Thank you everyone for the kind words and for following my story. I have read a lot of these Thorin/OC stories, but this story had been in my head since the Desolation of Smaug and I thought I should put it up here. Tell me what you think! I love constructive criticism! Or love! Or both!
I ride into Bree from the southernmost road, planning to reunite the little girl and her mother as soon as possible; hopefully she would still be waiting at the Hog's Breath tavern so that I wouldn't have to hunt her down. The little girl, not even six seasons, sits in front of me as my horse walks past the gatekeeper. I watch the little brunette girl bounce up and down in the saddle to the motion of my horse, trying to release some of the excitement at returning home. It is slightly annoying, but what am I going to do? Yell at her to stop? As the gate rises I spy an old man in the tollbooth who looks at me miraculously and give him a brief nod in hopes that it shows my gratitude in allowing me to pass. A young boy came out somewhere from behind the booth and bolts past us down the road. He will most likely tell the town I have returned with the little girl. Good – it will make finding the girl's mother easier.
I continue plodding down the road at my own pace, the girl squirming anxiously in the saddle. She isn't comfortable with my presence, but after saving her from the ghouls she trusts me enough not to try and run for it. I may have saved her, but I am well aware of the fact that she wouldn't be comfortable until she was in her mother's arms. I know full well how keen that need is as a child. My chest tightens considerably as I begin to navigate through the thin patch of houses and shops necessary to reach the Hog's Breath.
"Look, Master Ranger, there it is!" she yells excitedly.
Sure enough against the lights from the tavern I can see that a large group of people have already gathered outside the inn. That boy was quite quick in delivering his message. They must have seen us coming because like a wave they rush towards us. I continue forward into the fray of people that cluster around me, hoping that the people had good enough sense to get out of the way of my horse. The people of Bree chatter at me excitedly, but I don't pay attention as I scan the crowd for two particular faces: the girl's mother and the Storyteller. The child's mother is relatively easy to find considering the girl does the work for me.
"Mama!"
I look in the same direction of the child to see the woman holding down a choking sob and tears of joy spilling from her eyes. Her brother is once again beside her watching me with awe in his eyes; I'm sure he thought us both dead. As thankful as I'm sure the woman is – I know she only has eyes for her little girl. Moving my horse slightly to part the remaining crowd between myself and the woman there is suddenly silence. I place my hands over the girl's waist and hand her over to her uncle. He takes her gently to place her in a firm hug between himself and her mother. Once in her arms the first thing the mother does is kiss her daughter on the cheek before wrapping her securely in her arms. As she holds her I can see the mother's lips moving and despite that I cannot hear her I have a very good idea what she is saying. Slowly the crowd begins to return to its original clamor, but I am still lost within my own thoughts.
Welcome home, Tahna. I'm glad you made it back safely.
My mother's words from my own childhood float back into my mind. Every day I would return home from a day of lessons or play, these were the words she would offer me. I shudder at the memory not in fear or disgust, but with how cold and hallow the words left me. 'My mother is dead,' I remind myself. That didn't stop my heart from sinking like a stone at the thought of her.
My mother, Nirassi, had never been overly affectionate; I personally remember her being kind and gentle, but essentially cold. She loved our small family, I know she did, but to protect herself from loss she would always be distant. One of my best memories regarding this matter was the day I had fallen out of the tree near the Lord's Palace. I had wanted to see if the blood oranges really had blood in them when I fell out of the tree and broke my arm. I returned home nursing the arm and crying, but my mother had calmly taken my hand and escorted me to the healer. I recall her giving directions on how to get to the healer's house as we walked, should I have need of it again, through tear stained eyes. Once there she left me and told me to return home after the healer had reset the bone. When the healer first heard where my mother had gone he had thought her cold and heartless for leaving her daughter behind, but when I did as she bid and returned home she took my face and placed a lingering kiss on my forehead. And like all days she told me the same thing:
"Welcome home, Tahna. I'm glad you made it back safely."
It was her way. She always wanted me to be strong and to learn so that I could take care of myself and in essence protect one of the few things my mother loved. Nirassi had not always been this way, but the stark contrast of the change caused many to think her cruel. The truth was that the people who thought this never truly knew my mother. As a young woman, Nirassi lost her father and two of her brothers to orc raids. She grew distant without them in her life and the rest of her kin were unsure how to handle the indifferent nature my mother developed. She mostly spoke to her only other brother, my uncle, Neir. Even then their conversations were brief and infrequent. One day there was an attack on the main gate and a couple orcs slipped through the defenses, entering the main square of Imelkane. That day was the first time my mother had ever held a sword, and she later told me in made her comfortably numb. She may have managed to kill only one orc, but it was enough to give her some satisfaction for the losses she suffered. After the battle itself my mother returned to her old ways before the death of her father and brothers, but certainly more cold and distant.
