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Chapter Eight
Things That Go Bump in the Night
Dawn turned the horizon pale blue, a ribbon of color against the dark sky and the retreating rainclouds that had sat on them for the better part of a week. Thorin rested against the base of a tree and waited for the light to strengthen, already anxious to get back on the Road. He, Balin, and Dwalin had taken the last watch shortly after the moon had begun to descend, but Thorin felt as if he had not slept at all.
Alison Ashburne's warning on the ferry crossing about something watching them had not strayed far from his thoughts. Though he wanted nothing more than to dismiss her concerns as innocent folly, he could not shake the feeling that she may be right. He had felt them, too, the eyes, and he knew that whatever had been watching them had been for a reason other than simple curiosity. Its hunger had followed him into his dreams, disturbing his sleep, but nothing had made itself known—yet.
There was a sharp smack from beside him, and he looked to see Balin wiping the remains of a midge off his hand with a scowl.
"These cursed bugs," he grumbled. "Never again am I camping near a bog, Thorin," he continued when he saw Thorin watching him. "I've lost about a pint of blood as it is!"
Thorin could not help but grin. "They must enjoy your stench if they're attacking you this much."
"You're one to talk," Balin jested. "Have you smelled yourself lately?"
"Aye," said Thorin, "we are all in need of a bath."
"Do you plan on stopping in Bree, then?" asked Balin. "We're nearly there. It would give the Company a needed respite from the Road. We've been traveling nonstop for a week now."
Thorin frowned. He knew Balin was right, but he did not want to stop in Bree. The village of Men was a seedy place and much too frequented. He wanted their errand to be kept as secret as possible, and turning up in The Prancing Pony with a company of twelve other dwarves, a wizard, a hobbit, and a daughter of Man would raise suspicion.
"One night would hardly attract too much attention," Balin said, obviously picking up on Thorin's reluctance. "One night with a soft mattress, ale, and a roof over our heads would give us time to let the spring storms pass for good. And it might help boost the morale of the greener lads—and lass," he amended with a glance in the direction where Alison Ashburne slept.
Dwalin snorted. He had been quiet for so long Thorin had nearly forgotten he was there. "Just admit your age, Brother, and be done with it." He smirked. "We won't judge yeh for having a bad back."
Balin cursed him in Khuzdûl. Thorin and Dwalin chuckled.
"Balin's right, though," said Dwalin. "It would be smart to rest in Bree and gather more supplies. We won't get many more opportunities like it between here and Erebor."
"No," he said. "I don't trust that place; not after what happened the last time." Their faces darkened when they recalled the bounty on Thorin's head that Gandalf had warned him of six months prior. "Now, get some rest before the sun rises. I can watch until then. And that's an order," he said when they went to object.
They closed their mouths and nodded. Balin clapped his shoulder as he stood and Dwalin inclined his head, both of them finding their bedrolls and promptly falling asleep within seconds.
Thorin sat in silence, listening to the early morning crickets and the water dripping from the branches and leaves of the trees. Fortunately, it had stopped raining, but the ground remained soft and muddy and the air was sticky and humid—hardly good traveling conditions, but he had faced much worse.
Someone stirred within their camp, and he watched Alison Ashburne sit up on her bedroll, rubbing sleep from her eyes before standing and stumbling into the woods around them. She hadn't seen him sitting there, but he stared at the spot where she had disappeared, his mouth settling into a small frown.
Thorin knew the tales of the Ashburne Heroes, though he was not familiar with the specifics. Their stories were more widely known among elves and Men. Even Balin, knowledgeable as he was, knew nothing but their name and their alleged gifts, same as Thorin. The legends he'd heard told that the Ashburne Line had been endowed with a gift that made them different from their own kind, though he did not remember what the gift had been, or if it was even true. He still had a hard time even believing in the Heroes, yet Gandalf had thrust this young girl upon him and declared her the Seventh Hero, an Ashburne, and demanded that Thorin take her halfway across the world with him upon the Valar's whim.
