"You cannot be serious," Thorin exclaimed, looking at the elderly wizard for any signs of jest.
"Deadly serious, I'm afraid," Gandalf replied, furrowing his brow. "If we are to," he paused, looking around at the crowded inn for any signs of an eavesdropper, "Reclaim Erebor, we will need all the expertise we can get. And these two thieves-"
"But they're burglars!" Thorin cried, flinching when he realized how loudly he had spoken. Lowering his voice, he added, "They steal for sport, Gandalf. Having them join the company would be dangerous!"
"You said you wanted me to find the fourteenth member of our company-a burglar, I might add-and now I have done so," Gandalf said, his voice lined with indignation.
"I asked for one burglar, Gandalf, not two deranged rogues without an ounce of morality!" Thorin hissed. "Besides, who's to say that they'd even care to join our company? It seems like they have a perfectly fine time ruining the lives of the townspeople here," he muttered.
"Word has spread of Smaug's absence," Gandalf said grimly. "Everyone is looking to the mountain, Thorin. The dragon has not been seen for nearly fifty years. People begin to have hope that-"
Something changed in Thorin's face, a true terror passing over his features. "You mean to say that others are plotting to reach Erebor as well?" he growled, looking around menacingly at the patrons of the inn, as if these poor farmers and merchants were the ones planning to overtake the mountain.
"Yes," Gandalf said, his voice grave and fearful. "And if these thieves have not heard these rumors as well, then they surely do not live up to their names." With one last significant look at Thorin, he added, "I plead you to speak with them, Thorin. Without people of their skill, I doubt your company will be able to reclaim the kingdom." The wizard stood up from the table and, donning his grey hat, strode out of the inn and into the rain.
Thorin watched the old man go, a hundred thoughts swirling through his mind. All he had ever wanted was to do well by his people, and now that the chance to take back their homeland had finally arisen, he couldn't bear to think of letting it slip away again. But allowing two untrustworthy thieves on board with their mission… the thought made him shiver. Surely there had to be someone else-anyone else-who would be up for the job?
But no one else was up for the job. He had spent the last several weeks searching for someone to fill the last, fourteenth position of his company. And he had come up empty. It seemed that although rumors of the possible death of Smaug had excited people, it wasn't enough to make them want to actually be the ones to put the rumors to the test.
Now, two, talented thieves seemed to be up to the task. Of course, they were two, crazy thieves, but if he could get just one of them to join, perhaps it would be alright. They couldn't possibly dream of succeeding in retaking Erebor without a proper burglar. It would be worth the risk, Thorin decided. If it meant his people would have a home again, he would risk everything to see that it was done.
Getting up, Thorin walked over to the bar counter, at which a handful of bedraggled men were sitting, guzzling beer from metal tankards. He heaved himself up onto one of the stools and waved the bartender over. The bartender, an equally disheveled man, scurried eagerly over, wiping down the counter with a grimy cloth. "How can I help you, sir?" he asked, his voice thick with nasal.
"What can you tell me about the Wraith?" Thorin asked, watching as the bartender's face froze, the man's hands dropping the washcloth. Thorin had chosen the Wraith out of the two options Gandalf had presented, for, as he had learned from the old wizard, the Wraith was a far better thief than the Sage, as the other rogue was called, and would be better suited for the job he had outlined for the burglar of his company.
"The Wraith?" the bartender squeaked, causing the men around them to pause their drinking and peer over in their direction, their eyes wide.
"Yes," Thorin said, his voice wavering slightly.
"Well," the bartender began, his eyes wide. "She's a thief, and a mighty good one at that. They say she once stole a fifty-pound chest of jewels from right out under the mayor's nose." Some of the nearby men nodded in agreement, seeming to have heard the same story as well. "Nothing's safe from her," the bartender went on. "No locked door can keep her out. She's been causing trouble here in Bree for nearly a decade now, but no one's ever been able to catch her."
"Nearly a decade, you say?" Thorin repeated. "How old is she, exactly?"
"No one knows for sure," the bartender replied. "But those who've seen her reckon she's about eighteen."
Thorin had to bite his lip to keep from smirking. These fully grown men were quivering and shaking from the thought of a mere teenager? "Do you know where I can find her?" he asked, some of the trepidation he had been feeling beginning to lift. If this thief were truly only eighteen-not even an adult yet-then what was there to fear? A young girl couldn't possibly be so dangerous, or at least not as dangerous as these men were making her out to be.
"Where you can find her?" the bartender snorted. "Did you hear nothing I've just said? No one's ever been able to catch her, not even the Sage! And that's saying something."
The Sage, Thorin repeated to himself. That was the name of the other thief Gandalf had told him about. The intellectual one, the one who knew everything about everyone in the town, who knew exactly who spoke to whom about what, and when they had done so. If the Wraith was so elusive, perhaps he could approach her instead.
"So you don't have any idea where I could find either of them?" he asked the bartender. "The Wraith or the Sage, I mean."
"No," the bartender replied, as if it were an obvious answer to a stupid question.
