The Whirlwind 2: Kíli
With a steaming cuppa in reach and a wonderfully explicit novel in hand, Luna settled into her wingback chair with a sigh of contentment, ready for the long night ahead.
It was, of course, the same moment that Hermione chose to Floo into the living room's fireplace.
"Is it done, then?"
"Is what done?" Luna asked, knowing very well what Hermione meant. A bit petulant of her, yes, but Hermione's timing did peeve her.
Hermione shot her a glare, but swiftly returned her eyes to the figure of their friend, peacefully dozing off on Luna's couch. "Is Harry- away?"
"She's dreaming away, yes," Luna answered and then chuckled, spotting the excited pride in her own voice. It was all terribly exciting, wasn't it?
In reply, Hermione closed her eyes, obvious worry crinkling up her wrinkled face even further.
She stood silent long enough for Luna to reopen her book. She made it through half a paragraph before Hermione spoke again.
"How long is she supposed to stay like that?"
Luna put her index finger on the last word she'd read. "Her natural sleeping cycle averages at seven hours and thirty-eight minutes. So about that long."
"And what if she doesn't wake?"
"Everyone has always woken up. Without a single exception."
"They all woke up dead," Hermione croaked back.
That wasn't entirely correct but Luna had had the same argument with Hermione before. "Close enough. But the fact stays that they all fully returned from their dream."
"What if she dies, too?"
"Well, that would certainly solve her immortality problem."
Hermione's grey eyebrows furrowed. "This is no time to jest."
Luna wasn't, but if Hermione took comfort in blinding herself to the facts, Luna didn't feel peeved enough to take it away from her. "You failed to convince Harry with your worries before;" she said instead, "what do you mean to accomplish with them now, when she's long gone for her adventure, and nothing you say can reach her there? Surely you know better than waste them on me."
Hermione huffed in reply and instead of storming off as Luna hoped, collapsed into the companionable wingback next to Luna's. "Apparently, I have more than seven hours of worrying to do. The least you can do is help me make the time crawl faster."
Watching the elderly witch as she sunk into the seat beside hers, Luna made peace with the fact Hermione wasn't going anywhere. She had sworn she'd have absolutely nothing to do with this experiment, most vehemently so, but Luna chose not to remind the old fusspot of her words now. She snapped her book shut, took off her glasses and conjured another cuppa for Hermione.
They sat in silence for a moment, sipping their tea and staring at the youthful face of their friend.
"How long will it seem to her?" Hermione asked.
"I don't know."
"Is there any way to find out what she sees?"
"No."
"How can we know she's not stuck on some hellish planet, fighting for every breath?"
"We cannot."
When Hermione let out a soft whimper and seemed to have curled into herself in the armchair, Luna took pity and mustered up some compassion. "She packed practically the entirety of her house, plus several muggle shops worth of equipment. She's more prepared than she'd ever been for any of her previous adventures. She'll be fine, wherever the dream takes her."
"Well, if this is a- a robbery, you are making quite a mess of it."
"Harry!" Bard immediately called out but if he said anything else, it got lost in the sudden ruckus the dwarrows made. They raised from their seats as one, and turned towards the stranger that had appeared in their midst without a single warning.
Kíli's eyes also followed the voice, even if he was slower to raise to his feet. He turned towards the staircase leading down to the dry dock beneath the house. There, at the nape of the steps, stood a young man barely older than Bard's teenage son. His bare face didn't show even a shadow of a stubble, and he stood almost as sensibly close to the stone as a tall dwarf would—an inch or two more than what even a Dwarf of the statuesque Durin's line could wish for, but of truly pitiable high for a grown Man.
This was their host?
To his credit, the lad didn't flinch when thirteen Dwarves turned to him with raised fists, cups and other bits posed to be thrown in some of them. That would be a feat of its own for anyone, but it was even more impressive for this stick of a man, who stood merely an inch taller than Dwalin—Dwalin, who was currently holding an iron poker over his head, only a short swing away from sending the kid tumbling back down the stairs, head first.
The lad's eyes ran over the warrior looming over him before his rather unimpressed gaze shifted to Bard, face stoic and pose straight. He raised a questioning eyebrow at the bargeman.
"We came seeking shelter," Bard explained into the tense silence.
Their host huffed in obvious ire. "I'm not... running an inn here."
