Queer Lodgings

A sharp crack bounced off the stone surface of the twisting mountain path, signaling the hobbit's return. Bilbo bobbed into sight a moment later, red-faced and out of breath. He leant against the chasm wall to gather his bearings, one eye on the narrow passageway he had emerged from. Above our heads, clouds were gathered and the sky was dark and heavy.

Thorin straightened from his crouch. "How close is the pack?"

"Too close," the hobbit wheezed. "A couple of leagues, no more. But that's not the worst of it."

Being the smallest and quietest of our ragtag band had earned Bilbo the privilege of scouting the path ahead for danger. He had accepted this mission with very little protest – and I had once again been struck by how much the hobbit had changed over the course of our journey. Gone was the nervous little man who'd opened his front door to me on that cool spring night, so long ago.

The company gathered closer to listen to his sightings.

"The wargs have picked up our scent?" Dwalin shifted under my weight, shooting a glare at the mountain chain hidden from sight by the tall rocks. I loosened my vice-grip on the burly dwarf's shoulder, but he hardly seemed to notice.

"Not yet, but they will do." Bilbo passed a hand over his brow. "We have another problem."

"Did they see you?" Gandalf asked.

"No, that's not it –"

"What did I tell you?" The wizard beamed at our tight circle. "Quiet as a mouse! Excellent burglar material!" The dwarves muttered their approval, smiling and clapping Bilbo on the back.

"Will you listen?" the hobbit protested, raising his voice to be heard over the commotion. "Will you just listen? I'm trying to tell you – There's something else out there!"

That put a damper on the mood. The dwarves sobered up, casting worried glances at one another. My spirits dropped at the prospect of another threat, another enemy to watch out for.

"What form did it take?" Gandalf inquired, suddenly serious. "Like a bear?"

Bilbo blinked. "Y – Yes, but bigger, much bigger."

"You knew about this beast?" Bofur asked, incredulous. When Gandalf only turned away, the dwarf said, "I say we double back!"

"And be run down by a pack of orcs?" Thorin spat, shaking his head. "How far are we from your friend's dwelling, Gandalf?"

The wizard slowly turned. "He is not my friend, master dwarf. We have never met."

There was a half-beat of stunned silence.

"But…" I passed a tongue over my parched lips. "But I thought you said you knew him?

Gandalf smiled thinly. "I said I knew of him. Although we have not been introduced, I am familiar with his name. He has a formidable reputation towards his enemies, and orcs are known to have wronged him in the past." He paused, hunching over his staff, his eyes lost in space. "We might seek refuge there."

Thorin stared at the old man long and hard. "And what of us? Will he offer sanctuary to the folk of Durin? Will he think us friends or foes?"

The wizard smiled a tight smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "That, I cannot say. He will either help us… or he will kill us."

Nervous laughter bubbled in my chest. I clamped a hand over my mouth, forcing it down. Dwalin twisted, shooting me a queer look, and I realized I must have snorted. My nostrils flared as I took a deep, calming breath, ignoring the sharp ach in my chest. The hysterical urge passed and I was able to focus on Thorin's voice.

"What choice do we have?"

An eager howl answered his question, clear and jubilant – the sound of predator scenting prey. More howls picked up in response, echoing through the ravines and soaring up to the low-hanging sky. The pack was gathering. The hunt had begun.

Gandalf smiled wryly and said, "None."

Breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe. My mind was a whispering breeze of protest against the stabbing in my sides, the burning in my chest, the wheezing rattle of my lungs as they took in short, ragged gasps. Blood pounded in my ears, drowning out all other noise. Just as well, too – it meant I couldn't hear the sounds of pursuit, couldn't let my imagination run wild and conjure up images of the warg pack closing in.

Because it was closing in. I could feel it in every erratic beat of my heart, every nervous twitch of my muscles. I was a hunted animal, and my body knew it.

Breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe.

We ran for what felt like hours, although I don't remember half of it. I was well past coherent thought, legs pumping furiously, vision reduced to a blurry tunnel. If not for Bilbo and Bofur, I would most certainly have collapsed long ago and stayed down. The hobbit had noticed my struggles about ten minutes into our flight and, despite my weak objections, he had hung back long enough to cause a hold up.

"Half a moment," Bofur had muttered. Grabbing my left arm, he'd positioned it over his shoulder, allowing me to lean against him. After a second's hesitation, Bilbo had done the same with my right. It was awkward; both men were short enough that I had to hunker down, but with their combined efforts I was able to keep up with rest of the company.