With a sigh, Thorin dug a few coins out of his pocket and threw them on the counter. "Do you have any rooms available?" he asked. It was late, and he didn't feel like heading back home through the rain.
Thorin awoke to the sound of someone kicking his bed.
Startled, and more than a little alarmed by the sound, he sat up quickly, nearly jumping out of his skin at what he saw. At the foot of his bed stood a cloaked figure, a hood drawn over it's face to shield it from view. The figure was tall, obviously a human or an elf.
Tearing the sheets off of him, Thorin sprang out of bed, reaching for the sword that he had placed on his bedside table and brandishing it at the intruder. "Who are you?" he demanded, peering closely at the visitor. "Speak quickly, or I'll slit your throat."
A glint within the blackness of the hood's cowl showed that the figure was rolling their eyes. "I doubt it'll be you doing the slitting," the figure snorted, the voice seeming to be female. "Now put your sword down. We have things to discuss."
"You didn't answer me," he growled, glaring suspiciously at the figure. "Who are you?" He tightened his grip on the sword, prepared to launch a full attack at a moment's notice.
"I am the Wraith," the figure said, as if it were obvious.
"The Wraith?" Thorin repeated, astounded, his grip loosening for a moment. Had he not just been looking for her earlier that night? But his surprise soon turned to suspicion as he pondered the coincidence more carefully. This was too simple. Too easy. "You lie," he spat, stepping closer to the woman. "Speak the truth."
"Oh, sorry," the figure said theatrically, another shimmer within the darkness of her hood telling him that she was rolling her eyes yet again. "You got me. I'm actually a talking cow who breaks into people's rooms in the middle of the night and pretends to be the Wraith," she exclaimed shrilly. "Seriously, Thorin. I expected you'd be a little... well, a little smarter than this."
"How dare you?" Thorin snarled indignantly. Never had he been insulted so brashly by anyone, let alone by an eighteen-year-old girl. Without thinking, he lunged at the figure, his sword slicing through the air, aimed at the woman's heart.
In a flash, the woman had unsheathed a pair of dual daggers, blocking his incoming attack easily and disarming him with a twisting motion, his sword clattering to the ground.
"Now sit," the Wraith commanded, nodding towards the table and chairs in the corner of the room.
Thorin bristled. "Who are you to order me around like a peasant?" he barked. "I am-"
"-Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain," the Wraith supplied, with yet another eye roll. "Only you don't have a mountain. Yet. Which is why you need me."
"What?" Thorin exclaimed. "How did you-"
"Sit," the Wraith interrupted again, gesturing impatiently to the chairs.
Reluctant, but too curious not to oblige, Thorin cautiously eased into one of the rickety wooden chairs, the Wraith sliding into the one across from him.
"How did you even get in here?" Thorin asked.
"The door, stupid," the Wraith said, exasperated. With astoundment, Thorin looked at the doorway, finding that the bolt, which he had slid into place himself earlier that night, was undone.
"Why are you here?" he demanded, peering more closely at the figure sitting across from him. Her face was still mostly shadowed by the hood, but he could just make out the barest outlines of a young-surprisingly young-girl's features within the darkness.
"To ask you for a place in your company," the Wraith answered, in the naive way that she did that made it sound like Thorin's questions were beyond stupid.
"Why?" Thorin probed, startled.
"I have my reasons," the Wraith supplied evasively. "But you don't need to know those reasons, Thorin Oakenshield. I'll be a part of your company. I'll steal whatever you want me to steal. As long," she gave him a pointed look, "As you don't ask too many questions. Like you're doing right now."
He gave a short, clipped laugh. "I have a right to ask questions, don't you think? You just broke into my room in the middle of night, and you won't even take off your hood to show me who you really are. What reason have you given me to trust you?"
"You don't need to trust me, Thorin," the Wraith answered. "You know I'm your last hope, and that no matter how hard you may try to see around it, I'm the only one who will get the job done." When she noticed Thorin's change of expression, she added, "Without me, you don't stand a chance against the dragon."
"Actually," another voice jutted in, "That's not entirely true." The door to his room creaked open, and another figure slipped in, this time, a shorter woman who seemed to be of the dwarf or hobbit race. She was quite pretty, with platinum blonde hair that was tied up in an elaborate updo, and a young, pleasant face.
"What in Arda…" Thorin breathed. "Why do people keep barging in here?"
"Elle," the Wraith growled, her muscles tensing beneath the dark fabric of her cloak.
"Jasmine," the new intruder replied, just as sharply. "How quaint. You found your way here all on your own. That's a first."
"It seems you've grown slow," the Wraith growled. "I got here way before you did."
"Perhaps," the woman-Elle, presumably-replied, her voice dripping with a false sweetness. "But I see you didn't succeed in charming Thorin," she said, remarking on Thorin's own skeptical expression. "You were never very good with people, Jasmine. Maybe you should have stayed in the shadows where you belong."
Thorin surveyed the conversation between the two tensed women, utterly perplexed. "What's going on?" he asked, furrowing his brow.
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