Author's Note:
Hey Y'all, I'll start off by disclaiming that everything here belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien. Only original characters and a few tweaks to the plot are from me. Khuzdûl, or Dwarvish,is bolded and italicized, Sindarin, or Elvish, is italicized, and Black Speech is bolded. Any translations will be provided at the end of the chapter as they appear chronologically.
- Enjoy
The heavy darkness finally began to subside, but the little light she was able to see was filtered through the tiny pin pricks in the thick, musty burlap. She had no idea how long she had been folded up like dirty laundry in this godsforsaken sack, or where it was headed, but it she knew it couldn't be good. One should never have to become this well-acquainted with such a rough and crude fabric. If it even qualifies as a fabric, that is.
She hadn't eaten more than a few crumbs in days and her limbs were all tangled together. The constant feeling of pins and needles an ever-present reminder of her poor fortune. As she was carried further and further from her home with each passing hour, she contemplated how she had come to be stuffed into this bag that smelled of dirt and old root vegetables. It was her fault, she knew this beyond a shadow of a doubt, but that didn't mean she couldn't curse the fates for their supposed role in landing her here.
The scratchy, burlap suddenly halted its bouncy, swaying motion and was unceremoniously dropped onto the hard, unforgiving earth. She let out a groan when she landed on her sore shoulder, which resulted in a swift blow to the back of her head. That shut her up quick, and not due to any loss of consciousness, although now she was feeling a little more lightheaded.
That horrid, beast of a man had tied a gag around her mouth to prevent her from calling out, but it did little to stifle her groans of pain when he handled her roughly. It seemed like every time she breathed too loudly or shifted around too much, she would receive another bruise or cracked rib from his meaty fists or his mud-covered boots. After only a few hours in his lovely company, she had decided it was better if she remain as silent as possible to avoid further injury and conserve her strength. If she ever wanted to successfully make an escape, it wouldn't help if she were hindered by a busted ankle or because she had been knocked out. Yes, much better to play by this fiend's rules for now.
Her captor spoke with another man in low voices for a few minutes and then she felt him grip the knotted end of her fabric cage and haul the sack back up onto his shoulder once more. How long had they been traveling like this? It had to be many months by now, but she was unable to keep track of the days. As her head became fuzzy again, likely a combination of the boot to her skull and the swaying side to side, she could faintly hear a man's voice.
"Welcome to Bree, sir."
A dark figure came upon Bag End on a humid summer night, drawn there by a distinctive mark on the little, round door. The birds had quieted down for the night, but the crickets chirped and a calm breeze rustled gently through the lush little corner of Middle Earth. The figure stopped outside the window of the hobbit hole he had come upon and listened to the singing and merriment coming from inside. He wasn't one to join in celebrations, quite the contrary actually. He was often known for causing the wave of silence that swept over a joyous crowd when he entered a room. A somber air seemed to dog him everywhere he went, and so he waited a moment or two to let them have their fun, then knocked heavily on the thick, wooden door. He heard that familiar, tangible hush fall upon those inside the little hobbit hole, and then the door opened and the deep baritone voice of the traveler spoke.
"Gandalf, I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. I would not have found it at all had it not been for the mark on the door," the dark figure said as he took in the little home around him. The hallways were circular and the ceilings very low, but what else could he expect from a halfling? He divested himself of his heavy cloak, greeting some of the other guests that had gathered to meet him in the doorway.
"Mark?" The hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, asked in confusion. "There's no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago!" The hobbit moved to check the front door for said mark when the old wizard, Gandalf the Grey, closed it before he was able. The tall wizard had put this little gathering of dwarves together, without the hobbit's consent, mind you, and Bilbo was clearly not very pleased. He ran a hand through his short, curly hair and rested his hands in his suspenders, trying to regain some semblance of self control. He could feel his anxiety rising as the number of guests in Bag End steadily increased throughout the evening. Hobbits were known for their amicable nature, and Bilbo was very much trying to honor his kind by remaining as calm as possible.
Gandalf looked down at the hobbit apologetically, as if to say that he was sorry for upsetting him, but that this meeting was an unavoidable necessity. Bilbo looked over at the confident, if not highly intimidating, dwarf in front of him. He had worn a black cloak and a dark tunic under that. He had large black boots that thumped heavily when he took a step, and he had hair the matched his demeanor. His hair was black, or at least a very dark shade of brown, and he had two regal-looking braids ending in silver beads on either side of his head under a few layers of thick hair. His beard was short and well-kept, unlike many of the other dwarves who had very long beards. He was also taller than most other dwarves, standing many inches taller than the small hobbit.
"There is a mark, I put it there myself," the wizard finally said, answering Bilbo's question regarding his freshly painted door. "Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf announced. He knew Thorin would be skeptical of his choice in the fourteenth member of their company, but he was apparently confident he had made the right choice. After all, the dwarf lord was hard to please as a general rule.
Thorin turned his attention back to the hobbit and then spoke to Bilbo directly.
...
"So, this is the hobbit. Tell me mister Baggins, have you done much fighting?" he asked skeptically, looking Bilbo up and down with a look as if to say he wasn't very impressed.
"Pardon me?" Bilbo asked incredulously. Fighting? Why was he being asked about fighting, Bilbo thought. No respectable hobbit ever engaged in fighting nor any sort of adventurous deeds. No, certainly not, and he was no exception.
"Axe or sword? What's your weapon of choice?" Thorin pressed grimly, circling him like a vulture would its next meal, his dark blue eyes narrowed. This dwarf was nothing like the ones who had raided his pantry and wine stores just minutes ago. No, this dwarf had a terrifying and commanding presence. One that demanded both fear and respect.
