Just as Balin had assured, they rose early and tarried on without delay.

Of the women on the road there was Eda the medicine woman, who traveled with a scurrilous cousin Siv over a century younger than she. Freyda was all muscle and metal, blonde brawn and broad shoulders. There was kindly Brynja, who had never expected Bofur to return from the quest for Erebor; he did, and now courted her properly, to the great happiness of them both. Hegi was a slightly unhinged dwarrowdam of uncertain age. She was said to have been a miner, a master craftswoman of improvised explosives. She spoke only Khuzdul and Bifur had already befriended her. There was Emli, the proud and overbearing mother of Gimli, who had always been a most enviable dwarrowdam among their people, for her lovely beard and stoutness of heart. Gyda was an orphan slightly older than Gimli, gawky for a dwarf but pretty enough as far as dwarves went. Urdlaug, stodgy eldest daughter of Bombur, wielded a frying pan with more gusto than a seasoned warrior could hold a sword. Donbur and four more sisters traveled with her- sturdy, tenacious Lulia, and Virta, apprentice to Eda in the healing arts. The youngest two of them, Anbur and Yrsa, were only small girls. Yrsa had survived a terrible accident as a toddling dwarfling and had a spoon for a hand (which Bombur of course had fashioned for her). And then there was Meisar.

There was no explaining Meisar. He had watched her for days with some degree of curiosity. She carried a sword too big for her, a set of dirks, and an engraved axe, roughly the size of the one lodged in Bifur's head, and sharp enough to severe a man's hand in one stroke. She donned a leather jerkin over a long tunic and brown skirt, worn with woolen breeches and short pointed boots trimmed in ragged furs. For travel and colder nights there was a gray-wolf mantle fastened with a torque of brass or burnished gold, and a cumbersome wool cloak, though the latter was rarely donned except in rain.

She gave Thorin a strange sense of security in the way she moved, though it was an unassuming way, no great dignity in her manner. Sometimes she slunk about wordlessly, her eyes as serious as stone and ever watchful. She was… he could not quite say what she was, but he had not thought this way of anyone in quite some time.

She had watched him with curiosity for days. The king under the mountain was tall for a dwarf, and possessed of an almost elegant melancholia. They told her he had been a blacksmith in exile, and the size of his forearms alone suggested this to be the truth. He was broad about the shoulders with long, thick black hair plaited at the temples, and his beard was black also and short for a dwarf's.

An odd instinctual knowledge within her precluded their formal introductions; she knew him immediately, and was not exactly sure how. It could have been the regal stoicism about his face, with burden set heavy upon his brow. Or his eyes, the blue of them of infinite depth, capable of drowning anyone who waded into them too quickly or too deeply.

He took her breath away for a moment. Nobody had ever done that before.

II

When he woke he couldn't breathe. He had been this dwarf before- after the dragon, after Azanulbizar, Thror and Frerin dead. Then into some terrible darkness Thrain had drifted off, and then disappeared altogether. And Eili, whose firstborn son was made in his image; Thorin had buried him himself, on the road, beneath a pile of scavenged rocks (until we are stone again), with the ruffian's blade still buried in his ribs. And his sons… what were they but another set in a long line? He justified it. He had been here before. As his throat welled up and threatened to close off again he rattled off the names of all the dead in his mind, too many to count. He had survived before. He would again. Just another in a long line.

He put his face to the cool summer earth, and he could feel it tremble with the thunderous rhythm of snores emitting from Donbur and his five sisters, sleeping nearby. He let the first hints of the twilight's dew seep into his pores, feeling suddenly too heavy to move, and as if he were asleep again…

Asleep or something like it. In the small hours he was never sure anymore, what was sleep and what was something else. Voices came out of the earth and then black hands, pulling him in. With that he woke again from the deadening moment of shuteye, and he felt hot, skin aflame mercurial and wicked, In nothing but the scant covering of his bedroll the heat from inside his body became unbearable. He rose and stepped quietly through the sleeping dwarves, all huddled together in the cozy corral of their wagons and animals. Dwalin woke quickly as a light wind from Thorin's stirring dinned at his beard and tickled his lips. He followed him to the edge of the camp, where they remained, huddled about a dying lantern. Their whispers went on, long into the dead of night, in the manner that women whispered secrets to each other in hushed tones.

