Summary: "A coin for your story, good sir," she said, slipping into a seat next to the half-drunk man. With the great kingdom of Erebor retaken and Smaug defeated, a new age of prosperity begins for the dwarves within the deep halls of the Lonely Mountain. But at what cost? Many lives were lost in the quest to reclaim a kingdom, and the stench of a dragon is not easily washed away – for his malice and evil runs deep.
This story is "slight" AU (arguably a bit more than just slight), wherein Thorin, Fíli and Kíli survive the Battle of the Five Armies; references to occurrences during the Hobbit are mostly taken from the movie-version. Slow romance. OC. And, of course, I do not own anything related to the Lord of the Rings, the Hobbit, or anything else associated with neither books nor movies, although I may wish I did!
Also, as a warning of sorts, I am a very sporadic writer and my writing speed depends highly on my motivation (and if I have time). I apologize beforehand.
Please enjoy - and let me know whether this story is worth writing!
When Ravens Fly
Chapter I: A Story Told
May, The Third Age 2942
With the last tunes of music fading into the quiet hum of the marketplace, throughout the hubbub of traders closing shop, laughing and shouting, she turned her gaze up and her fingers stilled against the lute. A shadow had fallen across The Guarded City, the last rays of light streaked the clouded sky in a tangle of pink and orange; the sun vanished beyond the high peaks of the White Mountains as nighttime crept over the city of men. The warm May weather had lured many out from their houses during the day, and the square had been filled with people, both young and old.
She had watched children, faces lit with smiles, weave their way through the crowd in play; with ribbons more colourful than the rainbow and wooden swords, clashing in tales of old. Wide eyes taking in the toy maker's contraptions, the whirls, the puffs of smoke, and with prices that forced the eye to see, yet hands not to touch; the City Guard patrols carving clear paths in the mass of people, silver armor polished and spotless, for they had never seen war nor battle.
Only few had heard her songs above the noise.
An elderly couple, backs hunched from years of work and old age, had quite enjoyed her tales of Elendil the Tall, but had left after many tugs and complaints from their small, restless grandson who had not appreciated her song. When she had changed the tune, spinning a tale of fearful quests, of heroes and princesses, a crowd of youngsters had gathered. Yet they had nothing to give in return except lighthearted claps and praises. She had bowed and smiled, but watched the wooden bowl at her feet go unnoticed.
She watched the clouds drift by high above, holding a promise of a calm and peaceful night.
Letting out a soft hum, she flexed her fingers and released the strings of her lute, allowing the instrument to fall into her lap.
Picking up the small bowl, she quickly emptied the contents into her palm. A few silver pennies lay in the flat of her hand, and, a soft sigh leaving her lips, she shifted in her spot against the white wall. With a melodious clink, the coins vanished into the pouch strapped to her belt; fingers eased a thin leather string through a hole in the bowl, allowing it to hang from her waist as most of her scarce belongings did. Her stomach gave a faint growl of protest. Stretching her arms and legs, she came to her feet and weighed the coin purse in contemplation.
"A warm meal," she spoke quietly under her breath. There should be enough for at least some stew – perhaps even a pint of ale? Then, securing the lute across her back, she made up her mind and quickly made her way across the town square and the few stalls still open; most inns and taverns came alive at night, when the guards changed shifts and the townsfolk closed shop, and, if luck came her way, a chance of work could appear. She knew quite a few drinking songs that were popular with the men of Gondor.
Drunken men always appreciated a merry tune.
The Third Level of Minas Tirith held many a tavern to accommodate the barracks at the gate that led to the lower parts of the city, and the prices were mostly affordable, even for her – and even more so for the soldiers that frequented the warmth of a hearth and promises of beer and food. The open space of the marketplace narrowed, the main street forked into several smaller, darkened pathways and alleys; she took a turn, then another and paused. From hinges, creaking in the soft breeze, an intricately carved sign hung above the tavern door.
An oval shield, flanked by two longswords and with the words, The Guardsman, written beneath.
There had already gathered a small crowd outside the building; the men were still in their uniform garb, a white tree against the darkness of their tunics, but they appeared unarmed and jovial. Laughter welled up from the group, and she stepped closer, ducking behind a pair and continued through the opened door. What first hit her was the smell of newly baked bread and the loudness; a clatter of pots and pans from the kitchen, the booming laughter of the tavern keep, and the voices spread across the tables of the room.
