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Chapter Twelve

Miluiel bent at the waist, resting her hands on her thighs as she gasped at the sweet air, her hair hanging in front of her face in sweaty curls. She swiped at her forehead, her throat burning with exertion. Oin crouched next to her, his moustache twitching as he panted. He reached out a hand and patted her arm, smiling faintly as she nodded at him, understanding his silent thanks.

Gandalf counted the company again, before realising that they were missing their very important burglar. "Where is the Hobbit? Where is Bilbo?" The frantic hitch in his deep voice made the group look about themselves, as if he would spring up from the very grass under their feet. The Dwarves began to mutter amongst themselves, trying to ascertain who had seen him last. Bofur seemed to come to a realisation, and his braids danced as he spoke.

"I saw him! I think I saw him slip away when the goblins first captured us!" he cried, his face triumphant. Miluiel moved closer to the group, pushing her damp hair back from her face. Her brow was furrowed with worry, the emotion etched into the lines marring her pretty face. Thorin glanced at her and his heart constricted suddenly, as if her anxiety caused him physical pain. As quickly as it spasmed through him, it was gone in a moment to be replaced with scoffing righteousness.

"Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it! He has thought of nothing but his warm hearth and soft bed since first stepping out of his front door! We shall not be seeing that Hobbit again, you can mark these words!" Thorin ground out, bitter with resentment, and surveyed the group. They wore matching expressions of hurt and fear at the prospect of their friend and burglar abandoning them so easily. Miluiel wrinkled her nose in disgust. For a moment, he glimpsed the deepest well of her emotion, and he recognised both betrayal and repugnance reflected back to him in her darkening eyes.

"You are so quick to judge him, Master Dwarf!" her voice shook as she spoke, and her grey eyes clouded like the sky before a coming storm. She started forward, her fists balled at her sides as her anger swept over her pale face. The generous lower lip was pursed over her teeth, with any hint of softness gone from her expression. Miluiel was not tall, but in that moment, Thorin almost thought she grew as she made to stride towards him. She was truly repulsed by his arrogance and his surety that the poor, kind Hobbit had made off at the first chance he got. She valued loyalty and honesty in those she liked, and she trusted her own judgement of character, so for the Dwarf prince to so readily give up Bilbo for a cowardly dog, slinking away into the sunset, made her blood boil in her veins.

"I am here," a small voice said, and suddenly the Hobbit appeared, his hairy toes twitching as he stood watching the group. His curly head bobbed at Miluiel as her face split into a wide grin.

"Bilbo! I do not think I have been so glad to see someone in my life," Gandalf smiled, patting the Hobbit on the shoulder. Miluiel spun away from the Dwarf prince and picked her way over the soft grass to hug him quickly, her arms encircling his shoulders in a tight embrace which Bilbo returned rather awkwardly. Thorin watched the exchange, his brow darkened with annoyance. An errant thought flashed into his mind that he should like to be held as the Hobbit was, tightly and without reservation. A fleeting memory of her body pressed to his in the goblin tunnels, a silent thanks for protecting her when the bridge fell, curled in front of his eyes, dancing like smoke on the wind. She had been without reservation then, and for a mere second he thought he had felt his heart lighten almost imperceptibly. But now, standing in the warm evening light, he dashed away thoughts of the young woman, and began looking about himself, searching for their next path; however, his eyes strayed once again to the pretty enigma of a woman before him. Her hair had curled over her shoulders and into her face as she bent forward slightly, and his hand twitched absently, as if it made to sweep the tendrils behind her tiny ears. Fili's voice snapped him out of his reverie, and he angrily thrust his hand into a pocket, wriggling his fingers in ire. The gesture did not go unnoticed, and Balin furrowed his brow as he kept his eyes fixed upon his prince. It did not do for their leader to be distracted at such a time, when their quest was so important, but a tiny voice inside the older Dwarf seemed to assert itself. Perhaps what Thorin needed was light in his life, for when all around seems lost, what else is there to look to?

"How on earth did you get past the goblins?" the elder of Thorin's nephews asked, eyebrows knitted together as he spoke to the Hobbit.

"Yes," Dwalin rumbled, "How indeed?"

Bilbo laughed nervously, his fingers disappearing into the pocket of his jerkin for a moment. Miluiel caught the action, as did Gandalf; her grey eyes lifted to meet those of the wizard with a puzzled expression. Gandalf shook his head almost imperceptibly, knowing that only the sharp eyes of the young woman would catch the movement, before stepping forward and clapping the Hobbit on the shoulder once more.

"What does that matter now? He's back," the wizard said, smiling down at Bilbo with fondness.