Not long after the attack Nirassi approached the strongest warrior in the city, Kalar, and asked him to marry her. I heard from my uncle that the look on his face that day was infamous and the butt of many jokes. Nirassi had been sought after once she came of age and had many suitors. She is the one who gave me my golden eyes, but she had hair like sunshine. Like many women of Imelkane she carried a fair complexion and a borderline delicate bone structure; however, the way she carried herself, it was equal to that of any male warrior.
Naturally, my father accepted. He hadn't been one of the original suitors for he had been working diligently with our sovereign Lord to push back the mounting orc force in Gundabad. However, that didn't mean he didn't admire my mother; in truth he was quite smitten with my distant, sword-wielding mother. Slowly my father came to love the woman my mother had become in her short nineteen years, but my father said it took her much longer to fall in love with him. She had chosen Kalar because he was strong and wouldn't die on her so easily, but I know that it was only in the beginning. My mother was never very romantic towards my father, but I knew she loved him because every time she saw him she would say:
"Welcome home, Kalar. I'm glad you made it back safely."
Those words were her way of expressing love for us in our little family. She even said it to uncle once or twice. That's why she said it to us every day and the only reason she waited to say it until we were home is because it would save her from pain if the day came where we didn't return home.
"Come now, Ranger! Have you slain the beasts or haven't you?"
A man had begun to shout so loud I could hear him over my own thoughts. I look at the tall stranger standing on the left side of my horse. He stands at about six foot and his wild black hair frames his face and seemingly makes him bigger than he really is. He is looking up at me with dark eyes gleaming with mirth and his stubbly jaw is raised in a smile.
"Did you defeat the ghouls?"
I need no hint from his one track mind to know he is rather young despite his mature appearance. However, at the mention of the ghouls I look back at the brown sack resting on my horses haunches. My horse's training is the only thing that keeps her from kicking the sack off her back. My horse, Wildwind, knows that the bag contains great evil and while I know she is uncomfortable, she knows not to buck and whine. It takes a great deal of trust from the Rohanian mare to allow such evil to be placed on her back and not react; it is an honor I do not take lightly. I release her of her burden, and throw the bag at the feet of the man beside me. He manages to catch the bag, but only now notices the dark, black stains that coat most of the material. Several other men join him and crowd around to discover what is in the bag. Upon opening it the man turns a slightly pale color as well as some of the others who lean in and try to sneak a peek.
"He did it," he whispers at first and then again more loudly. "He did it! The ghouls are slain!"
With my news now delivered I trudge forward yet again past the townspeople to stable Wildwind. The cheers follow me into the small wooden stable where I dismount. The calls are kind and prideful, but amongst them I can hear the dull whispers of suspicion. How did the ranger do it they wonder? I smirk underneath my mask as laugh at them silently; they will never know. As I tuck Wildwind away I note that there are now several ponies stabled here as well. They had not been here when I left the night before and I begin to wonder if there is a Horse Lord spending the night here.
A rather spirited pony in the stall next door tries to take a playful nip at my horse, but after the long hard ride Wildwind is hardly in the mood. She thrashes and whinnies angrily at the pony, but after a few strokes of my hand and full bag of oats she manages to calm down. I remove her black saddle and place it with the others near the doorway. Before leaving it alone though, I run my hand over the handcrafted leather and think fondly of the man who gave me such a wonderful horse. He had been a Horse Lord who had set up along the Mering Stream; of course it was foolish to set up shop that close to Mordor, but to this day he claims that the grasses there make for faster horses. As one would expect he had problems with shadow cats, which are common along Ered Nimrais mountain range, before my arrival. Needless to say I was successful in my…extermination; and Wildwind had been my payment. As all Rohanian mares, Wildwind is smart, loyal, and faster than most horses in Middle Earth. She has followed me no matter the danger and for this I consider her one of my closest friends.
I leave and head back towards the tavern. There are people still loitering near the entrance and they turn to smile at me. It's a good thing I have my mask on or else I would have killed the mood. There is a scowl currently etched on my face, but no one can tell. Four children died before I came and while I could understand that these people were relishing in the sudden relief I cannot see the reason for such unhindered joy. The only one who seems relevant for such emotions is the mother who just received her daughter from the jaws of death. I don't understand these people…
I continue to the doorway where people for the most part clear the way for me, except one. The dark haired man, with whom I had left the bag, suddenly charges forward in front of me with the bag and into the tavern. As I enter behind him I can hear:
"I count seven! He killed seven Ettenmoor ghouls!"