The land gradually smoothed, trees spacing out, revealing the sky above. I chanced a quick glance over my shoulder at the mountain chain. It rose, tall and imposing, topmost summits engulfed in grey clouds. A colossal barricade of stone. I marveled at the fact that we'd overcome it, something so huge and wild. The thought brought vigor to my heart.

Soon after, the vegetation changed; brambles and course grass giving way to rolling meadows specked with wildflowers. The clouds dispersed, reveling a clear, pristine blue sky. It was a perfect mid-summer day.

The dwarves showed no sign of tiring, not even old Balin. They pressed onwards at a dogged pace, over lush grasslands and down sloping hills. Only when a river cut across our path did they pause. It was shallow and quick, with low shrubs growing thick along the bank. The dwarves eyed the swift current warily, but Gandalf did not hesitate. "Don't stop!" he urged, robes hitched up as he waded through the water, testing the depth of it with his staff. "Not far now!"

I tried not to shiver as the clear mountain waters slapped at my legs, sending sharp needles up my thighs. The sensation brought back flashes of drifting in a dark, cold place, of liquid pouring down my mouth and into my lungs, of a deep, burning ach for breath. I shook myself. Beside me, Bilbo was submerged up to his waist in icy river, teeth chattering from the cold, and Bofur was hardly better off. Maybe, I thought, the wargs will loose our scent in the river. Maybe we'll confuse them long enough to lengthen the distance between us. But I knew better than to hope.

The woods reformed once we emerged onto the bank, tamer in comparison to the dense forest that had covered the valley. Regardless, my toes caught on every root, my tattered clothes snagged on every bush. I struggled to keep placing one foot in front of the other, stomach cramping unpleasantly from lack of food. How much further?

Bilbo gasped, "How much further?" Somehow, he was simultaneously flushed and pale, his hair plastered to his brow, sweat dripping down his jaw line.

No one answered, but the trees around us thinned, light filtering through the branches, signaling an end to the forest ahead. We emerged from their shade into a sun-yellowed pasture just as a tremendous roar rose up from the depth of the forest behind.

Bofur stopped short, jerking the hobbit and me to an abrupt halt. Though he didn't look nearly half as drained as Bilbo, Bofur's tight features betrayed his true condition: He too, was close to dropping.

"That was no warg," Bofur said, and I wanted to tell him to shut up, because if it wasn't a warg then it meant that something else was crashing through the undergrowth towards us, something far, far bigger.

Like a bear.

"Almost there!" Gandalf's raised voice was urgent. He was waving us towards a circular wooden fence in the very center of the meadow. A belt of ancient oaks was visible on the inside, and between the twisted trees, a cluster of low buildings. From where I was standing I could make out the surface of their thatched roofs. But there was no time to admire the rustic scene. At that moment, a very large something erupted from the trees behind in a cacophony of snapping branches.

The wizard bellowed, "Run!" and again, we were running, Gandalf in the lead, the rest of us scampering after him in single file.

Breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe. There was a gap in the fence, a massive double gate opening up to a wide courtyard. Breathe breathe breathe. We raced through. A well-worn path lead to a large house made of unshaped logs – the main building, as far as I could tell. Gandalf shouted at us to get inside. Breathe breathe breathe. Fili and Kili were the first to reach the huge wooden door. They hammered their fists against it, slamming the hard surface, but it would not open. The dwarves pressed closer, desperation getting the better of them. Bofur's elbow jabbed painfully against my ribs.

"Open the door!" Gandalf was bringing up the rear, and behind him, a mass of fur and claws hurtled nearer, closing the distance with deadly speed.

I tore my gaze away from the giant bear, towards the door, and my stomach leapt.

"The latch!" I shrieked. "You forgot – lift the latch!"

Thorin brushed past. With a flip of his hand, he wrenched the iron bolt upwards and the door swung open. We piled inside.

The smell hit me like a punch in the gut; dry straw, horses, old wood. There was a funny lurching in my gut. Cold sweat beaded at my brow, a shiver creeping down my spine. I know that smell.

Dwalin, Gloin and Thorin slammed the door and pushed their shoulders against it – just in time. The door groaned as the bear rammed its full weight against the surface, snarling its rage. I snapped out of my daze as the whole house shuddered under the strain. Bilbo drew his short sword and clutched it close to his chest. I collapsed against the wall, watching the dwarves wrestle with the lock, cursing and heaving until finally, they were able to ram it home.

