After stepping inside, I pause to gape at the interior of the little house. It's nothing like I've ever seen before, and not what I expected. Elegant, rounded walls panelled with dark wood curve into an arched ceiling lined with beams. The passageway leads towards the centre of the hill, farther than I would have guessed. The hall branches off at several points, like a sophisticated rabbit warren. Candles set in an elegant chandelier bathe the entryway in soft yellow light.
My chest loosens. Bilbo's home reminds me of the Sanctuary, only smaller, less draughty and with fewer weapons scattered about. Astrid would turn her nose up at the intricately patterned rugs, the pictures and nicknacks cluttering the mantelpiece, the plump cushions piled up on the squashy armchairs.
Cut from the same rough-hewn rock as the Sanctuary, Astrid was a blade wrapped in a blood-red uniform. She could have made me or ruined me without a thought. I learned to take my cues from her, and if she wasn't there, it paid to watch the person in charge.
Gandalf looms above the chaos like a harbinger of doom, dodging the colony of Dwarves ransacking Bilbo's pantry. Comically tall inside the Hobbit-sized house, the Wizard smacks his head on a chandelier, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle a giggle. Bilbo flits back and forth, wagging a disapproving finger that goes utterly unnoticed. A dwarf strolls past him, carrying an entire wheel of cheese. Bilbo's eyes bug.
"That's a tad excessive, isn't it? Have you got a cheese knife?"
"Cheese knife? He eats it by the block," says a Dwarf wearing a floppy hat.
The Dwarves are everywhere at once, filling the small space with leather and musk. One passes under the chandelier above me, and the glint of metal catches my eye. I stand up straighter, but the weapon isn't in a sheath—it's embedded in the Dwarf's skull.
What in the name of all that's reasonable are these creatures made of?
The Dwarf peers up at Gandalf, and the candlelight illuminates the shard of an axe blade buried amongst a wild mane of dark hair. He speaks to the Wizard in a series of harsh sounds that I assume are Dwarfish.
"You're quite right, Bifur." Gandalf looks around with hawkish scrutiny. "We appear to be one Dwarf short."
They're all short, Gandalf.
"He's late, is all." Across the hallway, another Dwarf leans against the wall, his burly arms crossed over a barrel chest. I don't recognise him from the group I met outside the Green Dragon—his bald, tattooed crown and knuckledusters would have stuck in my memory. "He travelled north to a meeting of our kin. He will come."
How could I forget the infamous Thorin Oakenshield? The image of his scowl is still clear in my mind, though I tried not to dwell on it for too long. Thinking of him dragged up other unpleasant memories, like how I failed to murder him and effectively became a fugitive.
The tattooed Dwarf locks eyes with me, staring me down across the hallway as though I have the words I was hired to kill Thorin Oakenshield branded into my forehead. "And who are you supposed to be?"
Though I'm not wearing my assassins' garb, the scars on my face pinpoint me as an anomaly. In Skyrim, it isn't uncommon to see people with scars like mine walking the streets or nursing beers at the tavern. In a land where living by the sword is more necessity than choice, it's conventional to wear wounds like a badge of honour. But here they make me conspicuous. Most people have the grace to pretend not to notice, or to look away when I catch them. This Dwarf, however, is not shy about giving me a thorough assessment. Of all the Dwarves present inside this house, he'll be the one to monitor.
I flash him a smile that's all teeth. "A friend."
The Dwarf's eyes narrow, heavy brows bunching into a frown. The air stirs between us, and the metal on his fingers winks as he curls his hand into a fist.
Behind us, the hallway empties as the other Dwarves crowd an adjoining room. The tattooed Dwarf gives me one last scowl before stomping off to join them. I follow at a distance, and catch sight of Bilbo staring into his decimated pantry.
The dining table groans under the weight of what might have been a few weeks' or even months' worth of food. The chaos is amplified tenfold now that the Dwarves have crammed themselves around the table. They hardly bother with plates, let alone cutlery. Scraps of food fly across the room, and the roar of conversation continues around large mouthfuls of roasted meat, glazed vegetables, crispy golden potatoes and homemade bread.
