PART ONE: ANACHRONISM
Chapter VIII: Majesty Always Ruins The Party
"Please tell me you are not the burglar Gandalf has brought me to meet," said the most majestic voice of all.
I grinned at Thorin.
His eyes narrowed and he took a step back from the door. "I will take my leave, and we shall never mention this incident again."
"I'm just kidding." I pulled Thorin into the hobbithole and closed the door firmly behind him before he had a chance to flee. "I'm most definitely not the burglar. You and I both know stealth is not my strong suit."
Thorin glanced back at the door, as if he was still contemplating escape, but then he turned to me and said, "At least you can recognize your faults."
"Thorin Oakenshield, you are late." The sound of Gandalf's deep voice so close behind made me jump. I glanced back at the wizard, who was stooped under the low ceiling of the hobbithole. Then, before Gandalf could remember that he didn't like me, I stepped back so that I was half-hidden behind Thorin.
"I thought you said this place would be easy to find, Gandalf," said Thorin as he removed his travelling cloak and set it on the wall hooks beside the rest of the dwarves' things. "I would never have arrived if it were not for the mark on the door."
"See," I muttered, "I told them you were directionally challenged."
Thorin raised his eyebrows. For a second, I thought he was going to make a joke, but then Bilbo entered the foyer, followed closely by the dwarves. The dwarves beamed at the sight of Thorin, their eyes glowing with respect as they bowed their heads in greeting to him (Thorin was not the type of dwarf one head-butted to say "hello").
"Mark? What mark?" Bilbo looked from Thorin to Gandalf with wide eyes. "There is no mark on that door. I had it repainted just last week."
Neither Gandalf nor Thorin bothered to answer Bilbo, and it seemed the other dwarves were too distracted by the arrival of Thorin to notice Bilbo had even spoken.
After surveying Bilbo critically, Thorin turned to Gandalf and asked, "Is this the burglar of which you spoke?"
"Yes," said Gandalf. "I have selected Mister Baggins as the fourteenth member of the Company."
"I almost would have preferred Ana," grumbled Thorin.
"Really?" I asked eagerly.
"On further consideration, I would rather the hobbit." After a smug glance in my direction, Thorin then assessed the hobbit, his sharp eyes taking in Bilbo's ruffled chestnut hair, patched bathrobe, striped pajamas, and hairy feet. "Have you ever used a weapon before, Mister Baggins?"
"A weapon?" squeaked Bilbo, his face going white at the thought. "Mercy me, never!"
Thorin smirked. "I thought so. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar."
The other dwarves chuckled, and even Bilbo seemed to agree with this assessment. He nodded with Thorin's words and glanced nervously up at Gandalf. The wizard's brows were furrowed slightly, but he remained silent.
Thorin paused and then added, thoughtfully, "I would still rather Mister Baggins than Ana."
"Come on," I said. "Is that really necessary? That's just like seeing how many times you can insult me in under a minute."
"That is not such a difficult task," cried Kíli, eager for the chance to instigate the teasing of someone other than himself. "Your father had rocks for brains and your mother was a hairless rat."
"You're a hairless rat," I said without missing a beat. "Try a little harder next time, you wannabe-dwarf."
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the exasperated expression on Thorin's face. He had not come to Hobbiton to hear me exchange insults with his fellow dwarves. Too bad for him, he was going to listen whether he liked it or not.
"I accept your challenge, Ana Stonbit of Ohio," said Bombur from the back of the group of dwarves. "You are short and clumsy, and you belch like a mouse."
"I don't want to belch like a dwarf anyways, so I take it as a compliment," I said. "Better luck next time."
"Your father has the appearance of a hog and your mother has the smell of one," said Óin, joining in the challenge.
"You're one to talk." I waved my right hand in front of my nose and pulled a face. "Have you heard of a thing called a bath?"
"When you were a child your mother sought someone to take care of you, but the assassin asked for too much," said Nori.
"Meh," I said. "Insult me all you want, but I just have to look at any one of you in comparison to Thorin—and then, you all just look like elves in disguise."
