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Chapter Four

The company exchanged wild glances between themselves at Gandalf's words, and Thorin looked up sharply from where he had nestled Miluiel on a bed of straw. Her curls lay about her head, and her lids were closed over grey irises as if in slumber, but the already purpling bruise on her head suggested otherwise. The Dwarf prince carefully arranged her hands and arms to make her comfortable, and watched the wizard cautiously from his low position.

"His name is Beorn," Gandalf continued, his rumbling voice filling the cottage, "And he is a skin-changer. Sometimes he is a huge black bear, and others he is a great, strong man. The bear is unpredictable, but the man can be reasoned with. However, he is not overly fond of Dwarves."

A snuffling groan of a noise echoed from outside, before the snapping of twigs and leaves signalled the animal's departure.

"He's leaving," Ori said quietly, pressing his ear to the door. Dori grabbed his youngest brother's arm tightly and yanked him away from the entrance, shaking him roughly.

"Come away from there! It's not natural, none of it! It's clear he's under some sort of spell, some dark magic!"

Gandalf snorted with derision at the two Dwarves before him. "Don't be ridiculous! He is under no enchantment but his own! Now," he swept his hat from his head and rested his staff against one of the stable walls, "I think you'd all best try to get some sleep. We shall greet our host in the morning. You'll be safe here this night."

He then brushed over the worn stone floor to kneel next to Miluiel, and he placed a gentle hand on her forehead. Her eyelids flickered slightly, and her lips parted but she did not awaken. At this, the wizard sighed and furrowed his brow, before beginning to mutter in a low voice with his hand still upon her brow.

"Is she..?" Bilbo's small voice sounded at Gandalf's shoulder, and in it Thorin could hear all of his own anxiety reflected back to him. One of his hands was balled into a fist as he rested his knuckles on the floor, and the other was gently stroking the back of Miluiel's hand as he watched the wizard. Bilbo looked to their leader and saw the fear weighing heavily on his hunched shoulders; it pained him to see Thorin so uneasy, and his young face so lined with worry.

Thorin could hear the words falling from Gandalf's lips; they sounded like tiny bells tinkling with joy and sadness intertwined. The other Dwarves were moving around, trying to make themselves a comfortable bed whilst casting worried glances at their injured friend. He could feel their fear as if it were his own, and it was as if his own agony had fallen away at the sight of her lying on the weathered yellow stone underfoot. The dash from the trees had caused him great pain, but this fear that he would not look upon her warm, beautiful face again made him feel as if his heart were aflame with rage and grief.

How could he have allowed this harm to befall her? What had he been thinking, keeping her with them when it was now so obvious that she was too delicate for their quest? How would he live with the knowledge that his own desires to return to his homeland had cost this fragile, precious woman her life?

Suddenly, Gandalf sat back on his heels. "She is now only sleeping, and shall awaken with the dawn. You should rest, Thorin. She will be well."

The Dwarf prince gazed down at her closed eyes, barely registering the comforting words, and wordlessly drew his furs from his shoulders. He draped them over her small body, covering her from neck to feet, and tucked it around her to keep her warm. Balin had moved his pack next to him, and from within he drew his own bedroll, which he set up beside her. He would not leave her side this night, nor until she awoke. He would believe the wizard's words when they were proved true, and he could once again look into her merry eyes with a glad heart.

It was early morning when Bilbo awoke to find a large, fat bumblebee buzzing merrily around his face. He sat upright quickly and looked about himself, and realised that the rest of the company were seated at a high table in the middle of the room. The animals around him were chewing contentedly, their heads bowed as they dozed in the morning light. He got to his feet, barely making a sound over the stone as he stepped up to the table, and the first thing his eyes alighted upon was Miluiel, sitting quietly between Thorin and Bombur. The former was watching her from under his dark brow whilst chewing a roll, and the latter was laughing at something she said as he spread honey thickly on his own bread. Their host was nowhere to be seen, so Bilbo trotted up to the table and climbed up onto the bench seat next to Gandalf. The wizard smiled at him kindly, and pushed a basket of rolls towards him, followed by butter and cheese. The Hobbit took the food gladly and began to eat as if he had been starved for years, cramming the delicious food into his mouth. After swallowing thickly, he looked around the table properly.

The Dwarves seemed in good spirits, their appetites sated by the mounds of food which sat upon the roughly hewn wooden table; their laughter and gaiety hung on the air as they talked quietly amongst themselves. Many were glancing between their leader and their female companion as he passed her a laden plate, which she took with a shy smile. Colour stained her cheeks and her eyes shone from under her dark lashes; the only indication of her earlier ordeal was the darkly purple bruise which adorned her brow. It had crept up to meet her hairline, and her tangled curls held pieces of straw from her impromptu bed the night before. It did not go unnoticed that Thorin reached up several times during their meal and gently moved some of the straw from the lower lengths of her hair, his fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary. Balin exchanged a frosty glance with his brother as he surveyed their prince; the softening of his eyes as he followed her movements, the gentle tilt of his lips as he acknowledged her words, these were not gestures of a focused Dwarf, and this worried them.

Their attention was drawn, however, to the door as it swung inward and their host stepped through, holding a huge jug brimming with milk. The great man strode over to the table, his dark, shaggy hair hanging forward like a mane, and his swarthy skin covered in simple clothing which looked to have been made by his own hand. He wordlessly began filling the large mugs in front of each Dwarf, and he stopped as he hovered next to Miluiel, eyeing her curiously. Thorin lifted his gaze steadily, meeting the eyes of their strangely taciturn host, before Beorn quirked one great eyebrow and filled her mug too. She whispered a small word of thanks and reached forward with both hands, tilting it to her mouth to drink heartily.

"So," Beorn's voice seemed to rattle their innards as he spoke, setting down his jug and levelling his gaze at the Dwarf prince. "You're the one they call Oakenshield. Tell me, why is Azog the Defiler hunting you?" He folded his massive arms in front of his chest and leant against a simple dresser in the corner, waiting for an answer.

Thorin stiffened beside Miluiel, and she glanced quickly at him. His face was inscrutable as he ruminated on his reply.

"What do you know of Azog?"

"My people were the first to live in the mountains, before Orcs came down from the North. The Defiler killed most of my family, but some of us he enslaved. Not for work, but for sport. Caging and torturing skin-changers seemed to amuse him." The large man's last sentence dripped with disdain and animosity, making Miluiel and Bilbo shiver gently.

"There are others? Like you?" The Hobbit asked in a small voice. He had stopped eating to listen to Beorn, finding his voice almost hypnotic, and utterly irresistible.

"Once there were many," Beorn replied, his great head bowed for a moment.

Bilbo swallowed roughly. "And now?"

"Now there is only one."

Miluiel made a soft noise of sympathy in her throat as she gazed at Beorn, her sadness glistening in her eyes. She felt a deep wrench in her chest for the man before her, his family ripped from him by an inconceivable malice, and she was filled with a fleeting moment of such rage on behalf of Beorn that it made her shudder.

"And where does your journey take you, Master Dwarf?" Beorn rumbled, his beard swaying as he sat down in a huge, low chair. His long legs were stretched out before him, tucked under the long table, and his boots touched the swinging legs of his guests.

"We must reach the Lonely Mountain," Gandalf answered after a long pause. Thorin did not seem keen to divulge their efforts to this stranger before them, despite his hospitality. "And we must arrive there before the last of Durin's Day."

"You are running out of time," Beorn said softly, rubbing a hand over his bearded chin. "I am not over fond of Dwarves. They are greedy and blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own. But Orcs I hate more. What do you need?"