Part 1: Chapter 3: Whistling Voices Were Released

Thorin set his pack against a rock outcropping bordering the ridge, as far from the others as he could get and still have them in view. It had been a long day riding, with all of them following, and that feeling of eyes on him, not knowing whose. He wished his mind would give it a rest, but it kept pulling back to the new one, the Thief. What was he going to do about her?

Just then she dashed away through the brush. Dwalin signaled Thorin he'd check on her before slipping out after with a frown as wide as Moria was dark. His Warrior friend did not trust her yet, or maybe he worried for her, Thorin was not sure which. He chortled briefly. But why was he not as wary? This was a strange and uncomfortable thought, so he shoved it aside. He kept watch on the edge of the brush where she had left them and Dwalin had followed, waiting for their return, his mind still agitated, and for a split second he worried she might wander off, lost. But then he saw the Dog, and had to suppress another laugh. The Thief was not leaving. Not while her Dog hovered near Fíli as though he were her new choice morsel, barking and wagging her tail for his hands and his playful tone. And again, Thorin would swear the Dog was laughing. He snorted and looked out over the ridge, willing his mind on something else, calculating the days it would take to cross over lands to the Misty Mountains. They were a day out from Bree, and after that, wilderness between...

After a while Thorin leaned against the rock and just watched, enjoying the solitude as the sounds of his Company's bantering cheered him. But their bantering ceased when Dwalin and the Thief returned, and many of them looked sidelong at her, evaluating while they carried on with the tasks of a fire, a meal and bedding arrangements.

They had known well enough to stay clear of him through the day, but this changed once camp was settled and supper was stewing over the fire. Dwalin found him on the periphery, passed him an ale sack, took a drought from his own, and then crossed his arms and looked back toward the Company, now more somber than was usual. Dwalin's bushy brows wagged obviously within Thorin's peripheral vision as his friend made a point to draw his attention, his brooding expression rivaling any of Thorin's best.

Dwalin never tread lightly when he harbored an opinion, particularly a pressing one, and this night would be no exception.

Thorin decided to hurry his friend along, and stared at him with his eyes raised until the words began to flow, loosened by the ale, no doubt. "Why do you let her stay when you don't want her here?"

Thorin glanced from the Thief to Tharkûn and then back to Dwalin, not sure where to begin.

Dwalin, hand fisted over his ale sack, pointed his finger at Thorin. "None o' that. Wizard's got nothing to do with it. What happened back there?"

Thorin eyed him plainly, shook his head slowly and shrugged.

"Fine. Keep your secrets. I'll find out soon enough. But you shouldn't be trusting strangers, you know better 'n that."

Thorin just nodded, and left it.

And Dwalin's brows shot up and sank into a frown almost all at once. "You do trust her! How comes that?"

"I cannot explain it." Thorin said simply, eyes strong on Dwalin, meeting with force.

"Meaning you will not."

Thorin gave a nod, confirming, looking back toward the Company and the Thief on the edges of them, hands restless like she wanted to help. Thorin and Dwalin each drank again from their ale sacks and began walking the perimeter, letting silence fill the space between them. Dwalin walked farthest out, a deeply ingrained action of protection Thorin recognized as second nature to the Warrior. Dwalin's questions were not born of idle curiosity; they were survivalist concerns, Thorin knew well enough. And in this situation, time would tell how long it took before his friend knew too much.

"I see what's happening," Dwalin groused low, eying him with an intensity that was not quite anger.

"And what might that be?" Thorin shot back, pressing his weight into the Warrior's blocking space in obvious challenge.

"Ach," Dwalin shoved him off. "Wait until morning, and we're sparring. I'll get you good then."

Thorin laughed.

Dwalin shot his finger out again. "My observations are accurate, Thorin. You're letting her stay, 'cause you want her here." He glanced over the camp. "Fool everyone, including yourself. But not me." Then he pointed at his brother Balin across the way, without looking to be sure where he was, because, as Thorin knew from past experiences, Dwalin knew exactly where everyone was from his last visual scan of the group just moments before. "He knows it, too, and for some reason he doesn't see fit to share, he thinks it's sweet." Dwalin looked like he just bit a lemon, and Thorin grimaced. Both Dwalin and his brother had a knack for uncovering the secondary concerns hiding in plain sight, however different those 'concerns' might be from one brother to another. "I know my brother got to you," Dwalin nodded, and then pointedly glanced back at the Thief. "You're feeling sorry for the lass. She does have a pleasant way about her." Dwalin flashed a hard smile toward Thorin.

