More disclaimers: I checked my bank account for royalties, guess I still don't own the Hobbit or any of Tolkiens works.

Thank you for both of my lovely reviews, I'm unbelievably pleased that people are reacting so well to my massive fangirling. The pace of this chapter is much quicker than I would have liked but I'm quite eager to get this story moving and I'm sure you all are too. A whole chapter of sitting in Kali's kitchen chatting would have been a bit self indulgent I think, as much fun as it would have been for me to write.

A Tale of Dragonfire

Wisps of smoke float through the warm air. The few that do not follow their siblings on their way out through the chimney stack hug close to the wood beamed ceiling of the little kitchen that serves also as an area for entertaining guests, wrapping themselves round bundles of dried herbs like the fingers of ghosts and milking from them their aromas. Sweet mixes with bitter mixes with spicy and it is not had to imagine that every room of the house is filled with these pleasing smells.

Despite the heat outside the fire still roars as strong as it would in midwinter, licking at the already ash blackened rocks of the hearth. All the windows in the room have been opened to help deal with the heat, though no attempt has been made to stifle the blaze and it has been left to feed on thick, dry logs.

Above the fire hang two cooking pots, one huge, well used and dented from which the mouth watering scents of roasting meat waft while the other is small and smoke blackened, from its lip strange, medical smells can occasionally be detected, as though a healers bag has been opened, closed and opened once again. Gandalf notices with interest the complex contraption they both sit on, designed to allow the pots to be spun away from the flames and lifted higher or dropped lower then locked in place at the lightest touch, in order to give the user more control over the temperature of the contents. Like scales the larger pot hangs lower, bathed almost completely in the flames while the smaller rests much higher, so only the flickering tips caress the base, keeping the contents steaming but never boiling.

His host sets a platter of fresh bread, strawberries from her garden and thin slices of cured venison on the ancient oak dining table before her unexpected guest. She takes two glasses from an old wooden cupboard and fills them from a barrel in the darkest corner of the kitchen. The home made wine is deep crimson and the delicious aromas of blackberry, cherry and melon waft from the tap. She returns to the table with the offering.

"You have made a fine life for yourself out here, Kalliste, daughter of Tharye" he says as she takes her seat across from him. The old man seems pleased at her momentary surprise, however quickly she tries to hide it.

"Please friend, it is more comfortable for me to be referred to as Kali. Though there are some of those in these parts who choose to call me Hunter Kali." It was a great honour amongst those who had made a living from those lands for generations to be called Hunter, and it was something Kali very much desired to boast about.

Her guest seems amused, as though he could see her vanity painted clearly on her face. "How proud you must be, and how far you have come since the babe in arms I last saw seventy years ago. I am Gandalf. I hope that you remember at least my name, even if you were too young before to recognise now the face that goes with it"

"Gandalf?" A look of recognition graces her eyes and her smile is suddenly tainted with a touch of melancholy. "Father would tell me tales about you when I was a child" she pauses momentary and laughs "he did always say I would meet you eventually"

"And you now have." There is a brief flash of laughter in his eyes before he becomes serious again

"I'm afraid, however, that I did not come here simply to meet the daughter of an old friend, it was my hope to hire you" he leans forward in the chair, his long beard almost covering his folded hands. "There is a group of dwarves meeting soon in the Shire, in the town of Hobbiton. They asked for your father, and I, in searching for him, was greatly saddened to hear of his passing. I would like to request your presence in his stead."

Kali rises. She has only taken a few sips from her glass but makes a show of refilling it none the less, if only to give her hands something to do while her mind works. "Friend, I am not my father. There are no dwarves in this land who would take my bow over his axe, even if I had been trained for warfare."

"Warriors they have, whether they have need of them or not" said the wizard, eyes fixed on her back. "Perhaps what they need truly now is a hunter. Warriors alone in the wild starve, after all" if his desired effect was to make Kali laugh then he was successful. His words ring with more than a pinch of truth.

"Your father would have eagerly leapt at the chance to go. He would want you to go now as he cannot" she stiffens slightly, but not at the words he has said, rather in anticipation of the ones he is about to. "This is the quest to reclaim Erebor"


A few days later Kali finds herself bidding goodbye to the team of hunters she considers her friends. She had taken care to show and explain to them the use of every herb in her garden and what remains of the rarer ones (most of which she carries with her in neat bundles in the pack slung across her back) in their carefully marked pots or hung dried from the beams in her kitchen.

"Take care of each other" she tells them, shaking each ones hand with a smile. She checks the saddle bags on the pony they have bought for her, before turning to the leader of the small group.

