Bilba stares up at the stars as she lies wrapped in her blankets. She's exhausted, and she came too close to falling asleep in her saddle more than once, but now sleep refuses to come to her and she huffs in exasperation. She wants nothing more than to rest, knowing that they will push forward at a rapid pace now that they have found the trail of the Jewel of Durin. How Gandalf can sense it, she knows not. Likely it is some deep and unexplained magic of wizards, not that Gandalf is thought of as much of a wizard in the Shire. She isn't entirely sure, any more at least, that most of her fellow hobbits have any grasp at all of the realities of the world outside their safe home and the tireless way the other races work to protect the world her people like to pretend they are not a part of. That will have to change, she thinks, once this is all over and she goes home. They have no right to expect the elves and Men and dwarves to shoulder the burden of keeping the evils in the world entirely at bay.
Bilba has seen evil since she left the Shire, and not just that of the goblins or the strange creature that attacked her while hissing about the meat on her bones and its precious. She shudders at the memory of its cold and clammy fingers around her throat and her weak attempts to fight it off. The thing took them all unawares and if not for Legolas she would have died. She will have to make her way back through those mountains, should she manage to sneak away, and she's under no illusions that any goblins she might come across would ignore her. She can admit, now, that running off on her own won't work (no matter how much she still resents Fíli's assertions of the same) she's on the wrong side of the Misty Mountains.
Her thoughts turn away from the impossibility of her escape from her future as her fingers slip into her pocket, closing around the cool metal of a ring. She found it on the cave floor after the creature had tried to take her and curiosity had prompted her to pick it up. It's heavy, for such a small thing, plain and smooth and she puts it on to admire it in the moonlight. She hasn't mentioned it to anyone, it hardly seems worth it, and she doubts the thing has any real value at all. It's such a tiny thing, she muses, and it makes her wonder how she spotted it in the darkness anyway, her eyesight isn't as good in the dark as that of a dwarf.
She twists it on her finger as she thinks, amazed to find that it fits, then glances around to see if anyone else is awake. Nausea hits her as she sees the world in a wash of greys and blacks. Except where her companions are, the dwarves glow slightly in the washed-out world, but Legolas and Gandalf shine. She yanks the ring off her finger, staring at it in confusion as the world rights itself and the murky feeling recedes. For just that moment the world had felt wrong, foul, and it troubles her, even as she pockets the ring with the intention of talking to Gandalf about it in the morning. Then she rolls herself more tightly into her blankets and sleep finally drags her under.
She wakes early to Adra's gentle nudging and she lets out a groan. Her throat hurts more than it had the day before and her head is pounding with the beginning of a headache, likely due to her own exhaustion. There is little likelihood that Thorin will ease their pace at all just because she is feeling under the weather, no matter the reason for it.
"Gruel," she hears Nori grumble as he accepts his breakfast.
"Porridge," Bombur corrects in his reasonable voice that is as soft as that of any hobbit.
"Oats and water," Nori mutters, lifting a spoonful and letting it drop, "that's gruel, and we've had it every day since leaving Rivendell."
"If you don't like it," Bofur snaps, "how about you do the cooking and carry the extra supplies?" Perhaps Bilba isn't the only one suffering from a lack of sleep.
"You won't thank yourself for that suggestion if you let him anywhere near your cookpot," Dwalin mutters around his mouthful of breakfast. "And it's this or weeds, Nori, so quit your belly aching and eat up."
The red head falls silent, though he is still pulling a face as he eats. Bilba happens to think that Bombur's cooking is better than anything Dwalin, Balin or Thorin managed to cook up before they reached Rivendell, but she doesn't say anything. Her head hurts too much for the normal conversations of dwarves, let alone for the shouted arguments they seem to enjoy so much.
"For your throat," she hears Bombur say and she looks up as a battered tin cup appears before her.
Her breakfast has been mostly ignored, swallowing is more painful than she would like to admit, and obviously the rotund dwarf had noticed. He smiles kindly at her and the bitter scent of willow bark hits the back of her throat. She accepts it gratefully, despite the fact that she would normally refuse to drink it unless a liberal amount of honey has been added, and gulps it down. It doesn't take long, in her experience, for the brew to do its work and she half-heartedly continues with her breakfast as her stomach rebels slightly against the bitter tea and the pain in her head. Frankly, she could use a few more hours of sleep while she waits for the brew to work, but even with the tempers around her balancing on a knife edge she knows that it is unlikely.
"Gandalf," she hears Thorin say as they break camp, "the thief cannot have emerged far from here, which way?"
"He followed the path, Thorin," the wizard replies gravely, "you may be assured that should his direction change I will inform you."
"Have we caught him up at all?"
"That I cannot tell you," is the response, "there is no way to know."