"What does pleasantness got to do with anything?" Thorin balled his hand.

"Ah, come, know I have your back, but see to it you refrain from foolery, aye?"

"Foolery?" Thorin repeated low, angling his brow toward his friend, questioning, pressing back. Did he think he would actually––

"Hmmmm. You know it."

Thorin's jaw clenched. He was so close to letting his fist fly. "I have a Quest to think about––"

"Even so––"

"Enough, Dwalin, you see more than what is there." Thorin let his voice settle on the command. He would not give any more thought to this particular 'concern.' Not now, not ever.

"She poses no threat in any regular sense," he then added, changing the subject, weighing how best to explain her presence and her problem without saying where the danger truly lay, this thing of foreknowledge he cared not to think about–– "The Wizard has taken her on, and now even if he had not—" Thorin stopped, considering. "Remember when we were forced to flee the Mountain, all the loss of loved ones and our place, but we could look back?" He looked at Dwalin, who was frowning again. "The Lonely Mountain is still there. We have each other. I believe her when she says she has no one." He could not tell Dwalin the extent of her loss, but something of the measure of their own was surely a start––

"So you do take on strays..."

His Company settled in, quiet and carefully talking amongst themselves, and Thorin saw no reason to move from the stone. He went back to his planning. He knew the days it would take. But he needed to decipher the map, to find some hidden clue within it that showed the secret to the back door in, the door his key would open.

As the night grew darker, the sounds of crickets and owls took hold of the evening. He looked up to see the Thief feeding her Dog the meat from her bowl. Generous of her, to give her pet the filling parts. His eyes crossed over his settling Company, wondering why he felt no hunger. Most of them were finishing the soup Bombur had fussed with the last hour. Now the Thief returned her empty bowl as Bofur and Bifur made way for her, curious and hesitant all at once. He watched carefully to see how this would go when she turned as if called, looking straight at him. It was too dark to see, but he remembered the amber shade of her eyes. And then he remembered his harshness, her scolding words, and their clear distaste for each other. What in Mahal's name was he to do about her?

Without moving, his eyes turned back out across the ridge into the distance, taking in the hills slowly, one by one. He did not need to decide tonight.

And then she was there, right next to him, offering him a bowl. "I noticed you haven't eaten yet."

He looked. Assessing what she was about. Why was she bringing him soup? Why did he care? He did not wish to speak with her, and yet. He would not be rude. "I always eat last." He wondered if she understood why as his Company spread out their bedrolls near the fire for the night.

She lowered the bowl and her face, biting her lip contritely. "Oh."

Perhaps she did.

Then she glanced quickly over her shoulder, he watched her eyes do inventory before she turned back to him, raising the bowl again. "Everyone's eaten."

Observant. He was not about to accept the bowl from her. And yet, he would not be rude. He nodded to the boulder at his side, and that is where she left it.

And then she left.

Thorin still did not feel hungry, but he would eat it all the same. He drew a hand up to his face, and pressed a fist over his mouth. Why did she do this? Why did she care?

Before he could think of an answer she was back. "Thorin––" That was the second time she said his name. She was mighty free with it. To his utmost annoyance, hearing it this time was better than the first, more pleasing, perhaps because she said it softly and welcoming. She swayed from foot to foot, like a young sparring partner mustering nerve, and he nodded, his hand spreading over his beard to hide a smile that was building in his cheeks. "I want to apologize."

What? At that he could not help looking directly into her eyes. They seemed surprised to be held there in his gaze, and her head pulled slightly back, but now that he looked he would not let go.

"Uh," she swallowed. "That is, I'm not sorry for what I said," at that her chin jutted forward with the confidence of hardened metal, "but I am sorry for how I said it."

He could not stop staring, with no idea how to respond. This was unexpected.

And now she was looking down, away from him. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."

He blinked and almost smiled, stunned by her deed. Then she looked back into his eyes. He tipped his head, accepting her apology in silence. And then he let the moment pass and moved his gaze across the ridge.

She went back to the space she had made for herself, on the opposite side of the fire from Fíli and Kíli, farther from camp, her head tilted to one side, sad eyes, missing inclusion. He could see it when she looked around at the others. A shiver went through him when he thought of where she came from. He and his had lost their home. She has lost her world. He could not stop thinking of it, once he started. What was he going to do about her?