Samuel, who holds the key to the little house in the palm of his scarred hand, nods to her. "We will keep your fire lit, little Hunter" she takes a moment to look at him and is surprised by what she sees.

There was a time (though now she comes to think of it it was a long time ago) when he and she appeared to be about the same age, when he taught her to move through the woods and leave no trace of her passing. When they carved fishing poles together and laughed by the river banks.

The life of man is lived much quicker than that of dwarves, the duties of the world age them faster and Kali had never before noticed that his face shows the harsh passage of the years so much more prominently than hers. The thick hairs on his head and in his beard are grey and his face is marked with deep wrinkles, such a contrast to her smooth, youthful skin and bright eyes. It was obvious to her now that her friends could never have truly believed that she was of their race, though they had never mentioned their suspicions to her.

"Keep it lit, old friend. I may have need of it yet" alone amongst them he is treated to a rare hug. It strikes her as strange that it is only in leaving that she sees how important her presence was to the hunters of Bree, how grateful they were for the smoke from her chimney, promising the warmth of the fire and the words of a friend after a cold and fruitless day in the wilds. How they valued not only her help but her company. And how she valued theirs.

She sets off South and West towards the great road that ran through unfriendly mountain passes, deep and hostile woods, past lakes and rivers that would freeze you to the bone and steal your last breath, before finally passing through the peaceful lands of her home. As she reaches the old stone road that will lead her to the Shire she halts her pony's slow trot and turns in the saddle to look back. Soft curls of smoke can barely be seen between the branches of the great oaks, a sign to all that pass that here there is a place of safety. With a smile and a gentle squeeze of her knees she hastens the pony onward.

She passes through Bree and a few of the townspeople turn to wave at her as she goes. She can only assume that Samuel and the others have not informed them of her leaving, for they treat her in the same manner they do when she passes on her way to the river to fish. A few children run behind her pony, more for something to chase than for her attention, few of them know her as anything more than a face at the market or a shoulder to brush past in the streets, just another adult to be an obstacle in a race.

From Bree it is a few hours travel to the borders of the Shire and, as she left much later than she intended, night has long since fallen by the time she arrives in the silent, sleeping streets of Hobbiton. Every window as far as the eye can see is dark, curtains drawn to keep the night from creeping in. A sense of great peace covers the valley like a fog.

Every window, that is, but one. In Bag End, well known as the finest house in all Hobbiton, a home of respectable persons who most certainly do not stay up past bedtime merrymaking, the windows are bright and dancing in their frames from the racket within. Laughter and snatches of song can be heard from six doors down. In the perfect little front garden twelve ponies, eleven equipped to ride and one laden with packs, are tied up and graze contently on the well tended flower beds.

Kali jumps down from her own mount and the tired pony happily joins the others in the decimation of the garden, barely even acknowledging her as she ties him to the fence with the rest of them. She is struck by a sudden feeling of great nervousness, for it has been a very long time since she last was in the company of dwarves.

She stalls at the door, examining the rune carved into the paintwork. "Burglar wants a good job. Plenty of excitement and reasonable reward" For no reason and the briefest of moments she almost considers leaving.

A stranger, who without her heed has approached behind her, notices this. He watches her knock three times decisively upon the door before making his presence known to her.

"I did not invite you here, stranger" the voice is not particularly unkind but still Kali starts and turns to face him, eyes growing wide. While she does not know him from her personal experiences, his face is one she recognises from tales and he wears the rings of the line of Durin.

"My King" she gasps, bowing down so low her loose braids of hair brush against the ground "I am Hunter Kali, Daughter of Tharye. I was asked here by Gandalf in my fathers stead"

Thorin looks at her. She is, in his eyes, too scrawny for a dwarf, skinny and boney like a daughter of men and with not even a hint of hair gracing her chin. He shook his head, she would be no good in battle, those frail arms couldn't even swing a sword, let alone an axe.

"And where is your father? Without undue insult the summons I sent requested a warrior, not a child" with her head bowed in the position of respect, he cannot see the sadness in her eyes, and before she is given a chance to answer him the door swings open, framing the grey wizard against the light, his back bent uncomfortably against the ceiling.

"Gandalf" The King Under The Mountain turns away from her, a sign she takes to mean that for now she is safe from his scrutiny. "I thought you said this place would be easy to find, I lost my way. Twice" She follows him in, receiving a few curious looks from the dwarves inside, who quickly lose interest, for they, as one, turn to hear what their King has to say.