The divine smells drift out to torment me, travelling straight down to my empty belly. My mouth waters, and my stomach issues a loud complaint. Gandalf catches my eye, holds me in place for a moment with one of his unfathomable stares. Without a word, he offers me a plate piled high with food. I take it, perturbed by the growing certainty that he can read my mind, and scamper back into the relative peace of the hallway. From a spot opposite the round archway leading to the dining room, I tuck into the best meal I've had in months.
Aside from their racket and appalling table manners, I notice other subtler things about my potential new travelling companions as I eat. Amongst the jostling of shoulders and thumping of backs are smaller, more careful touches. In particular, two of the younger Dwarves, one golden-haired and the other raven, shower each other with gentle affection, leaning their heads close together to whisper amongst themselves.
For a moment, a phantom image overlays the scene. Around the rickety old table in the Sanctuary, Gabriella and Babette debated the use of garlic in healing potions. The vampire girl didn't touch the food on her plate except to toss a chicken leg toward Lis's lair; the giant spider clicked her pincers in delight before scarfing down the treat. Festus Krex picked at his food, a permanent scowl etched into his face. At the head of the table, Astrid sat like a queen surveying her court, straight-backed and chin lifted. She shot a withering look to her left at Arnbjorn as he tried to goad Nazir into a drinking contest. The Redguard rolled his eyes and leaned over to speak with Veezara.
Astrid kicked her husband under the table, hard. The Nord spat a mouthful of watery ale across the table, spattering Festus's half-eaten food. Babette's eerie giggle echoed off the stone walls as Astrid rolled her eyes, but she couldn't hide the sparkle of mischief in them. Even Nazir's mouth curled into a smile.
The tendons in my wrist strain as I shove down the urge to hurl my empty plate against the opposite wall.
Raising my head, I catch a couple of curious glances. So my presence hasn't gone entirely unnoticed. How much has Gandalf told the Dwarves about me? I was careful not to give away too much in the Prancing Pony, only telling Gandalf and Thorin I'm a dragon-slayer by trade. Still, I'm certain the Wizard knows more than he's letting on. And I tasted the suspicion rolling off Thorin from the moment he laid eyes on me.
The golden-haired Dwarf climbs up onto the table with several mugs in his large hands. He picks his way through the carnage with a precision and grace that holds my attention prisoner. He locks eyes with me and smiles, raising the mug in his hand. Before I can respond, he hops down from the table and bounds over.
"This must be yours."
He pushes the mug into my hand, and I barely force a "Thanks" up my suddenly dry throat before he's halfway back across the room. Blue eyes sparkle as he winks at me over his shoulder.
Noisy gulping briefly replaces the chatter, then a chorus of belching erupts around the table. Charming creatures, Dwarves.
After they've all but demolished the food, the chaos spills back into the hallway from the dining room, prompting the Hobbit to resume his flapping. I reacquaint myself with my corner, relying on the wall to support my weight as the food settles in my belly. The ale does wonders to soften the edges of the ruckus—my eyes are halfway closed before I remember where I am and snap back to attention.
From the other end of the hallway, Bilbo's raised voice reaches my ears. The Hobbit's arms wave all over the place as he beseeches the Wizard.
"I don't understand what they're doing in my house!"
Gandalf's expression remains impassive. Clearly, he hasn't informed the Hobbit of his ideas yet. Perhaps I should give Bilbo a bit of warning before his world turns upside down.
How I wish someone had done that for me.
Another Dwarf emerges from the dining room, interrupting Bilbo's rising hysterics. "'Scuse me," he says to the Hobbit, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but what should I do with my plate?"
"Here you go, Ori, give it to me."
The golden-haired Dwarf takes the plate from Ori's hand and tosses it down the hall to his brother. Bilbo's eyes and mouth widen as the air fills with flying crockery headed towards the kitchen.
It's fascinating to watch. A couple of them show off by bouncing plates off their elbows and, in a thoroughly unanticipated turn of events, they break into song.
