next chap. comes right after this because both of them are fillers HAHAHAhahaha... i'm sorry. ;_;

In other news, I celebrated my birthday last week so that's something! x'D Love you guys!

All rights go to JRR Tolkien and Peter Jackson; except for my OC's. They're mine.

Fheon thought that sitting in a barrel filled with ice-cold fish was the worst that could happen to her that day, but when Bard's son—Bain—told his father that their house was being watched, and when Bard propositioned an idea that could get the Company into his house unseen, she knew that things were going to get far worse.

She waited behind Thorin and Elijah, not being able to mask her anxiety any longer as she watched Kili sink into the icy waters. Bard made sure they all knew where to go before he went away to get into his house. It was not going to be very hard for Fheon, for she only had to follow the bunch of dwarves swimming in front of her. But as she stood there on the dock, aware of the pairs of eyes that were boring into her, her body was yet to stop quivering. Five seconds after Kili submerged, it was Thorin's turn. The Dwarf King glanced at Fheon over his shoulder, a concerned look in his eyes, before leaning down and gingerly dipping first his legs, then his entire body into the water. Ripples followed as he forced himself to sink, and then the shifting of the water as he swam after the others.

Elijah turned and ruffled Fheon's hair, probably to ease her stress (which did not work at all), before sinking into the water as well. She counted to five at an average pace, clenched her stomach, took a deep breath, and then descended into the water before she could have second thoughts.

The water was even more freezing than she expected, or perhaps that was because she was already in such a horrible state of mind. Light from above refracted into the water, letting her see a few dozen feet ahead of her. Past her feet, everything gradually went dark; the lake was deeper than she had previously thought. But ahead of her, she could see Elijah's feet kicking at the water behind him. Thinking of a warm summer night in the forests of Hobbiton, with Hiram and Elijah at her side, she ducked her head, sank another few feet downward, and propelled forward. She remembered to gradually release oxygen through her nose, but her limbs were heavy with fatigue, and the surprising iciness of the water had already made her lose almost a quarter of the air in her lungs.

She made sure that Elijah was still in her sights when she floated back to the surface. Only her face broke through the surface of the water, for anything past that would have collided with the underside of the wharf above her. She took three deep breaths, and on the fourth, sank herself back into the water. Elijah's shadowy figure was gone, but she propelled forward to the direction they were supposed to go anyway, and found him again in a few seconds. They passed by the supports of three more houses before the dwarves ahead of her brother stopped and broke the surface. Each of their faces was positioned beneath Bard's house's dockside like lily pads, each of them letting the oxygen return to their lungs. Elijah did the same, and Fheon was quick to follow suit.

Her feet kicked weakly beneath her to keep her above water. It was too risky to slip her fingers into gaps between the wooden floorboards. Someone could step on them or worse: see them. She did her best to keep herself sane with images of campfires and scorching hot tea. The never-ending smell of raw fish and oil and tar lingering in her nose did nothing to help. But she found some relief in the fact that, one by one, the dwarves were disappearing from their places above water to swim up to Bard's lavatory and into his house. First went Dwalin, and then Bilbo, and then Nori, Dori, Ori… and so on they went. Elijah looked at her for a brief moment and said, "Just a bit more," before it was his turn to sink.

Five seconds passed, and Fheon tried not to think about whether the inhabitants-of-Esgaroth's discharge went directly into the lake or not. She submerged herself once more and kicked feebly to the foundation of the house. There in a corner, she looked up and found the hole of the toilet. She let a mouthful of air escape her lips and then, gathering her remaining strength, kicked upward. She broke through the surface of the water and was met with the sight of Bain's adolescent, freckled face. Teeth clattering together, she grabbed his outstretched hand and let him help her out of the chamber pot. Her feet touched solid ground and, through her numb lips, she was able to manage a thank you. The boy muttered his response, something she was too tired to make out, and he led her up the stairs where the others were waiting.