His hands tightened on his sword hilt, but he forced himself to relax his grip. If the Valar wanted him to take Alison Ashburne on the quest, then so be it. She could come and that would be it. Beyond that, she would do nothing else. Gandalf had refused to tell him what her purpose was, and until he found out what the wizard was keeping from him, she could remain in her saddle and on the edges of his Company as much as she liked, so long as she did not interfere with their journey.
Five minutes had passed before she emerged from the woods again, but this time she saw him. She gave him a slight bob of her head, retreating back to her bedroll before she stopped, wavered, and suddenly came over to him.
Thorin watched her approach with a steady gaze, wondering what she could possibly want from him. They'd had two conversations since meeting in Bag End, and each one had been stiff and uncomfortable. He could admit that he was not the easiest dwarf to speak to, but Alison Ashburne seemed not to heed that as she came and sat before him, determined.
"Good morning," she said.
Thorin dipped his chin. "Good morning." He took in her features in the early light, noting her set jaw and the deep bruises under her eyes. She looked like she hadn't slept in a week, but if it was true that she had come from another world and been shoved into their quest, he could hardly blame her. "Was your sleep troubled?"
She flicked her gaze away from his own, staring at a patch of soggy grass that sat between them. He noticed that her eyes were close to the same color as the grass—green, but paler as if a layer of morning dew sat over them.
"That's what I wanted to speak to you about," she said, glancing back to him with a silent question in her eyes. He nodded, permitting her to continue. "Um, that thing I saw last night, on the dock." She took a deep breath, steeling herself. "I was tossing and turning all night; I couldn't stop thinking about it. And then earlier this week, with all the talk of orcs…" She suppressed a shudder. "I'm way out of my element here. I don't know what to do. My nightmares are filled with monsters and fire, and I…I don't want to be afraid."
"There is nothing wrong with fear," he said. "I would consider you foolish if you were not afraid of the dangers we face."
"But that's just it," she insisted. "If I could do something productive with my fear, then I wouldn't be so afraid." She took another breath and threw her shoulders back, meeting his gaze head-on. "I want a weapon, and I want to know how to use it."
Thorin blinked.
Taking his silence for disapproval, she rushed to continue. "And I know what you said about not having time to train me, but I'm not asking to become an expert." She shook her head. "I just want to know a few basic moves, like, defensive maneuvers and stuff—"
"Very well," he said, cutting off her rambling.
She gaped at him. "That…that's it? You're not going to argue with me?"
He frowned. "Why would I? You want to defend yourself. I find that admirable. I will not stand in the way of you learning to protect yourself from harm."
"But you told Gandalf—"
"I know what I said." He sighed. "The wizard believes you are a weapon unto yourself, and that you should be utilized as such. I disagree with him on that regard. But I see nothing wrong with a woman who wants to be able to defend herself."
"Oh." She nodded, though her mouth was still twisted in a frown. "I guess that makes sense." She looked back to him. "Uh, what should I do about a weapon? Do you guys just have extras lying around or—"
Thorin unsheathed the dagger at his waist and held it out to her, handle first. She reached for it, watching him cautiously as if he might snatch it back at any moment and declare it all to be in jest. Her fingers curled around the grip, and it troubled him to see how small her hand was, how delicate her bones were as they grasped the dagger and lifted it from his palm. The girl before him had never seen battle, and he was all but leading her to her doom.
"You'll train with me in the evenings," he said, settling on the decision abruptly.
She looked from the dagger to his face with wide eyes. "With you?"
He raised a brow. "Is that a problem?"
"What? No!" She shook her head quickly. "I just, ah, thought you would have better things to do than this." She gestured to the dagger and herself.
"Like what? Sit around and listen to another one of Bofur's stories about Ros the beautiful barmaid and their torrid love affair?" He snorted. "I'm fairly certain she does not exist, anyway."