Silence fell, and it was almost worse that the snarling. Something heavy was shifting on the other side of the door, blocking the light that streamed through the gaps. The thick wooden planks suddenly seemed as fragile as matchsticks. A scraping sound reached my ears. Claws on stone. The bear was pacing.

I whispered, "Why isn't it attacking?" Several people shushed me and I ground my teeth, biting back a retort.

Scrape, shuffle. Pause. A low, menacing growl. Then sunlight flitted across my face as the beast huffed and broke away from the door, lumbering off across the courtyard.

"What is that?" Ori breathed. The bandage on his forehead had came undone, coagulated blood mingling with perspiration, gleaming wetly.

Gandalf's eyes remained riveted on the door as he answered. "That is our host."

A stunned silence greeted his words. Gandalf carried on as though he had done nothing more disturbing than announce bad weather for the following morning. "His name is Beorn, and he's a skin-changer. Sometimes he's a huge black bear, sometimes he's a great strong man. The bear is unpredictable, but the man can be reasoned with. However," the wizard turned a stern gaze on the company, "he's not overly-fond of dwarves."

Ori pressed an ear against the door and whispered, "I think he's gone!"

"Come away from there!" Dori wrenched his younger brother away, visibly flustered. "It's not natural, none of it! It's obvious; he's under some dark spell!" I didn't miss the way his eyes lingered on me as he said it, or the way he angled his body so that Ori was shielded from my sight.

"Don't be a fool," Gandalf scolded. "He's under no enchantment but his own. Refrain from speaking such nonsense if you can help it – he has a quick temper."

Kili laughed shakily. "And you thought it wise to bring us to him? A Man-bear with a strong distaste for dwarves?"

I shrugged and muttered, "Beggars can't be choosers." After all, the alternative was a pack of bloodthirsty wargs who defiantly wouldn't hesitate in tearing us to shreds. I didn't think my voice would carry so far, but suddenly everyone was staring.

"Precisely," Gandalf said, offering me a brief smile. He swiped his grey hat off his head. "You'll be safe here tonight. I advise you all to get some sleep."

"And the orcs?" Thorin demanded.

The wizard chuckled wryly and simply said; "Beorn is a fearsome enemy. You need not worry about the orc pack tonight." And then, so low I was sure no one else heard him, he added, "I hope."

Beorn's house was big. Very big. If I'd had any doubts on the subject of our host's size, the sheer scale of his dinning table and chairs would have cured me of my skepticism. I traced patters across the surface of the stool beneath me, my legs dangling in space. They didn't even graze the floor.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The barn-like smell hit me again, strong but not altogether unpleasant. It plucked at the cords of my memory. I knew I'd smelt something similar before – but where? Inexplicably, the relentless sound of heavy rain reached my ears. I opened my eyes, glancing towards the window. The sky outside showed no hint of a storm. I shook my head and the moment passed. I was just tired, that was all. Of course it wasn't raining.

But the smell bothered me all the same.

Dwalin paced the wide room, looking even shorter than usual next to the oversized furniture. "How long must this waiting go on for?" he growled. It was not the first time he'd voiced his frustration – at this point the question was purely rhetorical – and so no one bothered coming up with a response. When the first hour had passed and no wargs had come knocking, the tension had slowly begun to ebb away. Dori, Ori, Bombur, Nori and Balin had retreated to the far side of Beorn's house and were trying to follow Gandalf's advice. The rest were either too wound up, or too hungry for sleep.

Dwalin's swift pacing brought him close to the fat reddish cow grazing peacefully in the corner. The cow turned its head and fixed him with a beady look, jowls munching rhythmically. If it was bothered by the sudden appearance of sixteen strangers, it showed no sign of it.

"There's enough meat on that beast to feed an army," Dwalin muttered.

I sighed. This was not the first time Dwalin had suggested carving up Beorn's cow either.

Gandalf shot the idea down with his usual response; "I wouldn't if I were you. These animals are Beorn's most precious possessions. They are not for eating."

A pity, I thought as my stomach rumbled loudly. The cow really did look fat enough to keep us stuffed for a week. I raised an absent hand to the right side of my head, testing the skin around my ear.

Oin noticed. "Is it tender?" he demanded. The old healer had all but dragged me to the side once the bear had left, poking and prodding my ribs until he was satisfied that none were broken. It had been uncomfortable and embarrassing to have him fuss over me that way.

Eager to avoid another examination, I said, "No, no, nothing like that. I'm just getting used to the feel of it." When he didn't look convinced I huffed and turned my head for him to see. "Look; no swelling, no pus, no foul smell. Whatever the elves did, it's working fine. Now please just drop it."