She pulled the lure further up her back, quickly easing her fingers through her hair and smoothened the worst knots and tangles; then she stepped up to the counter. The innkeeper, with his back turned to her, yelled something or another after a fair-haired barmaid before, grumbling, turned to serve her. "Welcome to The Guardsman," he greeted, voice a deep rumble behind a thick beard. His customary smile faltered slightly, beady eyes flickering over her from top to bottom before settling on her face.
"I would like a table, some stew and your–" She shifted under his gaze, clearing her throat with a cough. "–Your cheapest ale, please."
"Pay upfront," he gruffly responded.
Her nose crinkled in slight ire, but she nonetheless rummaged through her pouch. She placed a single, small golden coin on the counter. The metal shone and her eyes lingered briefly, the shortest of moments as light dances across the golden surface. "Will that do?" She asked pointedly. Receiving a curt nod in return, she stepped further into the tavern room and looked for a free spot among the, already now, drunken men. Tucked away into a corner, furthest from the crackling flames of the fireplace, was a table and she immediately headed for it. The lute – her most priced possession – was gently rested at her side; she slid into the seat, gaze dancing across the gathered.
Most were men, with hands calloused from hard work or training, but in between she spotted red and gold dresses; she was not the only one who hoped to find work that night, but the colourful and painted women were using a skillset entirely different from her own. Her fingers traveled across the strings of her lute, creating a soft thrum of music only she could hear.
Her stomach growled again.
Stretching in her seat, she attempted to spot the keep and tapped her fingers against the wooden planks of the table, impatient and hungry. Surely it could not take that long? And she had paid more than enough for some proper service. A barmaid rushed through the room, balancing several jugs of ale with practice ease and without spilling a single drop, but spared no attention on the minstrel in the corner.
Hands flat against the table, she sank back into her seat. She had arrived at the most hectic time of day, so maybe her food would arrive when the customers before her were served. A sigh escaped her lips. Cupping her face in her hands, her eyes fluttered shut and she listened to the voices around her. The stories that were told and shared. Light and shadow danced across her eyelids. At a table not far from her a burst of giggles erupted, followed by a string of flirtatious murmurs and sweet nothings; a pair of hushed voices spoke of a lingering darkness, too quiet for her to hear, but their tone of voice sent shivers crawling up her back.
... And then she heard it.
"–paid a pretty price for me to fix 'em, they did. Almost threw coins at me, that's how much in a hurry they were to get to Erebor."
Her breath hitched in her throat at the name – Erebor? – and her eyes shot open; she looked towards the voice, halfway up her chair, and saw a group of craftsmen eagerly listening to the tale over half-empty pints. Their cheeks were blotched, a drunken stupor setting in. Dinner forgotten, she hurriedly grabbed the lute and approached the table with resolution. "A coin for your story, good sir," she said, slipping into a seat next to the half-drunk man as he barely noticed her. He blinked twice, cross-eyed, before his gaze settled on her.
"Excuse me?"
She pointedly ignored his ragged, foul breath, though incredibly unpleasant, and smiled. "A coin for your story," she repeated, quickly rustling through her savings and fished out a silver penny. The rest of the table had stilled, silently listening to the conversation. A bushy eyebrow raised, his attention flickered to the small coin between her fingers then back to her face. Then they lowered, further down and her stomach lurched.
"Why would a pretty little thing like you care for a Dwarvish city?"
"I am never one to pass on a good story." Gesturing towards the lute at her side, she tilted her shoulders in a shrug, easing slightly back – and away – from the man. She slid the coin over the table, watching his stare follow its movement. "I have not heard many news from the North, nor has anyone since the dragon took residence within the mountain. Your words piqued my interest, that is all." Her heart was racing in her chest, an eagerness creeping into her tone of voice that she could not still, and she prayed the man would accept her payment.
Her only tales from the lands around the Lonely Mountain told of the riches – the pride and greed – of dwarves, how their vast treasure hoard had brought their own destruction in the shape of a fire dragon. A herald of death that had consumed the lands in flames. And then nothing was heard from the region; two centuries had passed, where the people of Dale led measly lives beneath the shadow of the mountain, forever in fear and vigilant. Rough fingers fell upon her hand and she instantly recoiled, drawing herself close and shot the man a look of indignation.
He and his companions guffawed, his dark eyes gleaming as he took her coin.
"A lass like you probably plan to make quite a bit of money from news like this, are you not? Would imagine a more ... fitting pay," he said, all the while pocketing the silver coin.