Her face screwed up in an odd way that made him think he had not chosen his words carefully enough, but a second later she had burst out laughing. She smothered her face in her sleeve to keep the sound from waking the others, but Thorin stared at her, puzzled.
"Sorry," she said once she had calmed down. "I just didn't think…" She trailed off, embarrassed.
"Think what?" he said. "That I had a sense of humor?" He smirked. "Sometimes I forget myself."
She grinned, and it struck him again just how young she was, how vulnerable and innocent. The thought sobered him quickly, and he gestured to the dagger in her hands.
"We'll start training tonight," he said.
"Thank you," she said, sincere. "I really appreciate it."
He nodded. "You may begin packing if you wish. The sun is nearly up, and soon I'll wake the others."
She stood, and he handed her the sheath for the dagger. She accepted it and buckled it around her waist before sliding the blade home, and then she was off with a last grateful smile.
Thorin watched her go, wondering why his heart suddenly felt as heavy as a stone.
They were on the Road again before sunrise.
The Company was groggy and disgruntled as they stumbled in the dark and got on their ponies, but Alison kept quiet as her companions grumbled and cursed around her. The dagger Thorin had given her was a new weight at her hip, but a comfort, as well. As they set out in the pre-dawn shadows, she wasn't so afraid of the dark and what it might hold anymore.
Their going was silent. The dwarves were still exhausted, plodding along half-asleep in their saddles. Bilbo had nodded off twice beside her already, but Alison let them be. Dwarves, she noticed, were grumpy to begin with—but if they were tired, their mood became downright foul. So, she remained at the rear of the column, in front of Bifur, who was their lookout for the day. She didn't even realize her own fatigue until she looked up and found herself riding beside him, her pony slowing to a leisurely pace since she had let the reins go slack in her hands.
Bifur grunted to her when she made eye contact with him, and she gave him a nervous smile. She wasn't afraid of the dwarf, but the axe-head embedded in his skull did make for an intimidating sight. She recalled Bofur telling her that his cousin had been unable to speak the Common Tongue ever since the incident, though he could understand the language. She only nodded to him before politely returning her gaze forward.
Bifur grunted again, making a series of hand gestures at her. She stared blankly. She'd seen him making similar signs to members of the Company and figured that was how he communicated along with the dwarven tongue, but it was lost on her.
"I'm so sorry, Master Bifur, but I don't know what you're trying to say," she said, grimacing apologetically.
He pointed to her before laying his right hand flat and upturned in the air, then taking his left index finger and drawing a mark in his palm, pointing to her again.
"Me," she said, tapping her chest. At least she could get that. Bifur nodded, grunted, then repeated the signs. "Me…I…Am I… Oh! Are you trying to ask me how I am?"
Bifur nodded vigorously. Alison glanced nervously to the axe in his forehead, but it didn't budge. She met Bifur's gaze again and saw the dwarf smiling at her under his wild black-and-white beard, his beetle-black eyes crinkling in the corners. She smiled back.
"I'm well, Master Bifur, thank you," she said. "A little tired, but I think we all are."
He mumbled something she guessed was an agreement before pointing to the sun, then the horizon behind them, making a series of signs that went too fast for her to pick up on.
"He's saying that once we make camp at sundown, we'll all have an opportunity to rest."
Kíli had dropped his pony back beside their own, now riding on Bifur's other side. He inclined his head slightly to Alison before clasping forearms with Bifur, muttering something under his breath that sounded like the small snippets of dwarvish she'd heard the Company utter when they thought she wasn't listening.
Bifur nodded and said something back. Alison watched, confused, as he nudged his pony forward, leaving her behind with the younger dwarf prince. He smiled kindly to her again before joining his cousins—Bofur and Bombur—farther up the column.
"Why'd you send him off?" she demanded of Kíli. "We were just talking. Or trying to."
"I had questions," he said, shrugging. He seemed wholly unconcerned that he'd run off one of the only dwarves willing to speak to her, and she scowled at him.