Oin's scowl matched my own. "I suppose it will take loss of limb for you to start taking me seriously," he grumbled. "Upon my beard, you're as bad as Thorin."

I wasn't thrilled with the comparison. By the looks of it, neither was Thorin. Seated at the head of the table in a chair that swallowed him whole, the dwarf king was picking at his forearm, absentmindedly rubbing the spot where the warg had struck. From time to time, his eyes would flicker over to my perch on the stool.

"You know," Bilbo piped from my right, "waiting isn't going to make the task any easier."

If Beorn's lodging made the dwarves seem shorter, Bilbo looked as small and scrawny as an infant. He was thinner too, than I remembered him being, his dusty red coat loose-fitting around the shoulders. It made me wonder how I looked, how the journey had physically changed me.

"Yeah," I said, "but I'm not good with words. I wouldn't even know where to start."

The hobbit shrugged and said, "You could start with the truth."

I smiled. The motion felt wrong on my face. More than anything, I wanted to own up. I felt wary beyond words when I thought of spinning another lie, hiding behind another façade. My cover was damaged beyond repair, so really, what was the point? But I couldn't overlook the fact that in confessing, I would have to admit to the taint in my magic. What would the truth bring me then?

Bilbo seemed to interpret my silence as indecision because he said, "When I was a boy, I stole a blueberry tart at the Free Fair during Lithe – our summer festival," he added when I looked puzzled. "A very important event in hobbit culture. I could just as easily have bought the tart – my family has quite enough money to spare – but there was something thrilling about the idea of taking it. Of course, I was riddled with guilt once the deed was done. I told my mother who scolded me quite severely and sent me to apologies. The woman at the food stall was firm but fair: She set me to work baking pies for the rest of the festivities to pay for the one I'd stolen."

He lapsed into silence. I waited to see if he wanted to add anything more to the obscure point he was making. When it became clear he was done, I said, "Right. Thanks for that, but I don't see how swiping someone's pastry compares to the mess I'm in. It's as different as night and day."

"Is it really?" Bilbo fixed me with a level stare. "You made a mistake, and now it's time to come clean. And as I said before; waiting isn't going to make the task any easier."

I glanced to the head of the table to find that Thorin was staring again. My mouth formed a grim line. It was inevitable, I supposed. Sooner or later, the confrontation would take place, so why not speed things along? I met Thorin's gaze and held it. The dwarf king jutted his chin up ever so slightly. A challenge.

I heard myself speak, my voice raised in assurance I didn't feel.

"We need to talk."

The dwarves seated around the table fell silent. Gandalf leant forwards, searching my face, but I ignored him. I had eyes for no one but Thorin.

He took his time responding. I was beginning to worry I might have been rash in provoking him when he finally said, "Agreed."

I refused to let my relief show. "Alone."

He gave a quick jerk of his head and said, "Leave us." The order was meant for our surrounding audience, but it wasn't until Thorin shot them each a hard stare that the dwarves began to retreat, grumbling their displeasure. Bilbo offered me a small smile of encouragement before hopping down from his seat and scurrying off after them.

I twisted, addressing Gandalf without looking him in the eye. "I mean it. I have to talk to him alone." My voice held a bitter note, an unspoken accusation. I didn't want the wizard speaking for me. I was done relying on his help.

There was a pregnant pause. Gandalf's expression was… complicated. Resigned, it seemed. Perhaps a little saddened.

"As you wish," he sighed, and pushed to his feet.

I waited until he was out of earshot before turning my attention back to the dwarf king, and I was surprised to see a glimmer of approval in his eyes. From where he was seated, the distance between us seemed impossibly stretched. It was charged with the weight of all that had been left unsaid, a deep moat of silence that had to be swum.

Thorin was the first to breach that heavy, suffocating silence.

"Who are you?"

A simple question, and yet, I hesitated. Who was I? The fact that he felt the need to ask was a little surprising. But then again, we had to start somewhere. I braced myself, heaving to my feet with deliberate slowness. Then, using the table for balance, I carefully crossed the distance between the dwarf king and me. Maybe it was because of the scale of Beorn's house, or perhaps the strain of the past few days, but Thorin seemed to have lost a little of what made him so intimidating.

I sank into the chair closest to him and took a deep breath.

"My name is Cassiopeia Morgan," I began, "but people usually call me Cassie."

The next chapter might be a bit short.