Thorin mutters something under his breath that Bilba cannot quite catch and barks the order for them all to move out. It is to be another hard day, she thinks miserably. It makes her curse her own foolish stubbornness and wish she had simply accepted that which was required of her. She would still be at home and comfortable in her own bed had she not decided to try and change that fate, had she only listened to her Took relatives who had insisted that this was a fantastic opportunity instead of the Baggins side of the family (and Torluc Proudfoot, now that she thinks on it, and the longer she is away the less of a catch he is beginning to look like) who had all insisted that it was far too scandalous.
"The road is very quiet," she comments, when they slow to allow the ponies some rest, and more for something to say than out of any real desire to know why the paths are so devoid of other people. "I thought we might have come across some other traveller by now."
"It's Mirkwood," Nori replies, and she flinches when she realises just how close to her he is without her noticing. "Isn't that right, Legolas?"
"We prefer the Woodland Realm," the elf says stiffly, "or the Greenwood."
"But it isn't green anymore, is it?" Nori taunts. "Travellers go missing off the old dwarf road that runs through it. Going around the north of it takes them too near Gundabad on the west side and going south is too near Dol Guldur. Most take the road south from Lake Town and make for the Gap of Rohan," Nori continues. "It takes longer but it's better than falling in enchanted rivers or losing a poorly maintained path and getting eaten by the infestation of Ungoliant's spawn while Thranduil cowers in his halls."
"You know nothing of it," Legolas hisses. Nori's answering smirk is bright and dangerous, like he has achieved exactly what he wished to.
"I'm well-travelled, lad," the thief grins, "you tend to be in my line of work. I know a lot of things, it's how I've lived so long. And I prefer to avoid that home of yours whenever I can. Even I can see it's not healthy." He turns back to Bilba, apparently done with taunting Legolas. "The fact of it is, lass, there's always a choice and a risk. In this case it's the quicker route and almost certain death, or the slower route and almost certain survival with the added bonus of making some money. It can't be too hard to guess what most would choose."
"I guess not," she mutters.
She's never really thought about it. The Tooks are wealthy, they own a lot of land and make money from their own extensive farms and as landlords. The Bagginses, or Bilba's branch at least, are also wealthy. Her father inherited much of her grandfather's land and holdings and that all passed down to her. Much of it is currently overseen by her uncle, and there has been talk of her marrying his son so that he can keep that control, but Bilba has been taught what she needs to know and has helped often enough. Hobbits are not traders, not like dwarves and Men, these are factors they rarely have to take into account.
The land on this side of the mountains is much the same as it was on the other, although they haven't fully cleared the pass yet it's wider and lacks the sharp drop on one side so that the group can move with more ease. Bilba shudders with the memory of her pony stumbling the previous day and that momentary certainty that she was going to die. She had been lucky and her mount had righted herself quickly, but she wonders just how many broken bodies were at the bottom of that drop which would never be recovered.
"Thorin tells that story much better than I do," she hears Ori say to Fíli up ahead. "And Adra must have heard it dozens of times, since she lives there." He doesn't speak to the girl directly, even though she's riding with them, but Bilba has noticed that he rarely does unless something draws him in.
Nearly every day while they ride a story gets told, usually by Ori or Balin (and occasionally Bofur, but his tend more towards risqué). For the most part Bilba is fascinated and enjoys comparing these stories with the ones that her mother had told her. There are tales of the colonisation of Erebor after the last Great Alliance when it was realised that the allies needed a stronghold in the north, the discovery of the Iron Hills and the coming of Smaug. Stories of the various incarnations of Durin and the great battles his people have fought. It is spectacular and vibrant and completely unlike the hobbit tales she's accustomed to.
"Durin and the Balrog?" Thorin asks, and Bilba's attention sparks. This is a story she wants to hear. "Perhaps it is time I told the truth of it," he mutters, and everyone gathers closer, even Legolas.
"As all know, Khazad-dûm has long been the greatest kingdom of all Mahal's children," Thorin's voice is low and has taken on a tone that Bilba has never heard before. "A bustling and wealthy realm beneath the mountains, no mere mine as others would have the world believe, but a citadel beneath the stone where dwarrow have long been able to pursue their craft in peace and plenty.
"Khazad-dûm long withstood the attempts of our enemies to wrest control from the line of Durin, even though so many ancient homes have been lost to us, for her defences are strong and nigh impenetrable. We could not be driven from our home by any outside force and were it not for a seam of mithril we might never have been driven out at all.
"The elves like to say that we dug too deeply and with too much greed, for though Durin has ever been the greatest of us his line will always be more susceptible to the call and lure of the riches of the world. And so it was that a vast seam of the purest mithril was found. Richer than any we had ever discovered before and it called to Durin, though whether to the weakness in his blood or the need instilled in all dwarrow by Mahal not even those of us who were there could say. For did not Mahal create us to follow in His path? Did He not make us to craft as He crafts? To forge as He forges? To build as He built? So we delved deep, reaching as He taught us to reach for that perfect metal, the flawless jewel, to create works of wealth and beauty such as the pale children of Eru could not understand."