"So did I," she said. "So, since you so rudely banished my acquaintance, I'll offer a trade: Answer my questions first, and I'll answer yours."
He glanced sidelong to her, his mouth quirked in amusement. "Very well. Ask away."
"What kind of sign language does Bifur use?" she asked. She looked to the dwarf riding in front of her with a frown. "Is it something he came up with to communicate to you all, or is it an actual language?"
When Kíli didn't answer, she turned to see him staring into the distance with a grimace. "What? Why are you making that face?"
"Because I'm not entirely sure I can answer you," he said cautiously. At her raised brows, he sighed. "Dwarf languages are not to be used or discussed with an outsider to our race."
"So, Bifur uses a dwarf sign language?"
Kíli closed his eyes briefly when Alison smiled, smug. At least that explained all their secrecy.
Kíli seemed to be cursing himself internally before he opened his eyes again and said, "Yes. It's called the Iglishmêk. It's common for miners and smiths to use it to communicate inside the louder areas of our mountains, like the foundries and the mines. And that's all I can say."
"One more question."
Kíli eyed her warily. "What is it?"
"What's your spoken language called? And why can't you use it to outsiders?"
"That's two questions."
She gave him a deadpan look. "Humor me."
He shifted in his saddle, checking to make sure no one else was listening before saying, "Khuzdûl. And it's sacred to our race, that's why. Dwarves are very secretive and overprotective of…well, pretty much everything." He glanced at her, eyes narrowed. "And that's it. No more questions."
She held up her hands, biting down the spring of questions that bubbled to her mouth. Her curiosity was nowhere near satisfied, but she respected his wishes and didn't press further. "All right, all right. Now, what about your questions?"
"You have a dagger," Kíli said, nodding to her. "Since when?"
She shifted in her saddle to show him the blade at her waist. "Since this morning. Thorin gave it to me."
Kíli's eyebrows shot to his hairline. "Thorin gave you that?"
"Yep," she said, popping the p. "Said he'd even show me how to use it properly."
Kíli stared at her.
"What?" she said defensively. "I don't want to be useless in case something happens. I want to know how to protect myself so none of you d—"
She cut off abruptly, her stomach twisting sharply when she remembered who she was talking to. Kíli still stared at her, though now he looked more concerned and confused rather than surprised and incredulous. Alison dropped her gaze to her hands, breathing through her nose and loosening her grip on the reins. That was why she was here. He, Kíli, and his brother, and his uncle, were her reasons for being in Middle-earth. She was supposed to save them, supposed to protect them. But how could she, if she couldn't even use a weapon properly and had to be taught? She had months, a year at best, to save the Line of Durin, and she knew nothing.
"Er, Miss Ashburne?" Kíli reached over and touched her elbow gently. The contact shook her out of her stupor, but she still felt nauseous. "Are you ill? You went very pale all of a sudden."
"I'm fine," she said, not sounding very fine at all. "Actually, yeah, I do feel a bit queasy. Is it cool if I just…have some space?"
He seemed taken aback, but he nodded. "Of course. Feel better."
He rode forward to join the others, leaving Alison alone. She did not speak again until Thorin led them up a grassy ridge to make camp at a long-abandoned farmhouse just off the Road later that evening. It gave off a Cabin in the Woods vibe that was disconcerting, especially with the dark forest just beyond, but she had no choice but to begin unpacking her supplies as Thorin doled out their nightly duties.
Fíli and Kíli herded their ponies off into the trees to stake them up and let them graze for the night while Óin and Glóin got a fire going. Alison was tasked with helping Bombur cut up onions and carrots for their stew, which she considered fortunate; she was not in the mood for conversations or suspicious looks, and Bombur was one of the only dwarves who bothered with neither. He was a very large, very round, but quiet dwarf, and they worked in silence as they chopped the vegetables side-by-side.
Once the stew was bubbling over the fire, Alison entered the trees to do her business. When she returned to their campsite, she found Thorin standing at the tree-line, waiting for her.