He reached for the bowl of soup and drank the broth, tipping carefully to keep it out of his hair. It was now cooled but still quite good, and he was surprised to find himself hungry as he nibbled on the little bits of spiced meat and roots she had kindly sought to bring him. He glanced to where she had settled herself, wondering what motivated her. Surely her biggest hope was to find some way back. He sighed, leaning against the rocks to watch and rest, wishing there was something he could offer, when her infernal Dog sprung onto her bedroll and started spinning like a giant toy top. He settled easier, remembering she was not quite alone.

Thorin stood looking out over the ridge when the Warg cry split the night from across the ravine. It was far off, but that never stopped the dread-chill.

"What was that?" the Thief called low, bolting upright like a quivering blade, eyes fastened hard on his Sister's Son's across the dying embers of the campfire.

Thorin shifted on his feet, breathing deep, taking his fill of the clean night air.

"Orcs," muttered Kíli, trying to hide his shiver in his oversized tunic. He looked keenly at his brother who, also tight with nerves, nodded silent agreement and then resumed smoking his pipe, eyes wandering past the ridge. Kíli settled back, following Fíli's glance to the open space.

Thorin took a few steps toward them, watching and listening.

"Orcs." The Thief got up. "Welp, that settles it."

Settles what? Thorin wondered, slightly frowning.

She proceeded to drag her bedroll closer to the wall and his Sister's Son's.

"Aye, throat cutters," Fíli nudged his brother with a nod toward the Thief.

"I know what Orcs are and what they can do," she shushed them as she curled into her bag until nothing but her big eyes showed. "I'm plenty scared already."

Thorin narrowed his gaze at her; had she seen Orcs before? Had she witnessed their violence? If, then she had somehow eluded them–– perhaps a healthy dose of fear had kept her hidden–– and here she was, admitting fear with confidence. She was wise, this one. And so unusually honest for the people of Men, who rarely admit what they see as weakness––

His Sister's Sons caved into each other, silently giggling.

Enough. Thorin took another step, irritated. "You think that's funny?" The mirth on their faces dissolved instantly. "You would hide your own fears by mocking her?" Her wide eyes followed him as he got closer to the boys. "She is honest with herself and right to fear Orcs."

Kíli looked away in shame. "We didn't mean anything by it."

Utter nonsense. "No you did not." Thorin turned on his heel. "You know nothing of the world." Such callous teasing by his own kin? He would not abide it. And even if he did not care, he would not let them shield their bravado behind her well-deserved fear.

He went back to the ridge and glared over the wide landscape, his hate catching fire in his gut. His mouth parted and took in the breeze sliding up from the cliff, air clean and cool, and he tried to release his agitation.

"Don't mind him, laddie. Thorin has more cause than most to hate Orcs."

Not now, Balin. Thorin's eyes slid shut. She does not need to know.

But evidently his best Advisor thought otherwise, and for the benefit of educating their newest companion, the resident Thief, Balin began retelling the events of Azanulbizar, of Azog the Defiler who swore to end the line of Durin, how he took that plan to action, starting with the head of his Grandfather. How moments later Thorin lost sight of his Father and watched his little Brother fall.

"We were leaderless," Balin continued. "Defeat and death were upon us."

Thorin remembered. It is where he learned the value of the stone mask, a place where feeling is not allowed to move. This freed him to fight with abandon.

"That is when I saw him," Balin spoke of Thorin with admiration shaking his voice. "The young Dwarf Prince facing the Pale Orc... He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armor rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield..."

Battle rage took over, and he knew he would fight until he died with his kin. He remembered the drive in his muscles, in his bones, in his mind. How he hurled himself at Azog in the midst of a losing battle, again and again, until he fell away from Azog's mace, disarmed, sprawled in the debris of crumbling rocks and broken trees, where he grasped hold of an oak branch and a fallen sword and somehow managed to defeat the filth, thus earning his honor name, Oakenshield.

Thorin stretched his eyes into the distance. He had not saved them. He had not earned it. He had only done what had to be done after... all of that.

"Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken."

Numbness was left. Thorin escaped death, taking the giant Orc's arm with the fallen sword, cutting a heart-vein that pulsed black blood in bursts across the muddy field.

"Our forces rallied and drove the Orcs back; our enemy had been defeated... but there was no feast or songs that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief."