"Blunt the knives, bend the forks!"
"Smash the bottles and burn the corks!"
"Chip the glasses and crack the plates!"
"That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!"
I would never have guessed these Dwarves might be talented musicians. They can carry a tune better than most bards I know—I can't help tapping my foot along to the beat. Gandalf blows smoke rings for them to use like hoops at a carnival, his eyes crinkling with amusement as the plates sail through them.
"That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!"
Bilbo looks like he's having an out-of-body experience as he stares at the sparkling crockery stacked neatly on his kitchen table. The Dwarves crowd around him, laughing and congratulating each other.
They'd be useless against a dragon, but I bet they're a hoot at parties.
A loud knocking echoes through the house, and silence descends like a shadow across the moon. Gandalf peers at us through a haze of pipe smoke.
"He's here."
The congregation shuffles towards the front door, the pipes and mugs in their hands all but forgotten. My distinct height advantage lends me a clear view of the door as it swings open to reveal none other than Thorin Oakenshield.
I haven't seen him since that day in the Prancing Pony, but he's not the sort of person who's easily forgotten. He's noticeably cleaner, drier and in better spirits than he was twelve months ago—he almost smiles as he greets Gandalf.
Almost.
"I thought you said this place would be easy to find." Every pair of eyes, including the Wizard's, follows him as Thorin moves further into the house. His eyes find me, and a bolt of lightning crackles down my spine. Something flashes in his fierce eyes, but he turns away and continues as if he hadn't noticed me. "I lost my way, twice. I wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door."
The Hobbit moves to stand next to Gandalf, looking perplexed. "Mark? There's no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!"
"There is a mark," Gandalf interrupts, "I put it there myself. Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield."
"So, this is the Hobbit."
Bilbo blinks up at Thorin like a clueless rabbit. After inspecting him from all angles and intimidating him with talk of weapons, Thorin concludes, "He looks more like a grocer than a burglar."
He's not wrong—putting all their eggs in this Hobbit's basket will lead nowhere good, but I can't help feeling sorry for Bilbo as the Dwarves all snigger at his expense.
Despite the Dwarves having obliterated the contents of his pantry, Bilbo rustles up some soup for Thorin as they regroup around the table. The air of solemnity around him swallows up the jovial atmosphere. The Dwarves barely give him a chance to eat before launching into a discussion about the meeting he attended. Apparently, he went to ask for help from other Dwarves, and they told him to shove it.
Can't say I'm surprised.
"They say this quest is ours, and ours alone."
"You're going on a quest?"
The Wizard starts—apparently I'm the only one who heard Bilbo approach. Maybe he wouldn't make a bad burglar after all.
Gandalf makes a valiant effort to pretend Bilbo didn't just scare the shit out of him. "Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light."
Bilbo nods and vanishes again. The Wizard stands up, producing a map from somewhere inside those ridiculous robes. He spreads it out on the table and the collective leans in to peer at it. I can just about see the map over Thorin's shoulder without having to get any nearer to him.
"Far to the east," Gandalf says with dramatic flair, "over ranges and rivers, lies a single solitary peak."
Bilbo hoists the lamp in his hand. "The Lonely Mountain," he reads.
"Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold," says the Dwarf with the ear trumpet. "'When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end'."
That's very poetic and all, but prophecies have a habit of being ridiculously convoluted after leading you to believe you'll be home by teatime. Whoever writes them must be an unapologetic sadist.
"What beast?"
How high was Gandalf when he thought this would be a good idea? Does he know anything about the world outside his front door?
"That would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible. Chiefest and greatest calamity of our age."
He won't be when I'm finished with him.
And what kind of name is Smaug?
I look at the tiny, soft creature beside me. To a dragon, he would look like a dumpling with curly hair. Even I've had difficulty with them in the past, and I was born to kill them. This Hobbit's chances are so far beyond laughable that it's a little depressing.
"The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us," says the Dwarf with white hair—Balin, I think. "But we number just thirteen. And not thirteen of the best. Nor brightest."