"Why is it that all your insults are compliments to Thorin?" asked Fíli.
"It is hard to believe that these are the dwarves who will accompany me to the Lonely Mountain." Thorin sighed strode past me and took his seat at the head of the dining room table. "I should rejoice that Ana will not join us on our adventure."
"I did not invite her," said Gandalf with a sharp look in my direction.
"She is my guest." Bilbo drew himself up to his full height (which was still shorter than any of the dwarves). "I invited her into this house before any of you intruded. This is my home, and I am your host as well as hers—you have no right to throw her out."
"Bilbo, you are the best frigging host ever!" I cried. He gave me an awkward smile. Then, I turned to Gandalf and Thorin and added, "If this is about the quest to Erebor to defeat Smaug, I know all about it."
With a shadowed face, Gandalf turned to Thorin. "How much did you tell her?"
"There was no need to tell her," said Thorin, not looking at me. "She was present on that day many years past. That dark day when Smaug arrived in the Lonely Mountain."
I felt the other dwarves turn to me, their eyes wide with awe.
"Exactly," I said, trying to ignore the stares. "What Thorin said. Anyways, let's not worry about details." I took a seat back in my chair, two spaces away from Thorin. "We have a quest for gold to discuss."
"Gold?"
Glóin and Óin immediately settled in their seats, all their attention focused on Thorin. One by one the other dwarves joined us at the table. Dori and Bombur were discussing what kind of gold and jewels awaited them in the Lonely Mountain, while Bifur listened in, grunting every once in a while. Kíli shot Thorin a hopeful grin (perhaps wanting some sort of acknowledgment), but Thorin was occupied talking to Balin and didn't notice. A disappointed Kíli sunk back to his seat, and Fíli patted his brother on the shoulder, half-sympathetic and half-amused.
"More ale," said Bombur, holding out his mug. Fíli moved to take it, but Thorin shook his head.
"No," he said. "The celebration must come to an end. We have serious matters to discuss."
"Oh sure, Thorin," I muttered. "Ruin all the fun."
Thorin ignored me, and I expected no less from him. Instead, he addressed the Company, saying, "We have gathered here today to discuss an adventure. Not one moon ago, Gandalf met me at the Inn of the Prancing Pony and proposed that I gather together a group of my kin. At first, I was hesitant, but the signs have revealed themselves. The time has come. A lifetime of wandering foreign lands, of dwelling in the hills of Dunland, of battling orcs across the span of the Misty Mountains, of seeking refuge in the Blue Mountains…Finally, the time has come. I see it now, a promise fulfilled. I see it and, I know, you do as well, my kin. The promise of return, the promise of our homeland. The time has come for us to rise and take back the Lonely Mountain."
The eyes of the dwarves were filled with light at Thorin's words. However, there was a grimness in Thorin's face as he spoke.
"I sent out messages across the lands," he continued, "to our people in the north, the south, the east, and the west. Only thirteen have answered the call. Only thirteen will fight to see that promise fulfilled. We thirteen have gathered here. While we might be small in numbers, we are strong in heart. The time has come for us to take back the Lonely Mountain from the might of Smaug."
"Smaug?" asked Bilbo.
"Shush," I whispered. "You're interrupting Thorin's speech."
The look Thorin gave me was murderous. We both knew who the true interrupter was. Then, Thorin looked upon Bilbo with blue eyes filled with distrust and said, "Smaug is the dragon who, one-hundred-and-seventy years ago, with fire and storm, took our home from us. Long have we been denied return to the Lonely Mountain as dragons will bury themselves in their treasure hoards and guard it until their dying days."
"Dragons live for countless ages," supplied Bofur helpfully.
"Dragons?" Bilbo's voice was unnaturally high-pitched.
"Only one." As an afterthought, I added, "But he's very scary. He's almost killed me—twice."
"Twice," repeated Bilbo.
"He failed both times though."