Two girls were waiting there as well; both of them with the same hazel brown hair, the same dark brown eyes, and the same wide-eyed expressions on their faces. Fheon was sure that they would have held fierce looks if it were not for their confusion.

"An elf!" the younger girl exclaimed.

"She's not an elf, Tilda," patiently said Bard. "Can't you see that for yourself?"

"I only meant it as a compliment," Tilda explained, quickly masking her mistake. She said nothing more, ducking her head. Fheon was still able to see the slight blush that graced her young face. She regarded the girl wearily before walking past her and to her brother, where she sat herself down on one of the stools by the table. She was aware of Tilda's and her sister's eyes still on her, no doubt curious as to what a woman was doing with a bunch of dwarves, but she was not in the mood to explain herself.

Bard clapped his hand on Bain's shoulder. "Go get some dry clothes for our guests," he told him, and then nodded to the older sister. "Sigrid, I'm sure you can lend some of your clothes to…"

Fheon did not raise her head when she offered her name—"Fheon."—nor did she when the older girl, Sigrid, trudged upstairs along with her brother. The Company waited silently for their return, shaking uncontrollably in their soaking wet clothes. Water dripped onto the floorboards, though Bard did not seem to mind. Fheon rubbed her shoulder through the brace, welcoming the feeling of numbness. Perhaps she should have placed ice onto the bruise before, if it would have offered such relief—more relief than what Beorn's herbs could offer. It was only then that she felt exactly what the coneflower helped in. As she angled her shoulder here and there—which would have resulted in her eyesight going dim, before—the pain was lesser; still there, but lesser. She decided she would have to find more coneflower if she was going to be fully-healed by the next orc attack.

Sigrid and Bain returned with their arms piled with poorly-knit, ragged clothes, but when the men of the Company slipped them over their own wet clothing, it looked thick enough. Fheon accepted Sigrid's offer of her own clothes, quietly asking where she could change.

The girl led her upstairs and pointed to a door down the hall, saying, "There." Fheon nodded in thanks and went into the given room to change. She carefully unclasped Elijah's cloak and removed her dripping tunic, and then came to realize that her chest wrapping stuck to her like bees to honey. But she decided against asking Sigrid for a replacement, knowing that it would be too much to ask; the girl would have ashamedly done so anyway, but Fheon would not have made her do it.

She made a mental note to thank Sigrid for not giving her a dress, but had instead picked out a pair of dark pants, a plain, long-sleeved under-shirt, and a vest. When she was fully clothed once more, she returned downstairs where the others were waiting. She laid Elijah's cloak, her tunic, boots and her pants by the fireplace, where the dwarves had done the same, so the clothes would dry under the heat of the fire; she walked barefoot, and could not help but to mind the coldness of the wooden floor shooting up her ankles. Tilda came up to her and handed her a blanket, which she wrapped about herself gratefully.

"Thank you," Fheon murmured. The girl replied in kind with a smile.

Meanwhile, Thorin was sitting by the window, staring at something far away. He whispered something to himself. Fheon was too far away to have heard, but she did hear Bilbo say to him, "You look like you've seen a ghost." And when Elijah inched closer to them, she followed suit, albeit less enthusiastically.

"The last time we saw such a weapon, a city was on fire," Balin was saying. "It was the day the dragon came; the day that Smaug destroyed Dale. Girion, the Lord of the City, rallied his bowmen to fire upon the beast. But a dragon's hide is tough, tougher than the strongest armor. Only a Black Arrow fired from a windlance could have pierced the dragon's hide. And few of those arrows were ever made. The store was running low when Girion made his last stand."

"Had the aim of men been true that day," said Thorin, turning his head so as to look to Fheon, "much would have been different."

She threw him a sympathetic gaze for a moment before returning to her casually apathetic demeanor.

Bard stepped forward and regarded the dwarves with wary eyes. He said, "You speak as if you were there."

"All dwarves know the tale," Thorin easily lied.