"Come," he said. He plunged into the woods, leaving Alison to scramble behind him and try to avoid all the branches and twigs his broad shoulders sent her way. They walked for a few minutes in silence. Alison opened her mouth several times to ask him a question, but whenever she caught a glimpse of his stiff spine and set jaw, she lost her courage. Displeasure rolled off him in waves, and she wondered what had happened while she'd been digging a hole in the woods.
When Thorin found a suitable enough space for them to practice in amongst a copse of trees, he shrugged off his leather-and-fur coat and gestured for her to do the same. She found a knoll on one of the trees and used it as a coat hook, leaving her in her jeans and the brown long-sleeve shirt Gandalf had given her, with Thorin's blade buckled at her waist.
"Can you fight with that?" he said, pointing to her ponytail.
"Um, maybe?" She tilted her head side to side, feeling the weight of her hair pulling on her scalp. "Oh, no, maybe not. Here." She let her hair down and quickly redid it in a braid that hung down her neck, but was tight enough to hold still. "Better?"
Thorin nodded his approval. "Until you learn how to fight properly, I want you to always keep your hair secured. Otherwise, it will be a vulnerability that can be used against you."
"Got it." She nodded. "What else?"
His eyes raked over her tired and bedraggled appearance before settling on her jeans. "Can you move in those?"
"Oh, yeah, definitely," she said, grinning. "Have you ever heard of jeggings? Greatest pant invention ever." She lifted her leg and moved it around to demonstrate her point. "Look like jeans, move like yoga pants. They're awesome."
Thorin looked as if he hadn't understood a single word she said, but he nodded dubiously. "Very well. The first thing we will work on is form. Are you right-hand dominant or left-hand?"
She wiggled her fingers at him. "Right."
He nodded again. "Good. So am I. Now, to begin…"
After twenty minutes of Thorin correcting her stance and form, he finally found no flaws, and only then did he allow her to take out the blade. Another twenty minutes ensued in which he instructed her how to hold the damned thing properly, and Alison's annoyance began to grow. It was a dagger, for Christ's sake, not a sword!
When she said as much, Thorin fixed her with a hard glare.
"All weapons are dangerous, no matter their size," he growled. "If you want to learn, Miss Ashburne, then I suggest you take this seriously."
Yeah, something's definitely got him in a mood, she thought as he adjusted her fingers on the grip. I mean, he's always in a mood, but he seems extra pissy.
After he deemed her grip acceptable, he began to teach her drills that would help her get used to the dagger and the movements her wrist would be required to make. It was dull, unexciting practice—much different than what she was expecting. Anytime she found herself growing irritable, though, she reminded herself that she wouldn't become an expert overnight. Still, it was frustrating, feeling like she was doing nothing when the very dwarf in front of her would be relying on her to save his life in the future.
"Good," said Thorin when the sunlight had gone. "Keep practicing those movements whenever you get the chance. It should become instinctual. When you feel confident enough, we'll move on to footwork, and then go from there."
Alison nodded, sheathing the blade again as Thorin made to stalk out of the clearing. Before he could stomp back into the trees, she blurted out, "Are you all right?"
He half-turned to face her. "What do you mean?"
She gestured vaguely to him. "Um, you just seem…mad. Did something happen?"
The twilight shadows concealed him in darkness, but she could still see the hard line of his mouth when he frowned. "It is nothing, Miss Ashburne. Just the irritating meddling of a wizard, that's all."
"Wait, where is Gandalf?" she asked, trailing after the dwarf king as he walked back in the direction of their camp. "I didn't see him when I was helping Bombur with the stew."
"I don't know where he went," Thorin admitted reluctantly.
That made Alison frown. There was a niggling at the back of her mind, something about the book that suddenly made her uneasy. Every time Gandalf disappeared in The Hobbit, something bad would happen. Or that was what she remembered, at least.