"Obviously," said Thorin. "Otherwise you would not be here right now." He paused, surveyed me carefully, and said, "I find Smaug not as terrifying as I did before."
"Why do I put up with this?" I asked, looking at the group of dwarves helplessly.
"I believe it was his majesty," said Fíli.
"Oh yeah, that was it."
Gandalf massaged his wrinkled forehead and released a long, heavy sigh. "We have departed from the matter at hand."
"Yes," said Thorin, the previous solemnity returning to his face. "We are here to discuss the journey to the Lonely Mountain…our return home." He paused to allow those words to sink in. "As we have established, the dragon Smaug is a creature of fire and destruction, but that is only the end of our journey. First, we must cross the perilous road over the Misty Mountains and through Mirkwood. There will be much danger, and I cannot guarantee the safety of anyone here." Thorin looked pointedly at Bilbo. "Gandalf has recommended us a burglar, so that our party will not be numbered unlucky thirteen."
"An expert burglar!" cried Ori.
"Yes, yes," said Bilbo, nodding. "An expert burglar would be best."
We all stared at Bilbo.
"Are you?" asked Dori.
Bilbo frowned. "Am I what?"
"An expert?"
Bilbo looked over his shoulder, checking to make sure there was not some shadowy figure standing behind him. Then, Bilbo turned back to the dwarves and said, "Me? A burglar? You must be joking."
"That is what I told them," said Nori.
"He does not look like much of a burglar," agreed Ori.
"He would not survive a day in the wild," said Dwalin. "The wild is meant for rougher folk."
Bilbo nodded in earnest agreement. "Definitely not for me."
Gandalf's face started to shift, and with him, the room seemed to fall into darkness. Everything from the temperature, the shadows, the voices, everything became more intense. My attention was consumed by the powerful figure of Gandalf that seemed to have grown in size. All eyes were fixed on the wizard. No one dared move or breathe. Only when he was certain that everyone was focused on him, did Gandalf declare, "If I say Mister Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is."
The room lightened.
The intensity seemed to drain away, and all of a sudden, the room was as it had been before. Bombur was leaning forward in his seat, while Dori let out a deep breath and Nori slumped against the back of his chair. Fíli and Kíli were staring at Gandalf, mouths opened with awe.
Thorin sighed. I could tell he was not happy with the arrangement. But Gandalf's cooperation must have been important to him, because he turned to Balin and said, "Give Mister Baggins the contract."
Balin hesitated for half a second and then started rummaging through his leather rucksack. I peered over the table top, watching with fascination as Balin pulled out a folded piece of parchment and handed it to Bilbo. With trembling hands, Bilbo unfolded the paper, which was ridiculously long and almost fell to the floor, and read the contract. "…Payment not to exceed one-fourteenth of the total profit…if there is any…the journey should take a few months...the Company will not be responsible for any funeral expenses…death…laceration… incineration?"
"Oh, that sounds like fun," I said.
"You are not coming." Thorin didn't miss a beat.
"I don't think either one of us will have a choice in that matter," I muttered.
Thorin's eyes narrowed, but he did not press the matter. Perhaps after two or three run-ins with me, he now understood the uncontrollability of the Skips.
"So, how are you getting into the Lonely Mountain?" I asked. "Surely you aren't charging in through the front door."
"We must reach the Lonely Mountain first," said Thorin, grimly.
I nodded. "Yes, yes, the perilous journey, I remember, but that's not an answer to my question."
"There is only one way in," said Balin. "The Lonely Mountain was made to be a fortress."
"A fortress that now belongs to Smaug." I turned to Thorin with a frown. "Shouldn't you have a plan for this? Why are you going to Erebor so unprepared?"
"Why are my bowels being removed?" asked Bilbo, still reading the contract.
"Goblins have odd hobbies," explained Bofur.
"There is a prophecy that says Thorin will be the one to take back the Lonely Mountain," said Balin, practically glowing with pride. "Now is the time of which the prophecy speaks."
"A prophecy?" I asked. "You're relying on the words of some voodoo dwarf person to know when to attack a dragon?"