Thrór. Frerin. Fallen. Thráin—Never found. All who followed them in death, and all those left to live in the gap of such great loss. Dís. He had to send word. And so he did. And there were tears beyond count when the stone masks were lifted...

Thorin faced his Company, all standing in his honor, surrounding him with looks of awe, trust and openness. He glanced toward the Thief, wondering how she tad taken this tale. She sat upright in her bedroll, flushed, clearly woken by it. Then he looked to Balin and signed for him to stop, but his old friend paid no mind.

"We few had survived and I thought to myself then," Balin nodded at Thorin with eyes full of love. "'There is one I could follow. There is one I could call King.'"

Thorin's face went slack. He could not bear this praise. I was all they had. He looked to his Sister's Son's. I did my best. He walked among his Company that stood with him now, feeling more than he cared to. I would do what is needed. I would make you a place. I would give my all to secure it.

"But what about the Pale Orc? Did Dáin kill him or..." the Thief was asking.

Dáin? She knew of Dáin, but–– "Dáin was not there. He was delayed." He looked at the Thief, evaluating, turning toward the ridge and his bedroll. They had to stop all this reminiscing and get to the business of sleeping. But why did she think Dáin had been there? Were her 'books' wrong? And if they were, what did that mean? Never mind. He glanced her way once more. Her foreknowledge was useless and he refused to be riddled by it. "As for the Defiler," Thorin spat, remembering the life-blood pumping from Azog's stump, refusing doubt. "He slunk back into the hole whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago."

Why had he spoken to her? He needed to mind his words––

He turned away from all of them, silently willing their focus to turn toward other matters.

An hour later Balin appeared at his side, offering some of the Longbottom Leaf he had purchased in the Shire. "We do not know what became of the Defiler," Balin muttered under his breath.

"I saw him bleed out."

"You saw them drag him off as he was bleeding out. They may have stopped it––"

"Enough, Balin." Thorin did not glance at him, but rather concentrated on filling his pipe. "Why did you go and do that?"

"What?"

"Tell tales to the Thief," Thorin muttered. Was it not obvious? "She does not need to know about our past."

"And why not? I thought it wouldn't hurt her to know a bit about who she's with." Leave it to Balin to be quick and sure of his business.

"She's not with us. She's with the Wizard," Thorin corrected, looking at him sternly as if to underline the fact.

"That's about the same, from where I'm standing." Balin smiled his 'know-it' smile and winked as they each finished packing their bowls. They pulled out their flint lights and tamp rods as one, lit and tamped the leaf in their pipes, lit again, drew and smoked together in silence.

An hour before sunrise Thorin took his sword and his ax and made his way to a nearby clearing just beyond the camp, to move. Sure enough, Dwalin joined him, and sweat poured from the both of them before they were through.

"She brought you that soup last night–– Do you begin to admit why you let her stay among us, Thorin?" Dwalin huffed between passes. "Do you like her? At least she made you eat––"

Thorin slammed into him before striking from the backside. Dwalin parried smartly, and they both pulled away, panting. "Stuff it, Dwalin."

"I will when you tell me why. You did see her nose has a gold stud? I think she's married. Certainly old enough for it––"

"She is no Dwarf; the stud means nothing to the people of Men."

"Heh," Dwalin laughed. "So you have thought about it?"

"Why don't you ask her, Dwalin?" Thorin circled, though they were finished, he was tempted to engage another pass. Yes, she likely was married, and he had asked her already, albeit, not so very politely. She had not answered. And what did it matter in any case? Thorin couldn't care less, and he wished Dwalin would stop needling.

"I'm not the one who mostly wants to know, though I admit to a certain weakness of curiosity. I see you watching––"

"Save it." Thorin cut in. He didn't need to hear this out-loud. From Dwalin. "Or ask the Wizard. But spare me your speculations. We know nothing of this… Thief. I prefer to keep it that way."

"Oh, sure, friend. And I'll buy that when Dáin's pet Boars fly among the Eagles."

Thorin glared.

"I'll be keeping a watch."

"Fine," Thorin muttered. He cocked his head almost like a promise, though he was nowhere closer to a decision on just exactly what he wanted to do about the Thief. And then he leaned in toward Dwalin. "She is no threat. The Wizard is her guide. Trust me," Thorin shook his head for emphasis. "There is nothing more to it."