Swallowing back the lump in her throat and hoping she was just remembering things incorrectly, she followed Thorin back to their camp, where Bombur had finished the stew and now served their supper. She grabbed a bowl and sat down next to Bofur, who was too busy tucking into his own portion to offer her much of a greeting besides a small wave. She returned the gesture, content to just eat and hopefully crawl into her bedroll and sleep right after. She watched Bilbo disappear into the woods, carrying two bowls that she presumed were for Fíli and Kíli, who had not yet returned from pony duty.
Gandalf, it seemed, had yet to return as well. There was no sign of the wizard as she rinsed out her bowl and prepared for bed, and she tried to ignore the growing unease in her belly.
You're only freaking out because of the dark and creepy woods. Chill. And it was true; now that night had fallen, the woods had turned eerie, filled with shadows and gleaming eyes that watched from the bushes. They're just…bunny rabbits. Really cute and fluffy bunny rabbits.
No sooner had she thought it than the bushes started rustling and waving wildly—something big was coming. Alison took a few automatic steps back toward the Company, who had all shot to their feet and grabbed their weapons. Bofur yanked Alison behind him and raised his mattock as two figures pelted out of the woods, but they sighed in relief when they saw it was just Fíli and Kíli.
Thorin, however, remained tense as his nephews stopped before him, sweaty and breathless.
"Trolls," Fíli panted. "In the woods—"
"—Have the ponies," Kíli finished, gulping down air.
"Where is Master Baggins?" Thorin demanded.
Fíli and Kíli traded a glance.
"We may have sent him to retrieve the ponies," Fíli admitted.
Thorin looked as if he were trying very hard not to facepalm. "How many trolls?"
"Three."
Thorin cursed in Khuzdûl. "Come. The hobbit may need our help." The Company followed Fíli and Kíli into the woods with their weapons. Alison started after them, uncertain, but Thorin grabbed her elbow. "Not you. You stay here."
"What? Why?" she said.
He fixed her with a stern look. "Have you ever faced three fully grown mountain trolls?"
"No," she said. "But I want to help."
"And you will," he said, "by staying here and guarding the camp."
She glanced around pointedly. "Yeah, those trees look real menacing."
"Stay here." His tone brooked no room for argument. "That's an order. We'll be back."
Before she could reply, he strode into the trees after the others, leaving her alone at the campsite. Alison cursed and sat down by the fire, grumbling under her breath. She understood Thorin's reasoning, of course, but that didn't mean she had to like it. Especially since her stomach was now knotted with panic and anxiety.
She remembered the trolls from the book, but she hadn't expected to run into them so soon. Or maybe she just hadn't wanted to think about it. But now Bilbo and the Company were walking right into their trap, and Gandalf was gone. Which left just her. She glanced down at the blade at her waist.
And what are you going to do? she thought derisively. Ask the trolls nicely to not eat them?
No. But maybe I can do something else.
Alison lurched to her feet, hand on her dagger, and turned to the woods where the Company had disappeared. All she had to do was keep the trolls distracted until the sun rose and they turned to stone—the sunlight was the only way to kill them in the book. And that wasn't even accounting for the fact that the Company may very well have taken care of the trolls already.
She took a deep breath and plunged into the woods, hoping she wasn't too late.
Bilbo would have gladly wagered that he had to have the most rotten luck in all of Arda as he was forced into a moldy, foul-smelling sack by an equally foul-smelling, fat troll.
His plan to sneak into the trolls' camp and free their ponies had gone sideways almost immediately when one of the trolls had accidentally grabbed him and used him as a handkerchief. He thought for sure he was about to be killed until Thorin and the rest of the dwarves had charged into the clearing, their weapons drawn as they attacked the trolls with fierce battle cries. Bilbo had then successfully freed the ponies, but his victory had been short-lived, for he had been captured again by the trolls and used as leverage to get the dwarves to surrender. Now, half of them lay in dirty sacks upon the ground, while the other dwarves had been stripped down to their underclothes and tied to a spit above the trolls' large fire. At least Alison Ashburne was safe, wherever she was, Bilbo thought. Though if she did happen to be a Hero, her help might not be so amiss right then…
"Uncle, what do we do?" Fíli said after trying in vain to kick his way out of his sack.