He then scratched his scrawny, brown beard and grinned at his companions.
She forced a smile, hands clenched into fists until they stilled against her rough skirts. Knowing well what the man had implied, she considered her option; the insides of her mouth were dry when she swallowed. Then she exhaled slowly and responded. "I am afraid I cannot pay you any more than this, though perhaps I can offer you and your friends a song after? A story for a story sounds a fair trade to me."
"Can't be any good songs if you can barely spare a penny," another taunted from across the table, a leer revealing a row of yellowy-black teeth before he gulped down the contents of his mug. Her eyes flashed, but she ignored the jab and returned his comment with a faint smile. If not for her desperation to hear from the northern wilderlands of Rhovanion she would have thrown the ale in his face and stormed off. Or possibly running for her life, provided that the men would give chase.
"I can assure you, good sir, that my song will be sufficient payment in return," she said with little warmth.
Her words merely sent another wave of cackle over the table, loud enough to earn them several looks from the tavern guests and she ducked her head, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. Whether he could read the desperation in her eyes or merely grew bored of playing with her, she did not know, but his next words came with a sigh of resignation. "I have my doubts, but very well, lassy – I tell my story and you sing your song after," the brown-haired man spoke, waving off his company's disagreements with a large hand; relief flooded her and her features eased slightly.
"Thank you, sir."
He settled back into his chair, resting his half-empty mug on his knee and gave her a long look. She returned his gaze evenly, back straight and attentive. "When I was opening shop this morning I was met by a group of unlikely travelers in the need of my assistance. The front-axle of their wagon had snapped in two on their journey from Dol Amroth, and they seemed in a rush to have it repaired. Now – I have seen Dwarves before, mind you – but never in such a hurry. So I asked 'em, I did," he paused to drink and watched her over the rim of the mug.
Her brow knotted together at the thought. They were likely merchants or craftsmen trading in Belfalas, it was not uncommon, and Dwarves were seen in the city on their way around the dangerous paths of the mountain range, buying supplies before their long journey westward to their homes in Ered Luin. "The King under the Mountain has returned, they said, Erebor has been reclaimed by this fellow named ... what was it again? Thorin, Throin or something, and they wished to return–," he paused. "You all right, lass?"
She sat, staring at him with wide eyes that stung from tears threatening to fall, and a sense of dread numbed her senses. Erebor had been freed from the dragon? Her grip tightened around the hem of her skirt, white-knuckled as her mind raced. What about the dragon; what of Smaug the Magnificent –Tyrannical, the terror under the mountain – for without a doubt the beast of old had not left of his own volition? "H–how did that come to pass?" She asked, voice breaking. "Was there not a dragon?"
"Shot dead. Felled by a man from Lake Town, but not before setting most of the place on fire." His face, pulled into a puzzled frown changed as realization settled over him. "You have family there?" She sniffed and nodded. "They're fine I bet you, don't you worry your pretty little head over that." He cleared his throat, glancing at his friends for assistance, but no one made a move to help and he let out an uncomfortable laugh.
If only Smaug had allowed the Dwarves to retake Erebor without a fight, then ... Her hands picked up the lute, resting it into her arms and breathed slowly. The peace would have been broken eventually, she knew that, for the Children of Aulë were drawn to gold almost as strongly as dragons were. But had the Lonely Mountain merely replaced one evil with another? "Thank you for your tale," she said. "Please allow me to repay you with a story of my own."
So she sang.
She sang of fire and of gold, and her voice filled the tavern until all else stilled to listen. And her tears flowed free when she told the tale of family, of warmth and safety – a daughter's love for her father, a fragility so easily shattered. It was not long before coins were passed to her and she indulged the customers in their requests, smiling gratefully; the quiet replaced with the trampling of feet and drunken merriment.
Her fingers danced across the strings.
But a heaviness clouded her heart, a weight that nothing else could lift.
It was late that night when she finally left The Guardsman; most guests had returned to their homes – carried or walking – and only a few remained to hear her last song. The brown-haired man, head buried in his arms, had soberly stayed by her side throughout the evening; his dark eyes followed her when she stood to leave. "You were right," he spoke, voice muffled by the folds of his shirt. "Your song was payment enough. Tell me – what's your name?"
"I am Ranel," she lowered her head in a slight greeting. "The Wandering Minstrel."
Then she stepped out into the darkness, knowing well where her journey next would take her.