Another ruckus breaks out at that. I'm inclined to agree. Maybe it's time to let them know they have an experienced dragon-slayer in their midst.
From the corner, the golden-haired Dwarf speaks up. "We may be few in number, but we're fighters. All of us! To the last Dwarf!"
His brother adds, "And you forget we have a Wizard in our company. Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!"
Said Wizard looks distinctly uncomfortable. "I wouldn't say—"
"How many then? How many dragons have you killed?"
Gandalf chokes on his pipe.
I've had enough of this.
"Fifty-three."
My voice comes out hoarse, but loud enough for Thorin, Bilbo, and Gandalf to hear. Thorin turns in his chair—there's something in the set of his brows that I don't much like. "What did you say?"
He practically growls the words, not bothering to disguise the venom. Fifteen pairs of eyes turn in my direction, gleaming in the light of Bilbo's candle.
I clear my throat. "I killed fifty-three of the Dovah—dragons—in my homeland. Including Alduin, the World-Eater."
Thorin's stoic expression morphs into a glare. "I do not recall anyone asking you, Elf."
"Thorin—"
Thorin rounds on the Wizard, hissing across the table, "I asked you to find us a burglar, not a dragon-slayer. I will not risk the lives of my company by bringing along an Elf we know nothing about."
My mouth drops open. The room hums with disquiet as the Dwarves shuffle about in my peripheral vision. Thorin remains with his back to me, as impassive as a slab of granite.
"It would be beneficial to have someone like her in the company."
Even Gandalf sounds uncertain. My stomach drops into my boots as the future I've imagined shrinks like a ship on the horizon.
Thorin thumps his fist on the table. "I never agreed to allow an Elf to accompany us." His voice is remarkably level despite the aggression in it. His shoulders bunch beneath his doublet; he's built like a brick, broad and compact. He doesn't even deign to turn around before growling, "I suggest you leave now. These matters do not concern you, and you are not welcome here."
Something inside me snaps.
"Are you blind?"
The tension in his body pulls even tighter, like a bowstring pulled back to the point of snapping. Everyone and everything in the room goes utterly still. Thorin turns, very slowly, to face me. "What?"
"Anyone can see this quest is a fool's errand. You're placing all your hopes on one Hobbit who's never even seen a dragon from a distance. How long do you think he'll last if he's made to face one alone?"
Around the table, a few Dwarves curl their hands into fists. The golden-haired one reaches for something at his waist, a gesture I know all too well. His brother lays a hand on his arm, but the look he gives me is as sharp as a blade at my throat.
A sour taste floods my mouth. Screw this quest, screw these bull-headed Dwarves, and screw this sneaky, conniving Wizard. But without them, the path outside that front door can lead only to one place.
I can't go back. I won't.
Taking a deep breath, I will my frustration to dissipate. "I am the best chance you have." I hate how raw my voice sounds. "Please, let me help you."
Thorin's eyes are blue steel. You are a stranger to us. Our business is nothing to do with you. I don't care what skills you claim to have."
Is he going to make me beg? I've never begged for anything in my life. The air crackles. My fingers twitch towards the hilt beneath my shirt; the tattooed Dwarf's deep-set eyes snap to my hand. His lip curls, flashing teeth.
Gandalf lays a long-fingered hand on my shoulder. "I think it's best if you wait in another room."
I shake him off with a snarl. Thorin's mouth twists like he wants to snarl right back at me. I'm loath to break eye contact, to submit to him, but I can't draw my knife in a room full of witnesses ready to jump to his defence. "Gladly."
I stalk from the room, my ears filled with a dull roar. A shift in the air behind me makes me spin on my heel. Bilbo Baggins lifts a trembling hand, pointing down the hallway in the opposite direction.
"The parlour's this way."
After a moment, I realise he isn't mocking me—he's being kind. Wrapping my arms around myself, I follow him to the parlour, shortening my strides to allow him to remain ahead. The room is furnished with a couple of armchairs, ornate bookshelves and a fireplace. Bilbo directs me into a chair and I sit carefully, unsure of how it will take my weight.
"Can I get you a cup of tea?"