Across the bedded cadre, Meisar shifted restlessly. She listened the voices of the dwarves who were still awake, just Thorin and Dwalin now. When the whispering stopped, the music began. Dwalin played a dirgeful fiddle on the edge of the camp, and Thorin sang. Thorin had an exquisite voice, but it was lugubrious, even deeper so when he was singing in his slow, melancholy lilt.

How sad he was.

III

At dusk the caravan rambled through the gates of Bree. There were Hobbits in the village, which made the dwarves a less noticeable interruption among the tall-folk. In Bree the tall-folk were a rough lot. The men wore neck-dirt and menacing glares, and the women were all crones dressed in rags, or tough-skinned young maids who worked the taverns and inns. Ramshackle wooden buildings all crowded together shadowed the main road through the village, which was full of ruts and refuse. The figures of men slunk through the shadows and in and out of the alleyways between the taverns and dissolute places where one could rent a room. They might have shaken down the dwarves or beaten them for sport, had it not been for the sheer number of them, and the fact that Dwalin kept Grasper and Keeper visible.

A dim amber light percolated out of the Prancing Pony as the dwarves neared. Of all the pickings in the village, it was the least onerous. The smell of smoke, from pipes and the fireplace, was heavy and omnipresent, but it masked the odors of unwashed bodies, moldy boots and alcohol- fresh from the mead barrel, regurgitated and strained through the kidneys alike. The clusters of tall-men parted as the convoy of dwarves made their way through into the tavern area. The dwarrowdams clustered together against the lewd invitations, and insults, spit by the men in various states of inebriation. Some were clearly more used to it than others. Meisar went forward to the innkeeper's vestibule. Men kept a watchful eye on her, while the other dwarves fought for space at the barkeep's counter. Thorin watched her, watched the men and did not let his eyes shift from theirs in defeat when they sucked rotten teeth at her and leered, and gave him taunting glares that challenged him to do anything about it. They called her little lady and wee lass, and offered her a free room and round of ale for barter, naming the sordid price aloud.

Dwalin followed the direction of Thorin's eyes, where they fell, on Meisar, who was bargaining for a little more meat, a little more bread, for her company's coin. Dwalin touching his arm made him flinch.

"Get something to eat," said Dwalin.

"I have been here before."

"Thorin?"

He let out a fastidious growl. "Rogues and thieves in every corner. Keep an eye on them, Dwalin. Nobody goes anywhere here alone."

"I followed you into the gates of fire with a willing heart, and I am by your side still."

Before the fire, they were sitting side by side. In the dim glow of it, Dwalin's eyes were narrow with presentiment. Thorin surveyed the ruckus of the tavern. He shot a straight look into Dwalin's eyes. "This night you look out for the women of this company. I can handle myself."

His shoulders slacked a bit as a rangy barmaid set plates of boiled chicken and whole potatoes before them. "As I remember, the food was decent," Thorin muttered, plucking a hunk of meat away.

The dwarves had gathered around in several long tables and pushed them nearer the fire and their king and his ever-loyal Dwalin. Bombur's brood were elbow-deep in mashed potatoes, chicken and a plate of cheeses and hot bread. Yrsa drizzled gravy over their trenchers with her spoon-hand. Eda was yanking Siv back from engaging the leering drunks with a show of her bosom followed by a mouthful of dwarven curses. Dori turned Ori away from the sight and into a tankard as wide as his face and as full as it would be all night. There was no sign of Meisar but he could hear her voice; he caught a visage of her in the mirror above the fireplace. Still haggling with the innkeeper and another crusty fellow who had come out of the kitchen to have a look at the dwarven company. Thorin watched their eyes, their hands. Rubbing them together grotesquely, the kitchen boy and the innkeeper who must have been his father their misshapen foreheads looked so much alike.

"There is no need. I will pay in coin," he heard her insist firmly.

The innkeeper took her coin and jeered sullenly.

"Dwarf-slut," added the yellow-toothed barkeep. Thorin caught his eye and put his hand to the hilt of his sword, quiet as a snake in the grass though just as deadly if his expression was anything to judge by. The barkeep sneered at him. "Must be yours."

Meisar's cheeks flamed pink but her expression was unchanged. Several dwarves had already risen beside Thorin angrily. Two hobbits dove under the corner table and covered their heads. "Let it go, or we'll be sleeping in mud tonight," Meisar hissed efficiently at the sprung dwarves.