His words are passionate and Bilba rather suspects that they have absolutely nothing to do with the original tale except, perhaps, as justification for the action taken by Durin VI. Even she is moved by it, however, and the dwarves, including Balin, are even more so. This is a story designed to awaken the pride of all dwarves and Bilba cannot imagine it failing. Legolas, when she glances at him, simply looks alternately perplexed and angry as Thorin speaks, she doubts he has ever heard the story told, whether in this manner or at all.
"The first hint that something terrible awaited us at the end of that seam of ore was the emptiness, an echo beneath the stone where there should not have been one for no dwarrow had ever gone so deep before, and none will again knowing what might be disturbed by it. Nor was there the hint of water, a pure and untouched river that might have carved out such a space in its passage. The second was the disappearance of one of the mining teams. By this time, however, Durin was consumed by his mithril and gold and blind to the advice and pleas of his sons and grandsons, even the words of his nephews and cousins in Erebor who had noticed orcs heading south in ever greater numbers went unheard.
"'Let them come,' Durin roared,'for Khazad-dûm will withstand all onslaught as proud and mighty as its king!'
"And his sons wept, for the kind father they had known was no more as he ordered them to prepare their arms to intercept the orcs and add more workers to the mines that they might be worked day and night. The Balrog woke as the workers took their noon meal, their hot pasties in their hands and their mouths full of meat and ale. They died in an instant as the creature of darkness and flame ignited, wielding a blazing sword and a whip of midnight it slaughtered its way through the mine, collapsing tunnels as it went.
"There was little choice, this threat would not be easily defeated and even through the veils of his sickness Durin could understand that. So, he ordered the great city to be evacuated, that only a small contingent of his best guard and sons remain so that they might deal with the servant of Morgoth which stalked his great halls.
"His guards fell first, batted away as little more than flies buzzing around fruit and perhaps Durin had expected it for though he mourned their sacrifice he did not despair it. He drew his great sword, which had, until now, remained sheathed upon his back in favour of his axe, and the white jewel upon the pommel blazed into life at the touch of his hand upon the hilt. Brighter than even the sun it burned and Morgoth's creature screamed at the sight of it. The battle that followed raged for two days. Back and forth they moved, the creature more than ten times the size of the dwarf king aided by his two sons. Pillars crumbled, sparks flew, Náin was removed from the fight with a shattered arm, his sword lost to the darkness. The younger son was more fortunate, ignored as his attacks were little more than the harmless sparks that fly under the blacksmith's hammer.
"As we all know, Mahal made us to endure, to become the very stone from which the seven fathers were carved, but even stone will break under the right pressure. Even stone can be chipped away with the right tools and strikes. And so the Balrog came to bear on Durin. It struck the mighty sword from his hand and, raising its blade over the great king's prone form, the beast let out a roar of triumph. Its victory seemed certain, but it was short lived for in the moment the blade fell the younger son jumped before his father, a shield in his hands, and turned the blow aside enough that it would not be instantly fatal to his beloved father. It was enough, for in that moment Durin was able to grasp his blade and as the son was flung aside he called upon the power of the white jewel and plunged the sword into the Balrog's chest, filling the hall with blinding light."
Thorin pauses, his voice has taken on a tight quality that Bilba recognises all too well. Grief. Even she feels it, for this is not the tale her mother told her, where the son remained on the edges of the battle, ordered to take Durin's place should he fall. The others are holding their breath, she's amazed to find that she is as well, and from the awe on their faces this is not the way that the tale is told among the masses. This is the tale as it is spoken among lords and kings.
"The battle was won, but the cost was great. Durin's injuries, though few were visible, were severe and he knew he would not survive the journey out of the great city. Náin, too, had been badly injured, his sword arm useless at his side and his eyes unseeing from a blow to the head. Only the younger son, who had come so eagerly to his father's defence, who had risked his death in a futile attempt to prevent that of his father, could stand or walk. So it was, with his last breath, Durin ordered his son, his shield, to take the sword to his grandson, that Durin's line might continue and prevail in the face of darkness.
"And so, the second son emerged from Khazad-dûm, triumphant and grieving, only to find greater tragedy awaited him. Tragedy which would work to prevent the return of Durin's people for many a decade and would leave the throne empty."
There is silence, Thorin's voice falls on a whisper and Bilba shivers as she releases the breath she has been holding. She has heard the others telling stories, though so many of them must be known to the dwarves as part of their history, but for all her fascination none of them have ever affected her as this one has. None of them has ever made her want to know so much more than she does. Thorin speaks as though he was there, and it should be impossible, but she knows it as she looks upon his bowed head and thinks on his ancient eyes. Thorin is Durin's second son. He was there for the slaying of the Balrog.
Bother.
A.N: Yeah... canon. In other news I just managed to work on the chapter of this that I'm emmost/em dying to get out (chapter thirty something). Posting for this will now be every Tuesday and Friday, in line with Thief's Quest being every Monday and Thursday. Which gives me writing time around the studying and the D&D. Talk about being organised.