Thorin hummed deep in his throat, catching the groups' attention before he spoke, "It matters. I want to know; why did you come back?"

The Hobbit looked bashful for a moment, and smoothed a hand over the front of his jerkin before answering. His eyes were large in his ruddy face as he looked around the company, "Look, I know you doubt me. I know..." he paused, watching the Dwarf king. "I know you always have. And you're right, I often think of Bag End. I miss my books, and my arm chair, and my garden. See, that's where I belong. That's home. And that's why I came back, because... you don't have one. A home. It was taken from you, but I will help you take it back if I can."

Miluiel smiled softly, lighting the delicate features of her face as she turned to look at Thorin. Her eyes bored into his own for a moment, silently conveying her thoughts; you were wrong about him, and you should be ashamed for thinking so ill of this kind Hobbit, she seemed to say. Guilt pooled in the base of his gut as he watched the group laughing and talking with the Hobbit, completely trusting his explanation and welcoming him back to them as a long-lost friend.

A long howl in the distance silenced the jollity, lancing fear through the hearts of those stood in the little clearing.

"Out of the frying pan," Thorin breathed softly, his eyes finding those of his kin, who looked terrified.

"And into the fire," Gandalf said, before raising his voice, "Run. Run!"

The company began to run, their feet sliding over the lush grass as they negotiated trees and large boulders, careering down the mountainside with wild abandon. It seemed their luck had yet to turn, as the Wargs appeared behind them, getting ever closer. The evil animals' eyes glowed in the dwindling evening light, their fur glinting with dirt and blood from their previous hunts. But this night, they hungered for Dwarf flesh, and with the Pale Orc lashing at their heels, they seemed determined not to be disappointed.

"The trees! Up into the trees, all of you!" Gandalf cried, making for the nearest and hoisting himself up by the lower hanging branches. Fili and Kili followed him, leaping from the ground as if their heels were winged. The other Dwarves were still running, trying to find trees for themselves, as Bilbo was cornered by a Warg. It gnashed its teeth, the scent of rotting flesh escaping from its throat as it faced the Hobbit. He held his sword in front of him, trying to cover the quiver in his grasp. The Warg lunged forth, expected to close its jaw around soft flesh, but instead meeting the cool steel of Bilbo's blade. He had screwed his eyes shut, thinking of his imminent death, but when it did not come, his eyes snapped open and he almost gasped with confusion. He had killed the creature?

The rest of the company did not give him time to celebrate his first kill, shouting at him to find a tree, before he was helped into the nearest one by Bofur and Gloin reaching down for him. It was only in the nick of time which his hairy toes disappeared into the foliage, for more Wargs had come, snapping their jaws at the trees. The company sat in the branches, the trees swaying as the Wargs circled beneath them; their slavering maws were opened in cruel grins as they looked upward, towards their terrified prey.

Then, standing atop a flattened boulder, appeared the Pale Orc in his fearsome glory, his hulking form astride the white Warg silhouetted against the darkened sky. Thorin looked up and caught sight of the Orc warrior, blinking slowly as the creature began to speak in a guttural tongue. He felt fear lance through his chest and the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention.

"It cannot be," he murmured softly, his brow creasing as he recalled the moment so many years ago when he rent the pale forearm from the elbow, causing Azog to flail in pain and seeming defeat. It was that day that he had earned the moniker Oakenshield, which he wore proudly for his people and for his ancestors. Azog extended his uninjured arm and pointed to the Dwarf king, uttering an order to his followers, who began to surge forward, towards the company.

The Wargs then started to leap at the tree trunks, pushing their giant front paws against the bark and waiting to hear the shrieking, crunching sound of splintering wood. The company watched helplessly as the animals slowly began to rock the trees on their roots, pushing them insistently until they began to twist away from the ground with a groan. The Dwarves leapt from the falling trees, into the nearest branches of those trees still standing. It was not long before all of the company were clinging to one tree, their fingers digging into the bark to keep a firm grip on the branches, as well as their lives.

It was during the few fleeting seconds of the last leap of the company, as Miluiel thrust her slim frame through the air, that the Dwarf prince felt his heart momentarily stop in his chest. His mind raced as he watched her hair flutter in the breeze and her clothes moved as she fell towards the outstretched arms of his company. Her hands were splayed as she caught the grip of Dwalin, and Thorin felt the air whoosh from his lungs whilst he watched his friend pull her to safety. Meanwhile, Gandalf lit a pine cone aflame with his staff, lobbing it down the branches to Fili, who caught it and began to light others from it. Soon, most of the company were armed with blazing projectiles, which they launched from their vantage point between the leaves, laughing and cheering as their efforts drove back the cowering Wargs.