"Then you would know that Girion hit the dragon," Bain cut in, almost angrily. "He loosened a scale under the left wing. One more shot and he would have killed the beast."

Behind him, Dwalin chuckled half-heartedly. "That's a fairy story, lad," he said. "Nothing more."

Thorin turned on Bard with hard eyes. "You took our money," he said. "Where are the weapons?"

"Wait here," said the bargeman, before turning and exiting the house. It came to Fheon's attention that Sigrid and Tilda had disappeared from the main room. She guessed that they retreated to their rooms upstairs, where they were no doubt blathering to themselves about the dwarves in their home. Under swapped circumstances, it was what Fheon and Elijah would have been doing.

Abruptly, Thorin called for the Rangers. They walked to where he, Balin, Fili and Kili were standing in a small huddle. Joining the circle, Thorin gave Bain, who was standing by the door waiting for his father, a suspicious look before starting, "Tomorrow begins the last days of autumn."

"Durin's Day falls the morn after next," added Balin. "We must reach the Mountain before then."

"And if we do not?" Kili whispered. "If we fail to find the hidden door before that time?"

Fili shook his head. "Then this quest has been for nothing."

"That's not a lot of time at all," said Elijah. "If we plan on having a chance at finding the door at all, we must leave by nightfall tomorrow. There is still a wide expanse of lake between us and Erebor."

The six of them were silenced when Bard re-entered the house, with what looked to be a rod bag hanging on his shoulder. He laid it down onto the table and unzipped it, revealing a small pile of metal equipment; but they were not weapons at all. Fheon was able to discern a fishing rod, as well as a pike hook among the pile. There were no swords whatsoever, save for something that resembled a small-headed sledgehammer.

As the dwarves stared down confusedly at each of the tools, Thorin picked up the pike hook and snapped, "What is this?"

To which Bard replied, "A pike hook, made from an old harpoon."

"And this?" asked Kili, handling the thing that resembled a sledgehammer.

"A crowbill, we call it—fashioned from a smithy's hammer. It's heavy in hand, I grant, but in defence of your life, these will serve you better than none."

Fheon could not help but to admire the bargeman's confidence, despite the fact that he had failed to follow their deal. He had not given them weapons, but mere tools that would help them survive, not fight. And so Gloin spoke out for all of them as he said, "We paid you for weapons—iron-forged swords and axes!"

"It's a joke!" said Bofur, throwing his given fishing tool back onto the table. One by one, the dwarves followed suit. Fheon and Elijah were much calmer with laying the 'weapons' down, but they did it nonetheless.

"You won't find better outside the city armory," Bard argued. "All iron-forged weapons are kept under lock and key."

Balin turned to face the King Under the Mountain. "Thorin," he said—a little higher than Fheon would have wanted. She cleared her throat softly and looked down at her bare toes, scratching her ear. The dwarf continued more quietly, and she forced herself to concentrate in order to hear: "Why not take what's on offer and go? I've made do with less. So have you. I say we leave now."

"You're not going anywhere," Bard suddenly said, raising his voice.

She fixed her eyes on him, a cold stare, and said, "What makes you think you can stop us?"

"There are spies watching this house and probably ever dock and wharf in the town," he explained grimly. "You must wait 'til nightfall."

At this, the dwarves returned to their seats in defeat. Kili gingerly set himself down onto the bench by the window and looked down at his injured leg distastefully. The blood from the wound had already soaked through the bandages, blossoming red against the dirty white of the wrapping. "Have you got any more of that lemon balm?" asked the dark-haired dwarf.

"I'm all out," Fheon replied, and then a thought occurred to her. She raised a finger, told him to wait, and then trudged up the stairs. Looking down at the hallway, she softly called for Sigrid and waited for a mere few moments before the first door to the right opened, revealing the young woman.

"What is it?" she said.

"You don't happen to have an herbal supply around the house, do you?"

Sigrid closed the door. "What kind of herbs?"

"Pain-relievers."

"Well… we have a jar of mint leaves in the kitchen."