He spoke clumsily, halting between his words. There was a strange lilt to his voice, an accent that Kíli couldn't place. A grown Man who was only now learning Westron? How peculiar in Lake-town, where the Northmen spoke the Common. Kíli knew there were peoples both west and east of the Misty Mountains that used their own language, though he hadn't met many, certainly not enough to recognise this Harry's accent.
Uncle and Balin would know better. Well-traveled as they were, they could probably guess by the lad's features to which Men he belonged. Kíli only squinted at the lad's face in vain; he had the dark and wild hair of the Northmen, and their pale skin, though he seemed shorter and more frail than any other adult Men they had met in the town today.
"Can't really take this to an inn," Bard muttered before he took a heavy sigh and continued. "They're on a run from-"
"Now, listen there, bargeman," Dwalin snarled, the iron poker twitching in his grasp, although he had lowered it down to his leg, "no one has given you leave to tell any tales."
"Harry deserves to know what risks you bring to his home," Bard shot back, before he turned back to their host. "They've come from Mirkwood, with no provisions to speak of and chased by arrows. Harry, you know as well as me that the Master won't risk the ire of the Wood-elves; when Thranduil asks, he'll hand them over in a spit."
Their host's eyes found Dwalin and his poker again. "And what did you do to... anger the Elves?"
Dwalin's eyes narrowed but Balin raced him to the answer. "Nothing more grievous but crossing their borders, Master Harry. There's no love lost between our two races, as you might have learnt from your books," Balin pointed at the bookshelves. "Hasn't been for thousands of years. It does not take much for an argument to escalate when an Elf and a Dwarf are the ones exchanging opinions."
The lad's eyes lingered on his books for a short moment, before he turned back to Balin. "You are not the first Dwarves to travel through here. Others did not arrive with the same... predicament."
Balin nodded. "Aye. Alas, we were the first Dwarves in a very long while forced to cross Mirkwood through Elven paths."
"Forced?"
"A pack of Orcs chased us to the borders of the forest. We were left no other choice but to take immediate cover in the trees," Balin readily offered, spinning the truth in their favour.
Next to him, Uncle and Dwalin were growing restless with the chatter. "We have paid Master Bargeman here for a safe passage through the town, and for provisions for further travel," Thorin said, hastening the conversation to its point. "He offered your house for shelter. What say you?"
"Name your price, Harry," the bargeman was quick to add, "I'll take care of it."
The boy's eyes squinted at them, one Dwarf at the time, before he finally settled back on Bard. "The whole town is abuzz with talks of Dwarves. You have not been subtle leading them here."
"People are fed up with the Master. They won't rattle off to his guards."
"People might not. A man might, though, one who has gone hungry for too many days."
"If that happens, it'll be on my head. It was me who people saw leading them here. I would take the blame."
The boy scoffed at that. "And leave me watching your kids go hungry while you... rot in a cell?"
He looked rather resolutely unconvinced, and Kíli inwardly braced himself for their alternate plan and the humiliation of climbing through the bargeman's privy.
"How long would you stay?" the boy then asked, making Kíli pause.
The lad was wisely talking to Balin who had been polite with his answers so far. However, it was Uncle who answered, though not before exchanging a meaningful look with Balin. "We'll leave before dawn on the morrow, as long as Master Bard delivers what was agreed on."
"Hm," the boy grunted and then went silent.
He held Uncle's gaze for a long moment, before he turned back to Bard. "You'll take me on that barge of yours down the river and back, as far as we can go in one day," he said, tone crisp and adamant, and Kíli realised the lad had turned to bargaining. "You'll take your three bairns, too, and we'll have lunch up in the hills."
Unlike the thirteen dwarrows who were left staring at the lad, Bard did not look particularly surprised at the strange request. "I was rather hoping you'd ask me to replace the rotting keel on that flowing bucket of yours."
"That'll keep."
"It's been keeping for many moons."
"And when it gets truly urgent, you will repair it for a few coins. But getting you to appreciate a day of leisure proved to be much pricier... endeavour in the past."
Next to him, Fíli choked on that last remark. Kíli himself glanced down at the boy's feet, convinced he'd see two furry paddles worthy of a Hobbit, as the boy certainly showed a Shire attitude.
He found only moderately sized boots. With his unimpressive height, though, maybe he was of Shire ancestry? It would have explained the strange talk of trips and leisure.
Fíli's thoughts evidently went in a different direction, for he asked in a whisper that only Kíli could hear, "Are they teasing? You know, teasing?"