Thorin—who had been attempting to gnaw through the ropes cinched around the top of his own sack—assessed their current predicament with stormy eyes.
"I don't know," he finally admitted. "I'm working on it."
"Don't bother cooking 'em!" one of the trolls complained. It had beady eyes that crossed slightly, giving it a dimwitted look, and Bilbo scowled when he realized that that was the troll that had sneezed on him and covered him in troll snot. "Let's just sit on 'em and squash 'em into jelly!"
"They should be sautéed and grilled, with a sprinkle of sage," one of the other trolls said as he rotated the spit, ignoring the dwarves' shouts and insults.
"Never mind the seasoning," the third troll growled. "Dawn ain't far away, and I don't fancy being turned to stone."
Bilbo stopped struggling in his sack, an idea forming in his mind. Dawn…turn to stone…
"What's that?" the first troll said, pointing to the woods on the other side of the clearing. "I saw something move!"
"Sit down and shut up," the second troll snapped. "I'm tired of yer yappin'."
"No, he's right," the third troll said, squinting into the dark. "Something's out there."
Without warning, the troll's arm shot into the foliage. There was a scream, and when the troll's arm emerged, it was with a kicking Alison in his fist.
"Miss Alison?" Fíli gasped. "What is she doing here?"
"What indeed," Thorin ground out, watching with the rest as the troll brought Alison into the light.
"Another human," he said in disgust. "I'm sick of these skinny little creatures. That farmer and his family tasted like leather!"
"Add her with the rest," the second troll said. "Can't hurt to have one more."
The troll holding Alison grunted and moved to where Bilbo and the others lay before he abruptly stopped and bellowed in fury, dropping Alison to the ground. She fell ten feet from the troll's height and landed with a thud. Bilbo winced when he heard the breath leave her lungs in a strangled gasp. The troll reached up and tugged something out of his cheek—a dagger, though it looked like a toothpick within his grasp.
Bilbo watched fearfully as the troll tossed the dagger aside and picked Alison up by her ankle. She struggled feebly, still too dazed from her fall to do anything. The troll grabbed another sack and shoved her prone body into it, tightening the ropes around her neck so she couldn't break free before tossing her into the pile of dwarves and Bilbo. She landed heavily on Óin, who grunted in pain before she rolled off and settled beside Bilbo with a groan.
"Well," she said through clenched teeth, "that didn't exactly work."
Thorin stared at her, his blue eyes hard and furious.
"What were you thinking?" he hissed. "I ordered you to remain at the camp."
"You needed a distraction," she said, her voice tight from pain. "I provided one."
"Why?"
"Sunlight," she said, though it sounded more like a moan.
She was right, Bilbo knew. He didn't know how or why she knew that sunlight was deadly to the trolls, but it reminded him of his own plan. They just needed more time.
Though Bilbo's mouth was dry, he swallowed a few times before struggling to his feet in the sack, calling out, "Wait!"
The trolls and the dwarves all looked at him as if he'd gone mad, and maybe he had, but he had to do something to keep them from being eaten.
"You are making a terrible mistake," he continued. "I mean with the—with the seasoning."
"What about the seasoning?" the second troll demanded, eyeing him skeptically.
"Well, have you smelt them?" he said. "You're going to need a lot more than just sage if you plan on plating this lot up!"
He tried not to roll his eyes when the dwarves shouted him down, outraged. Quiet, you fools! he wanted to yell. I'm trying to help you!
"What do you know about cooking dwarf?" the second troll asked.
"Shut up," the third troll said. He knelt down, looking at Bilbo in interest. "Let the burglar-obbit talk."
"The secret to cooking dwarf is…"
Bilbo trailed off, his mind blank. Everyone stared, waiting, as beads of sweat rolled down his back. Come on, Baggins, think!