"You little ladies bearded all over?" Another drunkard stole a longer glance at Meisar, her stern little face entirely without reaction to the bawdy japes of the Bree-Men. The drunkest one already on the floor tugged the hem of her tunic and she stepped hard on his fingers without looking at him. But when it was Emli's skirts they tugged at, Gimli was on his feet, ax raised. "Keep your filthy drunken hands off my mother!" Gimli surged toward the inebriated molester, ready for a fight, when the female innkeeper, a square-faced, pox-riddled old alewife, stormed in and flung a meaty three-fingered hand upside the jaw of the barkeep and then her husband. "Keep yer hands off the women! What'dya want with dwarves anyway? Women harrier than men!"

The drunk made a boorish kissing sound toward Emli. "Daah… I'll close my eyes and pretend you're a female."

"Umzûm!" blustered Emli. "Brutes." Gimli stepped to shield his mother and butted at the drunk with his ax. "Speak to her again and I'll split you right!"

Meisar stepped quietly between Gimli and the drunk, made her case to the innkeeper's wife. "Pray let us rest here in peace for the night, madam. There shall be no trouble." She nudged Gimli back toward his ale and the hot plate of potatoes.

"Well then, little lady-dwarf…" The innkeeper put her hands on her hips and looked down at Meisar, twice her height easily. "Tell me, how can I trust you to keep your word? Are you going to lasso all these pint-sized ruffians up yourself, they make trouble?"

Thorin seethed at the exchange, the smug tilt of the woman's head down at her, though Meisar never lifted her head, not even to meet her eyes. She was steady, but her hand was shaking on the hilt of her dirk.

"On our honor as dwarves," Thorin declared stoutly, stepping before her. The alewife looked him up and down with pig-like eyes. "I've seen you here before. With that craggy old wizard. A wizard and a runt. None but trouble."

Thorin stood open-mouthed and said nothing.

"You speak to Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain son of Thror, King Under the Mountain," Dwalin related indignantly.

The alewife regarded him tiredly. "Thought you were dead."

Dwalin grunted again. "Lucky your dirty stinking hole of a piss-pot inn-"

"These men put lewd hands on our women-folk. We would not have taken up otherwise. Of course, if it pleases you, we will seek our shelter elsewhere." She picked up the fat bag of coins from the table, jingled it in her hand. Gold.

Thorin flinched.

The alewife's eyes grew wide and greedy, and she smiled, clapping her mangled hands. "My regrets majesty." She curtsied stupidly on her fat, lumbering frame to Thorin, then hollered into the kitchen. "More meat for our guests! And potatoes with the good gravy!"

A strapping, curly-headed barmaid came out, arms full of loaded plates, and laid a decent table of food before the huddled dwarves. Ale followed, and more after that. Meisar put the bag of coin into her jerkin with the other bags of coin, and had downed a whole potato skin and all before Thorin could finish his train of thought. "You are paid well for this guiding business?" he half-asked, half-observed, wrinkling his brow.

"Everything has a price, my king."

IV

They ate until the kitchen was bare and the ale barrels empty. When it was late into the night, the resident drunkards had passed out and the dwarves were drifting upstairs.

"Shepherdess?" Thorin half-muttered in Meisar's direction. She waved a chubby hand at the ribbon of smoke. "Yes milord?"

"What do you do there?" He took a seat in the chair opposite hers before the fire. He looked at the frayed map spread out across her lap, dim in the firelight.

"Mapping out tomorrow's travels. Dwarves may like to do things at their own pace, but I would like to clear the Misty Mountains before winter." She bent her head back to her map, her eyes strained at it, marking it with the burnt end of a stick.

"Mahal bring us there before then," Thorin commented, lowly. "Aye," agreed Meisar. "If all is well, we will arrive while the Long Lake is water, but not long before it is ice."

She looked up and realized they were alone together.

He looked back toward Meisar and she averted her eyes from his. It was an odd feeling that formed in him seeing the hint of her blush, building and then weighing in his chest.

She said nothing. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Dwalin on the landing of the staircase, unmoving, watching them both. She squeezed the stick in her hand and twisted it against her palm. What could she say to a king? What could she say to Thorin Oakenshield, a king whose grief had driven him into exile with the most peculiar of Arda's peoples, and let his own believe him dead? She willed herself she would never inquire. No, they were waters too deep to wade into.