It's such an odd question given the situation that I almost laugh. "No, thank you."
Bilbo watches me for a while. Candlelight sparks off his green eyes and the tips of pointed ears peeking from beneath his hair. "Are you really an Elf?" he asks.
I nod, folding my arms tighter around my abdomen.
"You're not what I expected."
Surprised, I blurt out the truth. "Neither are you, Master Baggins."
He leaves the room with a smile and an awkward bow. I let my head drop over the back of the armchair, listening to the slap of bare feet on wood recede towards the distant murmur of gruff voices in the dining room.
The pile of treasure the dragon broods over—a mountain of gold belonging to a king—will be more than enough to renovate the Dawnstar Sanctuary. If Nazir is so inclined, a few others as well. He and Babette won't want for anything. They can choose to rebuild the Dark Brotherhood or let it die. I can fulfil my promise to Astrid—to look after what remains of her odd little family. I never promised I would remain a part of it.
A shuffling beyond the doorway announces Bilbo's return. This time Gandalf follows him, a large hand on Bilbo's shoulder half-steering him towards the fire. Bilbo's skin is pale and waxy, his eyes unfocused. I jump up from the armchair, and he collapses into it. Gandalf disappears for a moment and returns with a teacup and saucer. The porcelain rattles as Bilbo takes it.
"I'll be alright, just let me sit quietly for a moment," Bilbo says, trying to swat the Wizard away.
A lecture brews around Gandalf like a storm cloud. "You've been sitting quietly for far too long."
Here we go. Bilbo looks as though he would like nothing more than to hurl his cup at the Wizard's head. I examine the neat rows of books, my back turned towards them, blending in with the shadows.
"Tell me, when did doilies and your mother's dishes become so important to you? I remember a young Hobbit who was always running off in search of Elves in the woods. Who would stay out late, come home after dark trailing mud and twigs and fireflies. A young Hobbit who would have liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire."
I peek at Bilbo from under my eyelashes. Though he's scrunched down in his armchair, clutching the steaming cup like a lifeline, something about the way his eyes shine lends truth to Gandalf's words. It's becoming ever clearer that he and I aren't so different—his story is just a few chapters behind mine.
"The world is not in your books and maps." Gandalf tilts his head towards the window. "It's out there."
"I can't just go running off into the blue!" Bilbo jabs a finger at the air. "I am a Baggins of Bag End!"
"You are also a Took," Gandalf says with equal fervour. "Did you know that your great-great-great-great uncle Bullroarer Took was so large, he could ride a real horse?"
Bilbo's head thumps back against the chair. "Yes."
"Well, he could! In the Battle of Green Fields, he charged the Goblin ranks. He swung his club so hard, it knocked the Goblin king's head clean off, and it sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole. And thus, the battle was won. And the game of golf invented at the same time."
I barely hold back a snort at the image. That would have been a sight.
Bilbo smiles. "I do believe you made that up."
Gandalf has the grace to look sheepish. "All good stories deserve embellishment. You'll have a tale or two of your own when you come back."
My heart breaks the tiniest bit when Bilbo asks, "Can you promise that I will come back?"
"No. And if you do, you will not be the same."
Bilbo looks nauseous at the suggestion. He tilts his head towards the contract heaped on the little table beside him. "That's what I thought. Sorry, Gandalf, I can't sign this. You've got the wrong Hobbit."
Bilbo leaves, and I smile for a reason that eludes me. Gandalf turns to gaze at me with eyes that harbour entire universes.
"I believe you are these Dwarves' best chance," he says. "Thorin can be stubborn and unreasonable, but he wants what's best for this quest. I can prevent him from sending you away, but it will be up to you to convince him to allow you to accompany him all the way to Erebor."
Heat rushes to my face; my nails make a hollow, rhythmic sound on the wooden shelf. "I couldn't care less about Thorin and his silly quest."
"The choice is yours," Gandalf says with finality. "We leave at first light."
I stare into the fireplace as he shuffles out of the room, stooping to avoid smacking his head on the low archway.
"You're wrong."