"That's perfect."

Fheon managed a smile as she followed her downstairs and into the kitchen, where the girl reached up into the cupboard to grab a jar filled with the small green leaves. Fheon, after asking for permission, popped a few of it into her mouth, and watched as Sigrid procured a chopping board and spilled a handful of the leaves onto the board. The girl chopped them, placed the pieces into a small bowl, let a few drops of water onto it before handing it to Fheon, who accepted it gratefully. "Where did you learn to do that?" she asked, looking at the girl with kind eyes.

"When we get colds, Da would do the same and rub the salve onto our chests," replied Sigrid. "He said it was better than drinking tea."

"Not always," said Fheon, before re-entering the living room and handing the bowl to Bofur. "Here, just like the lemon balm. The rest of the Company can use it as well, for their bruises and other wounds."

"Have you gotten some for your shoulder?" he said.

"Not yet."

He scooped some of the ointment onto his fingers and then shoved the bowl back into her hand. "Here, take it. You need it more than we do."

She regarded his stance for a moment, and found that he was in a much better state to be arguing—the very opposite of her. Nodding half-heartedly, she retreated to the other side of the room and sat on the bench there, dropping her blanket onto her lap. Getting some of the ointment onto her fingers, she carefully slipped past the firm shoulder brace and dabbed the cool herbal mix onto her bruise. Where her fingers touched the skin, an ache appeared, but nothing that was not lost beneath the quickly spreading cooling sensation. She managed a sigh and let her head drop in relief.

The dwarves slipped into an anxious silence, impatient to get their weapons and leave for Erebor. They did not have much time. On the table, Sigrid and Tilda (who had just come down from her room) laid down bowls of leftover soup for everyone. Bilbo was the first to get to them, and Fheon waited for the dwarves to get their share before starting to drink her own. On a plate at the center of the table, she pulled out a small loaf of bread and—finding Elijah's idea appealing—broke a piece off, dipped it into the soup, and then ate it. It was delicious. Her brother chuckled in amusement. Sigrid handed them cups of warm tea, and even then, when the hot soup had done its part, each one of the Company still accepted the drinks with gratitude. The tea was chamomile, which favored Fheon immensely.

At some point, Elijah asked her, "How are you feeling, sister?"

To which, she answered with a simple "Better."

"Better meaning warmer, no?"

"Warmer is better."

He smiled and leaned back. "Get used to it. Perhaps you'll become immune and be able to slay the dragon with ease."

"I hardly have enough years to develop such things. I thought I was immune to orc blows and look where I've gotten myself."

"You were being careless," he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

"Who do you think I got that trait from?"

"Oh, I don't know… perhaps it was father?"

Hearing this, Fheon's high spirits deflated instantly. She set her mug down and started busying herself with undoing the intricate elf-work on her hair. "Perhaps," she muttered, more to herself than to her brother.

Elijah apologized quietly, and then said, "I didn't mean it like that. I was only trying to lighten up the mood."

"I know, and you did a remarkable job." She offered him a small, reluctant smile. "I just need to rest is all. You should provide entertainment for the dwarves. I reckon they'll appreciate it after the hellish two days we've just been through."

"Rest well." He generously helped her off the seat, and only moved to sit by the dwarves when she was past his view. Fheon knew this, for she watched him from the corner of her eye. She entered the room Sigrid had pointed her to before, where she had changed her clothes, and decided that it would have to do. Not that they were staying overnight, anyway. She expected that Thorin would have them leave as soon as they got their weapons; how they were going to acquire then weapons, however, she had no idea.

She forced herself to settle down, focusing on her breathing as she settled into the rough sheets of the bed. She placed the given blanket across her waist to her lower thighs, for the tea, soup and dry clothes had warmed her more than enough, though there was still a slight chill. Sighing deeply, she cleared her mind—which was considerably easy, considering her amount of fatigue—and allowed her eyelids to flutter closed. Mere minutes later, she fell into a deep sleep.

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