The further I travel, the louder and the more excited whispers behind me become. Then more cheers assault me from the main room of the tavern. It could have been from having a long day, but I am bitter about the joy these people felt.
"Take them out, Klain," says one man.
I finally make it through the entrance hall and out of the crowd to stand near the bar counter. I'm now completely exposed to the room, but no one is really looking at me though. Klain began to remove the ghoul heads from the bag and place them neatly on the counter. The sun had set many hours ago now so the ghouls must be awake again.
A woman's scream confirms my thoughts. Even though the head of the ghouls had been removed long enough to have bled out by now some of their black blood still manages to smear on the finished wood. I had neatly sewn the mouths shut with black leather strips through the lips which held a large stick in between them. Some of the shifting lips managed to reveal the thin, pale white teeth that were imbedded in the sticks I had placed in their jaws as a precaution. Ghouls could regenerate if they managed to bite into living flesh so I had to be careful.
The large opulent eyes of the ghouls shift from face to face in the tavern until they see me. They try rotating what is left of their necks and try to…hiss at me I think. Their movements were very stiff and slow compared to the creatures I had faced earlier today. Their moist, pale skin is already beginning to fall off from lack of consuming living flesh the night before. It is coming off in chunks and landing loudly on the counter. Even their thin and wispy strands of dampened hair were coming out. So long as no one stuck their fingers in their mouths all should be well.
"By the blessed Valar," says the barkeep.
I look behind him to see the little boy from before and both of his sisters clutched tightly in the arms of their mother, who is eyeing the heads warily. The boy looks up at me in awe and I send up a silent prayer to the Valar that he would never become like me. The path I have chosen I would wish upon no creature in this world. There is no rest and no peace in it…
I suddenly feel as though I am being watched and break my eye contact with the boy to scan across the room. However, I am met with many faces of overzealous men.
"Drinks are on the house," the barkeep says suddenly.
The men begin pushing forward, trying to hand me the first drink. Oh how I would love to be drunk right now! However, I am quite uncomfortable knowing that there are eyes on me so I try to find a way out of it by signing quickly to the barkeep. Even as I do this there are still eyes burning into me.
"What's he say?" someone asks.
"He says we need to burn the heads before they regain their power," the boy says from the corner of the room.
"Why didn't you say so before? I can handle this," says Klain.
He collects the heads and makes his way to the hearth. Once the path he makes clears I easily find the eyes that have been watching me, for he made no attempt to hide his stares. Or the rest of them for that matter; have they all been staring at me? There are thirteen dwarves in the middle of the room watching me curiously. One table away from them sits a halfling, a vagabond, and the Storyteller. In ordinary circumstances I would have thought that a large number of dwarves travelling together vary peculiar, but I overlook them as I focus in on the Storyteller. As I glare at him his shit-eating grin grows and I can tell that he is very pleased with himself. I am so tempted to hit him…hard.
"Durin's beard!" someone whispers.
My eyes shift back to the company of dwarves. I quickly rake over faces and expressions that vary from admiration to utter confusion. The only exception is the dwarf that is standing; I hold his gaze the longest. His eyes appear ocean deep and older than the rest of him would lead you to believe. He is tall for a dwarf, especially one from the Blue Mountains, which is apparent from their attire. He is dark, not so much in the sense of his black mane and beard, but the weight with which he carries. As if a shadow has nestled itself on his broad shoulders and even now it weighs him down. Much like his companions he seems surprised by my appearance, but I am equally puzzled with his. He looks like he could be a blacksmith, but he certainly doesn't carry himself like one. His posture is straight and whether or not he knows it; his chest is puffed out already trying to make himself bigger than he already is. What would a dwarven blacksmith need with twelve other dwarves? It's like he has his own miniature army…no jesting intended.
However, before I could even attempt to communicate with the dwarves my attention is taken by Klain once more. This man is starting to grate on my nerves…
"The deed is done," he says. Then a final round of rousing cheers is made with a small amount of applause. "Let's celebrate!"
With those words the tavern suddenly comes alive with music and I lose whatever line of sight I have with the dwarf. I quickly find myself surrounded by men and women alike as they fill their hands with tankards or dance partners, or both. I turn away from it all to face the little boy again.
"He says that he is tired and would like to retire," says the boy jovially.
"Of course," says the barkeep. "We will never be able to repay you for your kindness or the peace of mind you have brought us."
"He says, 'A friendly place to stay in Bree if I'm ever passing through would be payment enough'," the boy corresponds.