"You have to skin them first!" Alison shouted from her place on the ground.
"Yes!" Bilbo said. "Yes, the secret to cooking dwarf is to skin them first! She's right."
"Traitors!" Glóin shouted at them while the rest of the dwarves protested in fury.
Bilbo internally screamed. The sky was beginning to lighten, turning pink at the edges of the tree-line, but they still needed more time.
"Tom," the troll said, "get me filletin' knife."
"What a load of rubbish!" the second troll said. "I've eaten plenty with their skins on. Scoff 'em, I say, boots and all!"
"He's right," the first troll from earlier said. He approached Bilbo and the dwarves upon the ground, his beady eyes hungry as he plucked Bombur from the pile. "Nothing wrong with a bit o' raw dwarf!"
Bilbo watched in horror as Bombur was hoisted into the air and dangled over the troll's mouth, squirming and struggling.
"No, no, no, not that one!" he shouted, his voice cracking in panic. "H-he's infected!"
The trolls stared at him. The one about to eat Bombur turned on him, confused. "You what?"
"Y-yes," Bilbo said, desperately wishing the sun to rise faster. "He's got…worms…in his…tubes. I-in fact, they all have; they're infected with parasites. Nasty business; I wouldn't risk it, I really wouldn't."
The troll dropped Bombur and backed away in disgust as the dwarves broke into an angry tirade again.
"Parasites?" Óin thundered. "Did he say we have parasites?"
"I don't have parasites; you have parasites!" Kíli shouted at Bilbo.
Bilbo turned, silently urging the dwarves to shut up. Alison was speaking to them, trying to get them to listen, but they couldn't hear her over their clamor. It wasn't until Bilbo met Thorin's eyes that realization dawned on the dwarf king. He kicked Kíli in the back, forcing the prince to look at him, along with the others. Then, like a silent message had passed between them all, comprehension finally sank in.
"I've got parasites as big as my arm!" Óin said, turning back to the trolls.
"Mine are the biggest parasites!" Kíli declared. "They're huge—"
The dwarves piled on, shouting over each other again with perhaps too much vigor about their parasites as the trolls looked on, bewildered.
"What would you have us do, then?" the second troll demanded of Bilbo. "Let 'em all go?"
"Well…"
"You think I don't know what you're up to?" the third troll growled. He jabbed his thick, ugly finger at Bilbo. "This little ferret is taking us for fools!"
"Ferret?" Bilbo repeated, indignant.
"Fools?" the first troll echoed.
"The dawn will take you all!"
Bilbo's heart leaped when the tall silhouette of Gandalf appeared atop a large boulder bordering the clearing, limned in the rosy glow from the sunrise. The wizard raised his staff and brought it down upon the rock, splitting it clean down the middle. The boulder broke apart and clear, bright sunlight shone into the clearing, making Bilbo's eyes water from the force of it.
The trolls roared, shielding themselves, but it was too late; their gray, mottled skin was already morphing, becoming solid, while their bodies contorted and froze. Soon, the trolls were nothing more than statues, encased forever in stone in the positions they were in last.
There was a beat of stunned silence until the dwarves let out a cheer, thanking Gandalf for his timely arrival as the wizard descended into the trolls' camp. He set about helping Thorin out of his sack, and soon everyone was freed, even the dwarves who had been unfortunate enough to end up on the spit first.
Bilbo couldn't get out of his sack fast enough, his large feet tripping him up before he ripped the thing off, heaving a lungful of fresh air. He was still covered in troll mucus, but he was spared from the urge to vomit when Alison touched his shoulder.
"Good work," she said, her eyes gleaming like she was enjoying some private joke. "Those ugly bastards don't know what hit 'em."
Bilbo blushed at her praise. "Oh, well, it wasn't just me—"
But she'd already moved off, heading for the place where the troll had dropped her dagger, and Bilbo allowed himself a small smile.
Perhaps he wasn't so bad at adventuring after all.
Until next time!
Let me know what you thought!