Kíli paused at the suggestion. "Is that a custom of Men?" he wondered dubiously, watching the two males interact.
And indeed, Bard's replying smile seemed too indulging, aimed more at a child to nurture than at an equal to charm.
"One condition," Bard bargained further. "Go buy the dwarves a week's worth of provisions and I'll repair your dinghy. Then, we can go for that trip of yours."
The boy did not hesitate. "Deal."
"Thank you, Harry," Bard said, the firm haggling mask swiftly slipping off his face for a sincere smile of gratitude. He tossed the boy several coins. "I'd do the shopping myself, but together with everything else today, it might prove too suspicious."
"Will you be fetching our weapons now, then, Master Bard?" Balin asked politely.
Bard nodded and turned for the door, but then hesitated and glanced back at their host.
The lad rolled his eyes. "Go. We'll be alright."
With the bargeman gone, an uncomfortable silence once again settled in the room. Their host's eyes kept switching between Dwalin's snarl, Balin's carefully schooled mask and Thorin's hard stare. Only once did he cast his gaze over the rest of them, receiving mostly distrustful glares back.
"Well, there won't be any wares left at the market for much longer," the lad said at last. "I'd better be going." He shot one more futile look at the Dwarves in his house. "Make yourself at home. Just- don't touch anything you... don't recognise."
The moment the door shut behind the boy's back, Nori moved. He made for a particularly colourful tapestry with a hideous flower pattern, and flipped its bottom corner up. A wall of timber lay beneath it. Nori wedged his fingernails in between two planks and pulled. The wooden board easily flipped open under the watchful eyes of the rest of the Company, and revealed a dark space behind.
Nori fished inside and brought a handful of golden coins out into the light.
"Put them back," Thorin barked. "We are not as desperate as to repay hospitality with thievery."
"Wasn't my intention. Just getting to know our host, that's all."
Nori huffed at the disbelieving glares he got in reply, but he did not move to return the coins back inside the hidden cabinet, either. Instead, he picked a coin out and studied its mint. "These are from the Iron Hills."
"Don't you ever listen? Curb those thieving fingers of yours for once and put-"
"These are from the Iron Hills," Nori repeated over Dori's protests, ignoring his brother with the ease of practise. He raised the coin and squirted at its profile against the light. "But they weren't minted on a Dwarven press."
That gave them all a pause, whilst Nori once again reached inside the hollowed space in the wall. His arm disappeared all the way to its elbow before it came up again, clutching two coin-sized molds.
Growls and indignant huffs were heard as the dwarves clasped the significance of the two negatives of Iron Hill coins and the small forge by the fire.
Svergûndnzmal shimurund, Bifur bit out and Kíli couldn't help but agree. A beardless crook, indeed.
"How in the name of Mahal's hairy balls did the lad manage to hammer the metal?" Dwalin asked. "With those twigs he has for arms?"
"Perhaps he himself didn't," Balin pointed out. "He might have had help."
"The mass is right, though," Nori contemplated, weighing the gold in his palm now. "They've not been plated."
"They have not?" Balin repeated, tone surprised, before it turned pensive. "A fair crook? Then the counterfeit wasn't the main crime, but an effort to hide another."
"Not only a crook, then," Uncle reassessed. "But a thief."
Remembering what Bard had said about stolen valuables being easily traced to their thieves in this small town, Kíli likely knew why Uncle would make this conclusion. This far north, Iron Hills were Laketown's most frequent trade partner; melting gold into Dwarven coins would allow their host to use his contraband without any suspicion.
"Nori, hold onto a coin for evidence, but put the rest back," Uncle ordered. "Today is not the day for us to bring charges against our host, but the Iron Hills might already be looking for the crook. Everyone, I want a constant watch on every window and door, in case the thief indeed doesn't work alone. It wouldn't do to be fooled by the word of a common filcher."
By the time Bilbo finally came down the stairs from his wash, the dwarves were strategically stationed in silent groups across all the entrance points, household tools for weapons in reach of their arms. Kíli saw Bilbo's nose twitch as he took in the tension. "What have I missed?"
"He's coming back!" Ori hissed loudly quite a while later, long after the autumn sun had started its quick descent. "Seems to be alone."
Uncle rushed to Ori's side, peering down the street below their house. "Move away from the door. Don't arm yourselves just yet, but be ready."
A moment later, the front door swung open and their host appeared in the frame. He faced away from them as he pushed the door with his back, his arms laden with several tightly packed sacks.