Thorin mouth quirked ever so slightly into what I thought might be a smile (but this is Thorin we're talking about so I might have imagined it).
"There is another way in," said Gandalf.
From somewhere within the folds of his gray robes, he pulled out a small time-worn map. The dwarves and I watched, transfixed, as he spread the map across the table. I leaned forward and saw that it was a map to the Lonely Mountain. There was a red design—perhaps some sort of writing—painted on one side of the mountain. I squinted, but I could not make out what the design meant.
"Where did you get this?" asked Thorin. His voice was barely more than a whisper.
"Your father gave it to me to pass to you," said Gandalf. Thorin's gaze shifted slightly at these words. However, if Gandalf noticed this, he did not acknowledge it and only said, "I tried to reason with King Thráin, but reason was not to be had. The only words I could get from him concerned the Lonely Mountain and the secret entrance."
"A secret entrance," repeated Thorin.
"There is another way in!" cried Kíli.
I rolled my eyes. "Thank you, Captain Obvious for that stunning revelation."
"I am a captain now?" asked Kíli, glancing at his brother for some sort of confirmation. "When did this occur?"
"Never mind," I muttered.
"Why is mental deterioration on the list?" asked Bilbo, glancing up from the contract.
"Adventures sometimes contain less than pleasant sights," said Balin. "It only applies if you are of a weak heart and mind to begin with."
"I rather like my mind the way it is." Bilbo was looking a little pale.
"You just need to sign at the bottom of the page," said Balin.
"No one reads the fine print," I added cheerfully.
"Right," said Bilbo. "Right." He glanced down at the fine print one more time—and then he promptly passed out.
"I am afraid we shall be a burglar short," said Bofur, glancing down at Bilbo's unconscious body.
"Contracts are terrifying things," I said. "I tried reading all the way through one once on a dare from my friend Nick…" I stopped. Even saying his name caused guilt to grip my chest. How long had it been? How much longer could my friends last? If they were still even alive…
"I would still prefer an unconscious hobbit come along on this venture than you, Ana." Thorin's voice dragged me out of my thoughts. It took me a second to realize what he was talking about, and then I shot him the obligatory dirty look.
While Óin and Glóin carried poor Bilbo to his rocking chair, the rest of us cleaned the dishes and tidied up Bilbo's home. The dwarves started singing and passing the plates around while they worked, which amused me to no end. I tried to clap along in time, but I possess no sense of rhythm and Balin had to ask me to stop. Of course, though the whole cleaning process, Thorin and Gandalf did not touch so much as a dishtowel. (They were far too important for such business.)
When the cleaning was over, the dwarves retreated to Bilbo's sitting room for stories and smoking. Bilbo woke up right about then, and Gandalf had a word or two with the hobbit—probably convincing Bilbo to join the quest, as the dwarves hadn't been very persuasive. I remained in the sitting room with the dwarves.
Dwalin had sprawled out in an overstuffed, maroon armchair. Glóin and Óin stood in the doorway, making circles with the smoke from their pipes. Thorin and Balin stood on opposite sides of the lit fireplace, occasionally exchanging comments in low voices. Bifur and Bofur had brought in wooden chairs from the dining room and had placed in the in the corner beside Dwalin's armchair. I sat cross-legged on the floor with Fíli and Kíli. Bombur sat with us, but only because the other dwarves were worried he would break another one of Bilbo's chairs.
As the night wore on, they told stories of the dwarven halls and fountains of gold that once existed in the Lonely Mountain, their voices deepened with longing as they spoke of its beauty. However, eventually, the conversation turned to Bilbo the Burglar.
"He seems a little weak in the stomach," said Dori.
"I think he's cute." I was determined to defend the adorable little host who had stood his ground against Gandalf's desire to cast me out.
"Your opinions do not concern us," said Thorin. "You are not a member of our Company."
"I beg to differ," I said. "My opinions do matter—I happen to have very good taste in dwarven beards."