But while he looked away, she found herself searching his face in the dim light of the fire for any sign of vulnerability, any crack in the façade, weary as it was already. She knew too well the dangers of finding any.

Alas, in spite of whatever forces had pulled her into his orbit, she stopped herself from thinking further, how pathetic her curiosity was, already nagging her.

"And what is a dwarf woman doing alone in the wilderness, may I ask?"

"I know these lands. Better than I know some of these dwarves. They've spent so many years in Ered Luin they've all but forgotten the way home…"

"Home," he repeated flatly.

She paused, awkwardly, cleared her throat against the smoke. "I have myself a very important duty now, with a king in our company. I am at your service, my liege, for whatever it is I may do for you. In my capacity."

"You didn't answer my question," Thorin said back to her.

He kept his eyes firmly on her, the fidgety motions her head and hands made. "I suppose I don't have an answer for that."

V

A great room with small partitions had been provided for them. It had a fireplace, and a copper tub, for the dwarves who wanted to bathe or wash their clothes. They strung up drying laundry around the tub for privacy.

Thorin sat by the door long after the rest of the company retired, falling heavily into the beds. Beds fit for two humans each fit four dwarves comfortably, each and all nesting together, males and females alike, full and warm. Dwalin had finally given over to sleep and was out like a lamp beside his brother. Every voice in the hall, every creak of the floor outside the room, made him flinch.

Meisar lay at the foot of the bed, with her hounds sleeping close to her, warming Bofur and Brynja's feet. She raised her head up toward Thorin, sitting awake by the door, a great Elven sword across his lap. "You should sleep," she murmured.

Thorin barely acknowledged her. She surveyed Dwalin's sleeping form in the dark, before she slid off the high bed. The bald, tattooed dwarf had made her un-eased the way he had looked at her from the stairwell. "Sleep," she said firmly to Thorin, and he seemed a bit more pliant, with the heaviness of his eyes now visible. "You may have my place. I will keep watch."

Reluctantly, he crawled into the empty space. He nestled into the warmth she left, the smell of sweet-grass and pipe smoke where her head had rested, and it was like the tea Bilbo Baggins had given him to make him sleep- heady, an inexplicable comfort that possessed both body and mind at once.

But he couldn't sleep, not for some time. Her form, perched beside her hounds in a rocking chair she had dragged to the door, should have put him at ease but it did the opposite. She was so small, and tall-folk, when they were emboldened on drink, were strong, and merciless.

When he did sleep, for a precious moment, there was a brief and terrible darkness that woke him almost as soon as he had drifted off, or so it seemed. When he woke again it was morning. Dwalin had shoved Brynja and Bofur up to the head side of the bed and was snoring beside Thorin, and Meisar had sunk out of the chair by the door and lay on the carpet in front of it with her head rested on the flank of one of her hounds.

If she was neither charismatic nor particularly familiar, her dogs seemed to have affection for her. Thorin blinked at her, feeling less tense. He craned his neck to squint toward the window, at the threads of dawn-light coming through. There was a slowness to the morning that was of vague comfort. The smell of cinnamon and breakfast cakes wafted upstairs from the kitchen, which was loud and clattering through the thin walls and ceilings. In the hall there were sounds of the chambermaids fending off attentions from the guests who'd drank too much the night before. Only Bofur and Brynja had woken, besides Thorin, who had buried his head into a cool pillow. They cooed and embraced beneath the bedclothes, until Dwalin silenced their goings-on with a heel in Bofur's tailbone. Had he been keener, he might have seen Freyda the iron-smith giving him an enchanted study as he got up out of bed and exchanged his sleep shirt for the laundered tunic hanging over the washtub. Robust and with a fine fair flaxen beard to complement her tresses, the dwarrowdam was rather pretty.

He might have seen other things had he not occupied himself lacing himself back into his heavy fur-lined boots, after tunic, mail coat, sword-belt and ax-holders had been strapped on again along with his fur mantle and knuckle dusters. Thorin was no longer asleep. His head rested sideways on the pillow, which he held under his arms. "You didn't have to sleep so roughly, dunininh," he half-yawned at Meisar. He was awake now and pushing back a hank of dark sleep-mussed hair from his face. "My king?"

Thorin smoothed out the goose-down comforter as he rose. "There was room for one more."

The woman's lower lip made a twitching motion. "I pray Mahal you slept well my king."

He looked melancholy again, to her dismay. "Pray indeed."