"Don't stretch yourselves too much trying to help. Afterall, it's only your groceries," he grumbled when he finally turned around and frowned at their motionless stances along the walls. If he noticed the sudden spike of distrust in the room, he did not comment on it.
He put down his load onto the nearest table, uncaring of the scrolls already resting on it. Kíli practically felt Ori bristle next to him at the rough treatment of the precious parchment.
"Well, have at it. I imagine it's been a while since your last meal."
Whilst Bombur practically launched himself at the fastenings of the sacks, with Bifur and Glóin following closely behind, Kíli's eyes didn't let go of their host as the lad stepped away from the table, smirking at their eagerness. Thus, it didn't escape Kíli's attention when Harry's brows furrowed and he twisted on his heels, his eyes unerringly landing on their burglar.
"Well, hello," he said after a beat of hesitation, schooling his face back into the disinterested politeness he tended to grace the rest of them with. His eyes, though, gained a sudden wariness. Kíli suppressed a chuckle at that—after facing Dwalin's brandished iron poker and Uncle's glowering, their host chose to be wary of the Hobbit. "You're new."
Bilbo looked visibly uncomfortable under the sudden attention, the intense stare of their host rather unsettling even to Kíli, who didn't have the eyes directed at him. They were a rather peculiarly rich shade of green, he noted idly.
However, unlike the rest of the Company who turned to snarls when put on the spot, Bilbo once again fell back on his manners. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service."
The lad's mouth twitched into an easy smile at the hobbit's primness. "Harry Potter. At yours."
The name had been pronounced with a different accent than what Bard had used. A foreign name, for a foreign Man, indeed.
"Harrypotter?" the hobbit tried to imitate the strange word, with moderate success.
"Harry's the name. Pottertranslates to Westron as a potter, if I'm not mistaken."
"A potter?" Bilbo asked, brows furrowed in confusion and eyes fruitlessly searching for the pottery tools and wares they couldn't have possibly missed during their search of the place.
The boy chuckled, although it sounded more exasperated than amused. "An obsolete family name, nothing else. Tell me, Master Baggins- what exactly are you?"
Bilbo bristled at the question exactly the way Kíli had known he would. "Why, a Hobbit, of course, Master Potter Who's Not a Potter. A Hobbit of the Shire."
"A Hobbit?" the boy repeated, his gaze fixated at Bilbo's furry feet in fascination. "Well, that's certainly new."
"I assure you, Hobbits are far from new. We've been farming the lands of the Shire for centuries, and wandered Middle-earth for long before that!"
"I meant no offense, Master Hobbit. It's just that I've never heard or read about your kind before."
Bilbo deflated a bit at the apology. "Well, us Hobbits tend to keep to ourselves, sensibly away from any excitement that would make the stuff for stories and tales."
Harry had more questions for their burglar, that much was clear; though as he took his next breath to speak, Dori stepped in.
"Apologies, Master Harry, but would it be possible to take advantage of your- ehm, your kitchen? If so, we'd repay the favour by sharing our meal with you."
"'Course, use whatever you need. Most of the dishes are just," their host hesitated, raising his hand to point into the corner by the firepit, only to pause and wave his arm feebly over the entirety of the room, "...there."
Kíli saw how truly Dori wanted to comment, and snickered softly when the dwarf's cheeks puffed up with the effort to keep quiet. "No worries, lad, we'll sort ourselves out," Dori forced through his teeth instead.
He didn't fool their host, who seemed more amused by Dori's difficulties to stall his reproach than embarrassed about the state of this home. "I have no doubt about that. You dwarves seem to have a knack for getting around a stranger's house."
Kíli exchanged an uneasy glance with his brother. Did the Man only comment on them taking their leave to use his washing room and blankets, or was it a jab at them snooping? Could he notice anything afoot after their thorough sweep of his house?
After an awkward beat of silence, Balin hastily stepped in. "We are an uprooted people indeed, and had enjoyed the hospitality of many strangers during our travels. Even so, your home is baffling in many ways, Master Harry. Would you perhaps enlighten us as to what this is made from?"
Balin pointed at a crate containing tatters of faded grey cloth. Except it wasn't cloth at all, as they had discovered during their peruse of the house, the material much lighter then any weave they'd ever seen and yet firmer.
"I wish I had bothered to ask the same question, Master Dwarf, when I had the chance. I could perhaps patch it up now."