"Sounds fair enough to me," says the man with a smile. His smile creates one of my own, even if he can't see it. His smile is gentle and genuine, reminding me of one of my mother's smiles when she was proud of me. I nod my head to the barkeep before heading to the darker part of the tavern where the stairs lead to my quarters for the night.
Before I can even put my foot on the first step I can feel eyes on my back once more and I turn. My gaze meets the same blacksmith who now stands in front of the vagabond. The vagabond also watches me, but with nowhere near the same intensity as the dwarf. In that moment I have a sudden realization. I had been so fixated on the dwarf's features that I had overlooked very important details. Blacksmiths don't wear rings like that or have tunic made of such fine materials, but I realize my worst offense is that I had overlooked his beads. The beads in the dwarf's hair were of the line of Durin, I recognize them from the dwarvish custom we had adopted in Imelkane; our Lord had worn similar beads for his own house. That means the dwarf I am staring at right now is none other than Thorin Oakenshield. It could have been Thrain, but the age difference is too severe and last I checked Thrain was missing an eye. I don't know how I missed it before (probably being lost in blue eyes wasn't helpful), but then again who would expect a dwarvish prince to be travelling through a backwater place like this? Maybe he wanted it that way…
Still holding eye contact, I make it a point to bow my head in his direction as acknowledgement of his status. My mother had taught me proper etiquette when addressing someone of higher rank, even across a crowded room. Usually the only person we had to worry about was our sovereign Lord, but even now I am prepared for a King-in-exile. The proper way to do it would be for me to approach and bow, however, I doubt that the prince is looking for such attention. His head bows back to me to address the acknowledgement I have given him. I pause a moment and wonder if he would help me on my quest, but I turn the thought away. I doubt that he would want any part of my vendetta; no one else should have to suffer with me.
The prince must have come along the Great East Road if he came directly from the Blue Mountains. To leave his people behind…he must also be on a great undertaking of sorts – most likely something bigger and more important than what I have in mind. I would not disturb them. I travel up the stairs with the eyes following my back. It is only moments before I reach the solace and isolation of my room. I swiftly lock the door and finally feel as though I can relax.
I first remove my gauntlets and my vambraces, placing them in the corner for cleaning later. I remove my water flask and fill a shallow bowl provided by the inn in hopes of cleaning my blade. I sit cross legged with my back to the bed on the floor and facing the door. I remove my blade, still stained with the blood of the ghouls and begin to wipe it down. My blade was forged in Minas Tirith by a man whose name escapes me and while it is not my "true" blade it serves me well enough. I look over at the night table where my true blades sleep, but once again they were unnecessary in my duties as a ranger.
Despite that I will not pry or intervene, I cannot help but wonder as to why Oakenshield would be here. When nothing comes to mind I wonder more about the dwarf behind the blue eyes; not all of the tales I had heard about him were true, were they? About his humility and his strength as he carried his people through the wilds of Dunland, slaving away in the forges of men. Surely the Battle of Azanulbizar had been exaggerated as well. Then again the only talk in the Blue Mountains was of the activity in Thorin's Halls. I sigh behind my face guard and then laugh. I am thinking about this far more than I should, but maybe my cousin is right and I just have a thing for men with blue eyes.
"What's the matter, Master Dwarf? Cat got your tongue?" says the Storyteller smugly.
The dwarves ignore the comment too focused on the ranger that had just breezed through the tavern. To say they were surprised would be an understatement.
"One of Imelkane," breathes Bofur. "I never thought I would see one."
"It's a good sign," Oin states.
"Did you get a good look at his armor?" asks Kili excitedly.
"It's not like anything I've ever seen," responds Fili with equal excitement. "The metal looks as strong as a blade, but it's darker than any alloy I have ever seen."
"He has the Golden Eyes," Dwalin concurs sourly. That is as close to a 'You were right' the Storyteller would ever receive from the gruff dwarf.
The enthused yet hushed remarks from the group are now sheltered by the merriment of the people within the tavern. Thorin's eyes never left where the ranger disappeared to, but Gandalf pulls him back from his thoughts.
"What are you thinking, Thorin Oakenshield?" the wizard asks.
He looks at the wizard, rather sizing him up. Thorin would have been a fool if he ever thought the wizard weak. While not many have seen the true power of an Ishtar, their temperament is not something to be tested. The sorcerer had sought both him and his father for this venture to reclaim their homeland, so there was undoubtedly something greater at work for the attention of Maiar to be involved. Naturally Gandalf is a man who demands respect; however, when he does something like bring a halfling into the fold, Thorin questions the man's judgment. Bringing Bilbo Baggins as the company's burglar is easily one of the worst ideas the wizard could have possibly had. The halfling isn't a fighter and seems like a borderline coward; he would be nothing, but a burden.
