The fall was harsh outside of the mountain. Even the dwarves, normally sturdy and long-suffering, were beginning to slow in their march.
They stumbled into a small settlement. A farmer greeted the tired dwarves. Thror and Thrain, still in shock of losing the kingdom, left Thorin to lead the way.
"We are refugees from Erebor," Thorin explained to the farmer, "We will work in your fields for a share of the harvest."
The farmer looked worriedly at the large group of dwarves. "I'm sorry, master dwarf, I have no work for you."
"Please, sir, my people are starving," Thorin pleaded, "We are hard workers, I swear on my life."
"It is not that I do not trust the strength of dwarves, sir," the farmer replied, "But I have already hired a group of men to help me for the day."
Around the corner came a small crowd of downtrodden men. Never had Thorin seen such a desperate group. And among them…
"Thorin?" a voice cried.
Thorin looked. A weathered creature smudged with ash stepped forward. Her hair and skin were coated with a layer of dust from long travels.
"Marryn?!" the dwarf cried back, sprinting for her.
"Thorin!" she yelled again, running toward him.
The dwarf caught her in his mighty arms, kissing her wildly here and there.
"Marryn, my love," Thorin breathed, "I thought you dead."
"I thought you were," Marryn replied, kissing him back.
"How did you escape the city?" Thorin asked.
"I was in the market when the dragon attacked," Marryn said, her eyes downcast, "Haban perished when the beast's tail toppled the building."
"I am sorry," Thorin said, holding her close. She rested her lips against his forehead.
"Never leave me again," Thorin whispered, "Travel with us. I cannot lose you again. Please."
"I will," Marryn said, stroking his beard, "I follow where you lead, my king."