Dwalin grunted in approval.
"You do not even have a beard," said Glóin told me. "You belong in the same category as Kíli."
Fíli roared with laughter, while Kíli looked positively outraged and said, "Do not find similarities between me and that, uh, that…" He failed to find a word to describe me properly.
"Kíli is a son of the line of Durin," said Thorin. "Not some homeless girl who cannot keep her feet on the ground and does not have a bit of common sense in her head."
"I object to being called 'homeless' by a dwarf who has spent one-hundred-and-seventy years wandering foreign lands because he could not defend his own home," I snapped. However, I regretted my response when I saw the flash of pain on Thorin's face.
He quickly masked the hurt, and his blue eyes turned icy. "We will not wander anymore."
"Once you defeat Smaug," I murmured, my mind flickering back to the red dragon amongst his treasure hoard. I had a hard time imagining the group of fourteen—none of them taller than me—taking on Smaug and winning.
"Smaug." Dori shuddered, seeming to agree with my unspoken thoughts.
"I am not afraid of him," cried Ori. "I will shove a sword right up his jaxy!"
"Calm down," said Nori, resting a hand on Ori's forearm.
"That reminds me," said Dwalin, turning to Thorin. "I heard you had a stick up your rear end. Did you manage to remove it?"
"A stick?" There was a puzzled expression on Thorin's face, distorted by the flickering light of the fireplace. Then, slowly, he turned to me. "What lies have you been telling my company?"
"Me?" I asked innocently. "Why do you always accuse me first?"
Dwalin frowned. "So did you manage to remove the stick, Thorin?"
"I think it's still up there," I muttered.
The glare Thorin gave me was thunderous, and I suddenly noticed the sword strapped to his waist. I scooted backwards so that I was half-hidden behind Fíli. The young dwarf was drinking some more ale and enjoying my torment immensely. I prodded him in the back and said, "You could help me."
Fíli grinned at me. "But that would ruin the night's entertainment."
I stole his ale as vengeance, and Fíli glared at me before he went to get another drink.
The chatter went on for some time. Then a drunken Glóin started to sing some song about hairy dwarf women…and thus, the musical section of the night began. After Glóin's wonderful solo, he and Óin started a duet dedicated to disemboweling elves and other crude ways to torment them. (That seemed to be Thorin's favorite song—he scowled a little less while that one was performed.) There was another song about dwarf women and ale—courtesy of Bofur and Bombur Ori tried to sing about his grandmother's cardigans, but Nori cut across his brother and started chanting about a troll and a goblin meeting at a crossroad, and after hours of arguing who should go first, the troll decided just to eat the goblin and continued on his way. Fíli and Bofur had another song about dwarf women. Then Kíli let out an ear-breaking solo about how one day he would grow a fine beard. Thorin whacked Kíli over the head and told him to "quiet before you embarrass even Durin himself!"
"Why don't you sing a song then," I said, mockingly. "Since you have the right to condemn others voices."
Thorin stared at me for a good long minute. his mouth twitched ever so slightly into a smirk; however, he quickly smothered his amusement. Stone-faced, he said, "If you request."
"Wait—you actually are going to sing?" I blinked. I'd expected him to be too kingly to sing.
"Singing, along with storytelling, has long been a part of the dwarven tradition—no one could call himself a dwarf if he cannot sing." Thorin looked pointedly at Kíli, who seemed a little ashamed of his own out-of-tune display.
"I think we have questioned Kíli's lack of dwarvishness enough for one day," said Bofur.
"He might need therapy after this," I said cheerfully.
"Need what?" asked Dori.
I shifted on the floor so that my legs were spread out in front of me rather than crossed. "What's the point of making humorous remarks if no one understands them?"
"Your remarks are supposed to be humorous?" asked Nori.
Bofur let out a weak laugh. "I find your remarks very amusing."
I grinned at him. "Thank you, Bofur, at least someone understands my sense of humor."
"He does not understand a word you say." Fíli still hadn't forgiven me for stealing his ale. "He is only laughing to be nice."