"Patch it up into what, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Well, it used to be a rather useful tent."
"Oh, is it indeed waterproof? We have wondered. Is it an invention from the lands you hail from?"
"I don't rightly know."
Balin's expression scrunched up into a frown that Kíli safely recognised on his old tutor's face—the knowing frustration he had reached a wall with his questions.
Let it not be said Balin was ever in a habit to give up easily, though. "You can't be away for long, then. More homesick, you wouldn't pass up on the opportunity to talk about your home."
The Man scoffed, clearly unimpressed by Balin's rather obvious efforts. "Ask your questions plainly, Master Dwarf, if you must insist on asking them."
Balin let out a chuckle of his own at the lad's blunt manner. "Very well. We thought you might belong to the tribes of Men from the East. Were we right?"
"You were."
"We rarely saw merchants from the sea of Rhûn, even when the Esgaroth of old was the hub of all trade east of the Misty Mountains. Even rarer were Easterlings who would settle."
Balin fell quiet, looking at the lad with kind but inquisitive eyes. The lad stared back.
Kíli snorted softly when it became clear the Easterling would not fill the silence Balin had served him. The old dwarf realised the same with a sigh, and asked his question properly. "What prompted you to settle down in Lake-town?"
There seemed to be an amused spark in the lad's eyes as they stared at the puffing dwarf. "Well, it wasn't the local weather, that's for sure."
"Is this the writing of your- eh, tribe? I've never seen its like," Ori asked from beside the desk. It stood in the alcove, many a notebook and scroll basking in the golden light of the twilight sun.
"That," their host suddenly hissed, quick strides taking him towards the desk, "is private."
Kíli briefly wondered at the sudden sharpness of the Easterling's voice when Ori himself admitted he couldn't read the words. Then he remembered that the pages were littered with drawings and scratches that did not require translations, even if Kíli couldn't make heads or tails of them.
Kíli heard the snap of books being shut but he was quickly losing strength to keep tuned to the conversation that followed, his eyelids slitting closed under their sudden weight.
He must have napped for a while because when he opened his eyes again, lamps, not sunlight, were brightening the room, a pleasant scent of dinner lingered in the air and Bard stood in the open door.
The bargeman strode in with his wide-eyed son following right on his heels. More importantly, he carried a bundle of cloth wrapped around something oblong and obviously weighty. Their weapons!
"About time," Kíli heard Dwalin's particularly vicious snarl. Dinner hadn't been served yet, then.
Without a greeting or a single word, Bard dropped the bundle onto the table that had been cleared for their meal. It landed with a heavy thud and a promising clanking as it settled.
Kíli rose on wobbly legs from the bench he'd fallen asleep on, as the rest of the Company quickly clustered around the unwrapped cloth. A moment later, they fell back with indignation.
Dori's voice rose higher above the complaints of others. "What's this caragu rukhs! We asked for proper weapons!"
"And what proper weapons did you have in mind, Master Dwarf?" Bard's voice cut through the commotion. Kíli looked up sharply at the bargeman's tense tone—the man stood a few paces away from the dwarrows, back ramrod straight, his arms crossed determinedly in front of his chest, and his hard eyes also promising a confrontation. "Because I hardly doubt that any weapons in this town, not even the iron-forged swords from the Master's armory, would do you any propergood when you march against a dragon!"
His last word rang like an accusation across the room, leaving utter silence in its wake, as all the dwarrows froze. Then, carefully, they started reaching for the supposed weapons they had scoffed at a moment ago.
"Finally!"
Their host's breathless burst was little more than a whisper, but in the complete silence of the room, it easily carried to all their ears. Kíli risked a glance through the corner of his eye. The Easterling stood leaning against the far wall, staring at Uncle with blatant excitement growing on his face.
A/N:
I had the idea of Luna travelling to different dimensions during her dreams in my head for years, probably since I read
A Black Comedy by nonjon
for the first time many, many years ago. It's an excellent story, one of the very few that make me laugh out loud. A comedy with an actual plot, and very cleverly written. Luna has a cameo, visiting the same world Harry had travelled off to in her dream, convinced she's just dreaming him up.
If you haven't read it- shoo, shoo! It's not at all like the story I'm writing here, but it definitely belongs to my old time favourites I reread every once in a while.
.
(I'd like to give something back to the authors that have directly or indirectly inspired me in my own writing. At the end of my chapters, I'll be mentioning stories that I'm more than happy to recommend for your further reading)