Dwalin snorted but said no more as they made toward the river to bathe.

A few hours later the rain started, the kind that can keep on for days. Long before Dori saw fit to complain, each member of Thorin's Company had their rain skins on, and the Wizard, he did not seem overly concerned. The Thief, on the other hand, was drenched in a matter of minutes. But she kept on mile after mile without complaint, and asked for nothing, as she took to humming a pleasant melody, soon adding words to it, a strange traveling song, perhaps aiming to distract herself from the cold. Maybe she could distract them all.

Thorin tried not to listen to her, but some of the words in the song were new, and the melody pulled him in, and he found his mind turning over the sounds and pondering the meanings. She sang of brown leaves, grey skies, and walking on a winter's day. Well–– the leaves about them were a fair new green, but the sky most certainly was grey. And though they did not walk, and it was nowhere near winter, there was a chill in the wet air. She sang of being safe and warm–– Heh. Thorin sat upright on his Pony, somehow smiling inside, not sure why.

"In EL - AE"–– What's that?

"Ka Le For N'ya dreamin'"–– Kaleforn'ya?

The land she comes from? Her voice was lovely–– Thorin shut his eyes wishing he would shut his ears but it was to no avail. But then the next words caught his attention like a tree branch in his hair, their meanings a mystery–– Stepping into a church on the way? He wondered if a church were a trap, a beehive or a crevice in the ground, as next thing she sang of was kneeling and pretending to pray–– Why pretend? Why not ask, when help is needed? He thought of the Wizard, knowing full well a person could ask and not get the answer they sought. And then she sang of a preacher who liked the cold and knew she would stay–– What in Mahal's name was a preacher? He frowned, glancing briefly back at Tharkûn, seeing the Wizard entirely unbothered by the wetness about him, and wondered if a preacher were anything like him–– He had, in any case, seen to it she stayed.

Kaleforn'ya–– The Thief's Homeland. The name had a pleasing lilt, and Thorin wondered for a moment what it was like. Did it have mountains? Or long open plains? Or rolling hills like the Shire they just left? Did it have many thieves, or was she an exception? "If I didn't tell her I could leave today." Yes, unannounced goodbyes. Thorin understood those, noticing an ache in his heart at the thought. Because sometimes home is the only place a person wants to be, and sometimes it is exactly where a person cannot get...

Thorin's thoughts drifted until he noticed Dwalin glaring at the Thief. Why the glare? Had she said something offensive that Thorin missed? Now she was asking Tharkûn if there were other Wizards. She mentioned the White One herself, further confirming her story, just as Tharkûn mentioned Radagast and the need for the Wizards' watchful eyes, "For always evil will look to find a foothold in this world." Indeed.

Just then Dwalin threw his rain skin over the Thief, muttering about wet kittens.

Ah, she was cold. Thorin's eyes dropped and he looked away, slightly stung, and at the same time confused by his feeling. He should have noticed; he would have, except––

"I think he likes you," Fíli offered toward the Thief.

Thorin's eyes ticked to his Sister's Son in an instant, to signal a warning, but he was stopped by Fíli's smile, open, welcoming, and brighter than the gold in his hair. Fíli answered his gaze, his grin spreading fractionally wider as he nodded his way, signaling 'why not?' Thorin turned, letting it be. What could a conversation hurt?

"What?" The Thief's word sounded like a whip slashing air, and Thorin snuck another glance back, to find her giving Dwalin a bit of the Warrior's own medicine, staring at his back hard enough to put a hole in it. "I'm not sure how glaring at me and ignoring me counts as liking me."

She didn't know Dwalin.

"Well, he didn't knock you off your horse," Kíli explained matter-of-factly, and Thorin had to stifle a chuckle, having watched Dwalin do just that on numerous occasions when the boys were acting up, to keep them on their toes, Dwalin would say, or just to see how they'd land.

"Okay... I think maybe he just felt sorry for me."

Clearly she did not know Dwalin.

He was growing fond, no mistake, or that cloak would still be on him. Indeed, several of them seemed increasingly charmed by her as the hours passed, including Bifur and Bofur, who were closest to her on their Ponies, along with his Sister's Sons. Balin kept his negotiation face on, pleasantly neutral and within earshot, clearly listening, evaluating. Thorin glanced briefly at the Thief, and noticed her biting her lip, chewing the lower edges. He blinked and turned around.