"Well I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know. But I, um, fail to see why that's relevant," Bilbo responded, trying not to feel intimidated by the large dwarf and utterly failing.
"Thought as much. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar," Thorin announced, and laughter broke out from the dwarves behind him. Thorin and his company moved into Bilbo's dining room where he took the empty seat at the head of the table. The seat Bilbo himself sat at each night to eat his own supper.
The twelve dwarves gathered around their leader, taking their seats and listening closely, like children waiting for a bedtime story.
"What news from the meeting of Ered Luin?" Balin began hopefully. Balin looked to be very old dwarf, and one of Thorin's closest friends judging by his seat to Thorin's right. If there was ever a dwarf that Thorin could put every once of his trust in, it would most likely be Balin, Bilbo thought, studying the two.
"Did they all come?"
"Aye," Thorin replied. "Envoys from all seven kingdoms." He was met with sighs of relief from the other dwarves.
"What do the dwarves of the Iron Hills say?" Dwalin, a large dwarf with a mostly bald, tattooed scalp and a permanent scowl, asked. "Is Dain with us?"
"They will not come. They say this quest is ours and ours alone," Thorin replied, looking down at a mug of ale that had been placed before him.
"You- you're going on a quest?" Bilbo asked tentatively. Perhaps that was the reason all these dwarves had decided to congregate in his home, he pondered.
"Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light," Gandalf requested just then, and Bilbo nodded his head and went to fetch a few more candles from another room, as any respectable host should.
Gandalf produced an old, yellowed map from his robes and laid it out before the company. The map depicted the Lonely Mountain, the homeland of the dwarves that was taken from them in the most horrific manner.
"Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a solitary peak," Gandalf spoke as he pointed to the figure on the map.
"The... Lonely Mountain," Bilbo read over Gandalf's arm as he returned with the candles. He had never heard of the Lonely Mountain. Perhaps that was where these dwarves were headed, he concluded.
"Aye," Glóin, a large dwarf with an equally large, red beard, confirmed. "Óin has read the portents, and the portents say it is time." The dwarves around the table grumbled and began muttering amongst each other. Óin, one of the more reserved dwarves with two intricate braids comprising his gray beard, spoke up over his companions to add his piece.
"Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold. When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end," he stated firmly, as if that should answer everyone's questions.
Bilbo, who had gone into the room beside the dwarves for a little more space, but was still keeping an ear open as they continued to chatter, perked up when he heard the word 'beast.'
"Uh," the hobbit inquired as he stepped hesitantly back into the dining room, "what beast?" He glanced around at the dwarves and Bofur turned to face him with his pipe in hand and a casual lean in his chair.
"Oh, that would be in reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age," he said matter-of-factly, nodding to Bilbo as he took a drag from his pipe. "Airborne fire-breather," the dwarf continued, "Teeth like razors, claws like meathooks. Extremely fond of precious metals."
"Yes, I know what a dragon is," Bilbo stated on an exasperated sigh. Everyone one knew what a dragon was. Suddenly, Ori, the youngest dwarf with a short and ragged-looking auburn beard stood up.
"I'm not afraid, I'm up for it! I'll give him a taste of dwarvish iron right up his jacksie!" he exclaimed, inciting loud guffaws and agreement from the company.
"The task will be difficult enough with an army behind us, but we number just thirteen," Balin reminded them, bringing the laughter to a sobering halt. "Nor thirteen of the best, nor brightest... " he added. The dwarves quickly erupted in disagreement, insulted by Balin's comment, until Fili spoke up.
"We may be few in number," the tan-haired dwarf conceded, "but we're fighters, all of us, to the last dwarf!"
"And you forget we have a wizard in our company!" Kili, Fili's brother added. "Gandalf would have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!"
"Oh, uh, well... Well, no I wouldn't say- " Gandalf stuttered.
"How many dragons have you killed?" Dori asked. "Go on, give us a number!" Arguments and fighting broke out amongst the dwarves, each arguing how many dragons they thought the wizard may have slain in his long life. The shouting escalated and Bilbo's attempts to quiet them down fell on deaf ears. The yelling and arguing mounted until Thorin rose slowly out of his seat, having heard enough of their childish bickering.
"Shazara!" his voice boomed over the company, everyone instantly falling silent. "If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too?" All were silent as they listened to their leader. "Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon, Smaug, has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look east to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours, or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?" he shouted. The dwarves erupted in their own shouts, encouraged by their leader.
"Du Bekâr! Du Bekâr!" Thorin roared, dark blue eyes dancing in the candle light with such conviction Bilbo had never before seen and was consequently struck by.
"You forget that the front gate is sealed," Balin interrupted, extinguishing the excitement yet again. "There is no way into the mountain."
"That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true," Gandalf added cryptically as he presented a key the he had produced, seemingly from nowhere.
"How came you by this?" Thorin's gruff voice whispered as he eyed the key.
"It was given to me by your father, by Thrain, for safe keeping," Gandalf answered. "It is yours now." Gandalf passed the key to Thorin, who took it with a sort of awed pride and stowed it carefully in his pocket. After seeing the key, Fili spoke up with a knowing smile.
"If there is a key, there must be a door."
"These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls." Gandalf supplied in reference to the writing along the edges of the weathered map.
"There's another way in," Kili grinned, throwing his arm around his brother, squeezing the muscled shoulder tight against his own.
"Well, if we can find it. But dwarf doors are invisible when closed," Gandalf sighed. "The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map and I do not have the skill to find it, but there are others in Middle Earth who can."
Shazara = Silence
Du Bekâr = To Arms