíli, but I can't."

He stepped away, his face prickling with mortification. "Mahal, Alison, no. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have – I didn't—"

She folded her arms beneath her cloak and bit her lip, still not looking directly at him. "Look, I – I'm not saying I don't want to. Because I do despite how I shouldn't. But Kíli – I can't. I can't. I have a home to go back to at the end of this quest, and so do you. I don't think we'd be doing ourselves any favors if we…"

She waved her hand, and he nodded.

"No, I understand," he said. "I apologize."

She finally looked at him and gave him a hesitant smile. "Friends, though?"

He forced himself to smile back. "Right. Friends."

With a last sad smile, she brushed past him and went back into Beorn's house. Kíli stayed outside alone, cursing himself under the cold light of the stars and wishing he had never opened his mouth.

Bilbo's dreams were full of whispers that night, strange mutterings in harsh tones that probed at his mind and circled in his thoughts, insistent and dark, until he was jerked from his sleep suddenly, his heart fluttering in his chest.

He stared up at the high wooden ceiling of Beorn's house, trying to settle his pounding heart as he listened to the slow, deep breaths of the sleeping Company around him and Bombur's familiar snores.

The house was still very dark, and everyone was asleep. Over the Company's dreaming noises and the sounds of the animals within the house, Bilbo could hear Beorn's grunting snores from the next room, and Jonathan was nowhere to be found after Alison had returned from training with him earlier in the day. Bilbo was the only one awake.

Almost on impulse, his hand reached for his waistcoat pocket, his fingers disappearing into the fold until they touched upon the cold, smooth surface of the ring. He slipped the ring from his pocket and held it up, turning it in his fingers and admiring it. Despite the dim light of the room, the ring still glowed like the brightest golden ember, beautiful and as untouched by wear or dirt as ever. It was truly an invaluable thing, and Bilbo was beginning to understand why the creature Gollum had coveted it so much—despite its power to make the wearer invisible, it was just simply a lovely and strangely captivating trinket.

After a while, Bilbo's eyelids began to droop again, and he tucked the ring away securely into his pocket before rolling back over and letting sleep take him once more, this time his slumber uninterrupted by any harsh whispers or dark mutterings.

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Until next time!