I prodded Fíli in the arm. "Well, that's more than you can say."
Thorin cleared his throat loudly.
"Everyone, shush!" I cried, leaning forward and watching him eagerly. "I want to hear Thorin's majestic dwarf voice."
Thorin ignored me. He settled into his spot beside the fireplace, resting an arm against the mantelpiece and staring into the depth of the crackling flames. Normally, I would have made a comment about how posed he looked, but I'll be honest and say I was transfixed. I had fallen under his majestic spell or whatever you call it. He didn't look posed but solemn and lonely. He started humming the deep, rhythmic tune, and the other dwarves caught on and carried on the melody. Only then did Thorin opened his mouth to sing:
"Far over the misty mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away ere break of day
To seek the pale enchanted gold.
The pines were roaring on the height,
The winds were moaning in the night,
The fire was red, it flaming spread;
The trees like torches blazed with light.
The bells were ringing in the dale
And men looked up with faces pale;
The dragon's ire more fierce than fire
Laid low their towers and houses frail.
Far over the misty mountains grim
To dungeons deep and caverns dim
We must away, ere break of day,
To win our harps and gold from him."
Thorin finished the song and a long silence filled the sitting room. Bilbo and Gandalf stood in the doorway, heads bowed and eyes closed as the haunted words filled the room. The dwarves were dwelling on their own sorrows and the vast journey that lay ahead of them. Even though most of them had never entered the halls of the Lonely Mountain, the stories of their home had always rested in the backs of their minds. Even I remained in still silence, unable to remove myself from the images of the mountains of gold and the arching walls that resided in the Lonely Mountain. I glanced across the sitting room and saw that a dark look had crossed Thorin's face as he stared into the depths of the fireplace. My heart twisted as the silence stretched on.
"Thorin," I said when I could bear it no longer.
"Hm?" Thorin turned away from the fireplace to look at me, though I could see the memory of Smaug's flames in his eyes.
I managed a grin. "Can you sing me to sleep every night from here on out?"
"No."
"Come on!" I cried. "Do you not hear your own voice? Who would not want to fall asleep listening to that? It's frigging ridiculous how perfect your voice is!"
"My answer is still no."
"Please…"
Thorin ignored me. He turned to the Company and said, "We rise early tomorrow. I suggest we retire. At the break of dawn, we head for the Lonely Mountain."
He gave a few more instructions about their departure tomorrow. Then, with one last, sharp glance at Gandalf, Thorin left the sitting room. He took a right in the hall, heading for the guest bedroom, which, of course, he had reserved for himself. Unfortunately for him, I decided to follow.
"Come on, Thorin," I pleaded as we walked down the hallway. "Just one little song—just until I fall asleep. You can sing your Misty Mountain song again. I could listen to that on a ten hour repeat YouTube video."
Thorin sat down on his bed. "No. And what is YouTube?"
"A mystical place where you can watch anything you want to—why not?"
"No."
"You should quit this whole regain-your-throne-and-become-king thing and become a singing legend of Middle Earth. I'll totally be your manager, by the way, thanks for asking."
"No."
"Thorin!"
"No."
"Please?"
"No."
"God damn it, you're no fun!"
Thorin sighed. He had reached the door of the guest bedroom. Placing one hand on the handle, he turned to look back at me. "What do you want, Ana?"
When I met his eyes, I stopped begging and felt the smile slide away from my lips. I remembered the haunting sorrow in his tone when he sang about the Lonely Mountain. It was reflected now in his gaze. His eyes contained not only his own pain, his own burden, but the burden of his people. They were the eyes of a dwarf who had spent one-hundred-and-seventy years wandering foreign lands because he couldn't defend his own home.
I found that I couldn't look at Thorin any longer. I couldn't bear to be reminded of how small and useless I really was.
My gaze dropped to the floor, and I took a small step backwards.
"Don't look at me like that," I whispered, my voice rough. "Don't."
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Thorin release the handle and turn to face me fully.
Skip.