He looks back to the shadowed staircase. The people of Imelkane had been gems amongst the Realm of Men, the good people of the North. While Thorin had never been to Imelkane he can still recall meeting many people of the infamous race in the city of Dale. While he had respect for the people in Dale, everyone knew there had never been a greater force in the North than the golden-eyed men of Imelkane.
It is said that the people of Imelkane were originally established by en elf who taught them in the ways of having keen eyes and being light on their feet. They were also trained in archery and meant to be a stealthy force. Then at one point they saved a young dwarf prince, Thror, from the clutches of orcs. Afterward they began relations with dwarves and were taught the strength of armed combat. They also learned of the loyalty that dwarves carried like pride and with it they became a brutal force. When they visited with the men and women of Dale and Esgaroth they learned about the vast world beyond their lands. They learned to be self-sustaining and were quick learners in the ways of politics and warfare. They became an intelligent force. However, it was something amongst their own people that made them one of the most revered races in Middle Earth. They developed a passion and drive to defend anyone weaker than them; if not for this they would have easily been one of the most feared races in Middle Earth, but it earned them the trust of the free people. They were taught the languages of their allies; with the exception of the dwarves. The secretive nature of the dwarves didn't allow the people of Imelkane to use Iglishmek, but they invented a middle ground creating Nezkish instead; a good thing too seeing as how they shared their knowledge with everyone.
Imelkane developed a unique culture by adapting many different cultures to their own, in hopes of honoring their allies and friends; it also made it much easier for them to connect with all races of Middle Earth. They were a righteous force. Thorin knew all too well that even with all of those virtues it didn't save them from death or the destruction of their people.
"I want him to join the company," says Thorin bluntly. He almost said it louder to speak over the noise of the bustling tavern, but then thought better of it. It didn't matter though, because everyone had heard him. The eyes of both Gandalf and the Storyteller widen in surprise at the declaration. Behind Thorin the rest of the dwarves murmur in agreement with their leader's choice. A child of Imelkane would certainly be an asset, particularly one well versed enough in the dangers of Middle Earth to take on seven Ettenmoor ghouls.
"I cannot condone this," says Gandalf darkly. Thorin finds himself meeting the wizard in the eye, angry as a summer storm.
"I allowed you to force your burglar upon us, but I am the leader of this company and I may ask whomever I see fit to join us," Thorin rumbles. No one notices how Bilbo silently sighs at the disparaging remark.
"It is a decision you will come to regret," says Gandalf rather menacingly. Thorin's eyes narrow in suspicion.
"Why are you so adamant about keeping him from the company?"
Gandalf took a moment to chose his words carefully, "Because I do not know him and there is something…wrong with him. Heed my words, Thorin Oakenshield, that ranger cannot be trusted with your quest."
Gandalf left them then, heading over to where a little girl sat, speaking animatedly. The group of people around her is hanging on her every word. It would seem that she was the girl saved by the ranger and she was spinning her tale for the people to hear. With the wizard away Thorin takes another look at where he had last seen the ranger, a hand cupping his chin subconsciously. Balin approaches Thorin while looking at the dark stairway as well.
"I take it as a good sign," says Balin. "I never thought I would see one of their people again, yet here he is clear as day, and just as strong as his forefathers. And just selfless as the Dunedain rangers, if my eyes did not deceive me."
Thorin nods his head. He had seen him sign Nezkish to the little boy behind the counter. He had not asked for payment and there was certainly no guarantee that the ranger would ever return to collect the friendly gesture. He did not celebrate among the locals this night, and true to Imelkane fashion, he was likely mourning those that had suffered at the hands of the ghouls. It was their way.
The ranger had seen Thorin, recognized him even, but quickly realized the position the company was in and left in silence. Thorin had been tense when the ranger nodded his head, but after returning a nod of his own he left. Thorin lets out a disgruntled snort. How could Gandalf judge someone so quickly?
Out of the corner of his eye Thorin looks down at the hobbit sitting beside where he stood. The hobbit looks around the place curiously, although obviously trying to avoid appearing nosy. He sipped on a small ale as he looked between the Storyteller and fire, awaiting a proper moment to strike up conversation once more. Thorin had also been quick to judge the halfling, but Thorin had more to go on than Gandalf. He is asking for an experienced warrior with excellent credentials for what he would be asked of on this quest. The hobbit is another matter. He certainly feels more justified in his assumptions even though he acknowledges that they are both hypocrites; not that he would ever say that out loud. Thorin turns away from the halfling to face Balin.
"Grab your parcel and some parchment. I will examine the metal of this ranger myself."