"I'm really not used to rain––not something we normally have to deal with back home in Kal... in the west." Thorin's head rose at her hesitation. Somehow she did not want to name her Homeland.

Kaleforn'ya––

"Ka le for n'ya." Fíli sounded the name aloud. "That's what you were singing before. Is that where you're from? And it never rains there?" he asked, having missed nothing.

"Yes, and yes. Well, mostly yes," she said to all of these. "It's a coastal state."

To the West, he thought. The sun would set upon a vast expanse of water, like liquid metal in a golden light.

"Beaches and lovely sunshine, and temperate weather year round."

Where is this place? Not their West. That was rock and cliff, biting winds and harbor lands.

She was humming again.

"You do that a lot," Fíli observed. He eyed Thorin with a brow raised in mischievous challenge. 'OK, N'adad?' he signed the question.

Thorin merely stared, daring the lad to choose for himself.

"Do what a lot?"

"Singing or humming," Kíli answered, taking Thorin's silence to mean quiet assent. So Thorin turned his gaze upon him, naturally, to try and contain this. "Especially when you think no one is paying attention." Just then, Kíli winked at him in response. Thorin frowned slightly, to warn him, and Kíli frowned all the harder, smiling beneath it. Fíli caught the looks between them and jabbed his brother on the shoulder, and they both looked back at the Thief, all smiles and ease.

And she smiled back.

Thorin jerked his head forward. Well, he had not turned entirely, not likely any but Dwalin would have seen him startle. He let out a breath of air, eying the horizon for Wargs or Orcs–– why else would his heart race like this?

"I'm a musician. It's what I do. I suppose I see music in everything."

No wonder he thought of song––

She made music. Of course she did.

"Wait–– so you're something like a traveling minstrel then?" Kíli asked, his voice brimming with excitement. Thorin knew how those eyes shined now, and he smiled, remembering Kíli's face as they would leave twice yearly for the spring and fall craft fairs and tool trade gatherings. A face full of uncontained joy at what was to come, what Kíli would find. He would wander off to meet the entertainers, the artisan sculptors, the singers, the jugglers, the musicians and the actors, the food and the ale–– Until Dís sent Fíli to fetch him. And Fíli, good brother that he was, would take his time returning them both to their 'Amad.

"Well, no. Not exactly."

No travel, just music.

"I mean, when I was younger I was in a college band."

A gathering of a band? Was this some kind of guild? Thorin frowned, confused.

"And we didn't really travel."

Well, he figured that one right––

"Mostly we played local gigs––"

Gigs?

"And did acoustic covers––"

Covers...

"Of pop––"

Pop?

"Songs."

Song. He knew that.

She made music. Of course she did.

"I'm a teacher now. I give private lessons to students that require extra tutoring."

Thorin caught himself studying at the ground behind him and resisted the urge to turn around and ask his own questions.

"Oh?" Bofur asked, "What do you play, lass?"

Thorin's eyes shut in a quiet sigh. Thank Mahal for the curiosity of Dwarves.

"Just about any stringed instrument that doesn't require a bow."

So she could play a harp–– he wondered how her music would sound on his upright in the Blue Mountains. And, why was he thinking such nonsense?

"Though I prefer the guitar. Martins are my favorite brand."

Martin? Brand? What did fire have to do with it?

"Their sound is so rich; it gets better with age, even on their travel guitars––I've actually got one with me––"

Just like––

"And the action is great, not too high, not too low, and they always smell so good." She hesitated, and the urge to turn was all the more strong, Thorin had to grit his teeth to stay focused forward.

"Sorry, I just really like music."

She liked it–– He found this word choice strange, 'like' was not the strongest word for passion, but he knew she loved; he could hear it in her voice.

"I love a merry jig as much as the next Dwarf, lass." Bofur chimed, echoing Thorin's thoughts. "And these two both play fiddle passably well." Thorin could see the fingers pointed toward his Sister's Sons. "Perhaps you could be so kind as to play for us one of these evenings."

That would be––

Thorin cut the thought off. What in Mahal's name was he thinking? And what was he going to do about her?

"I'd like that," she answered.

I bet, he laughed silently. No need to decide this tonight, he thought, angling his chin toward the road ahead

/T\oSo/T\oDo/T\

A/N: Curious about Sona? Check out her take on these events in "On The Road To Find Out," by Jenny-Wren28, listed in my favorites.