OMFG GUYS I'M BACK WITH THE USB OWUDBOEFUER

How were your holidays? Mine was stressful, but undoubtedly well-spent. ^^

Also, have ya'll ever heard about a Rube Goldberg Machine? I'm sure some of you have had to make one for Science class. Anyway, my section had to make one under two days. We did EVERYTHING to have it finished, but in the end, when the judges were there watching the finished machine, we had 3 recorded human contact (which results in a deduction.)

It's a competition of sorts between the Grade 9 sections. I want to win guys. So. Bad.

But hey, if we don't, screw it, right? xD

All rights go to JRR Tolkien and Peter Jackson; except for anything you might not recognise - those are mine.

It barely felt like a three hours sleep for Fheon, but when Bilbo shook her awake and she asked him how long they had slept, he made an approximated guess of at least four hours. Then she asked him how he had been able to wake up in the first place, and he pointed to the entrance flap of their tent.

Standing outside, silhouetted by the torches that were still lit—offering dim lighting to the encampment—were two guards. Elven guards at that, for it was obvious by the bulk of their forms that they were wearing armor, with swords at their sides. This was exactly the kind of situation Fheon had been hoping to avoid.

Cursing under her breath, she racked her brain for any excuse they could hope to use against the guards. Several seemed respectable enough, and made sense, despite the fact that it was nearly morning. But then she remembered a certain trinket Bilbo had in his pocket, and thought it was as good an idea as any. So she asked in a low murmur, "Do you think we could use that ring of yours?"

Bilbo looked at her with an angry expression, one of which she had never seen from him before. "No!" he said, and then, seeming to just realize that he had raised his voice, ducked his head and said in a much quieter voice, "You cannot," though the crossness on his face did not leave as easily.

She noticed the way he had used 'you' instead of 'we', and felt suspicion start clawing at her. "Why not?" She tried to sound as innocent as possible.

"Because you can't and you shouldn't." There it was again: you can't. "It's my ring. I found it; I'm not gonna let anyone else use it. It's mine." A hiss seemed evident in his words, and a look of pure hatred crossed his face.

"What's gotten into you?" said Fheon, leaning forward to get a better look at him. His face appeared haggard, which it had not been like before she fell asleep. Had something happened while she was sleeping?

And then, as if waking up from a terrible dream, Bilbo shook his head vigorously, and his face cleared up. "I-I'm sorry," he stuttered as a crease appeared on his forehead. Somewhat unconsciously, his hand drifted to his pocket and he dipped his fingers inside, to hold the ring. "It's just, I-I think it would be best if we look for another solution, other than… other than the-the ring, um…"

He trailed off and Fheon narrowed her eyes. "Alright…" Has the dragon-sickness gotten to him? she wondered. Why not me? "Well, I suppose I do need to go to the girl's private room… and you need to get something to drink, yes?" She forcefully cleared all looks of suspicion from her face and raised a knowing eyebrow.

He caught up quickly enough, saying, "Good, good."

"Meet me at the walls, then?"

"Okay."

Fheon nodded once, and regarded him for another brief moment before slipping out of the tent.

The elves did not question where she was going, which was not expected, but just in case, she rubbed her eyes, pretending to have just woken up, and said in a groggy murmur, "Bathroom," though she made sure that it was loud and coherent enough for them to hear.

She walked on the paths that led deeper into the encampment, wandering around slightly, as if lost—to make sure; if anyone was following her, then they would fall for her trickery and think that she was looking for the restroom. She arrived at the dining pavilion and, as it turned out, there was a port-a-potty there. Coincidence or not, she went inside it anyway and did her business; she stayed inside for a while longer than necessary, hoping to undermine the confidence of anyone who could have been trailing her, and did her best to ignore the foul smell. She flushed and then headed back out again.

Quickly, she rushed behind a row of tents and continued towards the back exit of the city, where there was sure to be less sentries.

It was no easy task; there were more elves that were awake than there were the hour she and Bilbo had arrived. Ultimately, she ended up having to remove her hauberk, fold it, and press it close against her chest. It had been making too much noise, and reflected too much light. With only her evergreen gambeson to be seen, it was much easier to blend with the shadows. Even so, it took her no less than half an hour to reach the back gates, where, she was right, there were no guards at all standing by the archway.

With pursed lips, Fheon placed her hauberk over her right shoulder, marched forward and began scaling the mountain of rubble. Her shoulder had given her larger problems than she had originally thought, for now that it was healed, it became considerably easy for her to get to the top of the mount. She stayed at the center of it, away from either of the two torches that illuminated the stones at either of her sides.

Still, she doubted that no one had seen her: a girl with chainmail dangling from her shoulder, climbing an incline of rubble in the earlier parts of the morning. That was bound to give their imaginations a little excitement. But as long as they didn't stop her, she didn't at all mind.

As soon as she reached the ground at the other side of the archway, she ran to the front gates of the city, using the walls as her guide. It took her a near five minutes, sprinting all the while, and when she arrived there, Bilbo was sitting atop a boulder, looking as cool as could be.

"What took you so long?" he asked, sounding very serious.

Fheon stared at him oddly, thinking of how he could have gotten out so easily, and the answer dawned on her in seconds. "You used the ring, didn't you?"

"… Yes," he said in the same manner he had answered Thranduil earlier than night. She was still irritated with him for not letting her go with the easy way as well, but she gained some sort of relief from the fact that he was back to his usual self.

"Never mind," she said, waving him off as she pulled her hauberk back over her head. "Come. The sun will be up soon."

"Are we going to walk all the way?"

She nodded with a grudging scowl. Her legs ached as much as his from the long jog they made last night and they had barely gotten enough sleep to bring the strength back to their limbs. "Unless, of course, you were able to steal a horse as well?" She cocked an eyebrow, and the hobbit shrugged.

"Well, we could. We've enough time, and the horse would get us to the Mountain quicker."

"We could… But you wouldn't be able to get him past the rubble without anyone noticing."

He grunted in acknowledgement. Together, they jogged towards the direction of Erebor, looming against the horizon, almost hauntingly. The terrain they had to run across and up was mainly rocky, so there were no predators. An occasional bear passed by, but they did their best to ignore it, and it let them be.

They did not find the need to hunt, for the feast they had been presented the night before was still somewhat present in their stomachs. And even if they wanted to, they had no weapons. They'd left it at the Mountain.

When they arrived at the ruined, marble hall that led to front entrance, they slowed to a brisk walk. The sun had not yet fully risen, though its light had turned the sky a subtle purple. A minute or two could be spared to regain breath.

Fheon pounded on her chest and released a low huff, trying to remove the heaviness weighing down on her ribcage. Beside her, Bilbo nearly tripped over his feet a few times in his exhaustion. Then he pulled out a small flask from the inside of his coat. A sloshing sound came from within that suggested it had been filled to the brim.

"I stole this from the kitchens," said Bilbo. "It's not much, but we can drink more when we get inside the Mountain."

He handed the flask to Fheon, who pulled off the lid and took a large gulp. She nearly spat out the contents in surprise; it was not water, it was mead. Iced mead. Her throat burned because of her nearly sputtering it back out, but her thirst was slightly quenched. She looked to Bilbo questioningly, and he shrugged, saying, "The dwarves have rubbed off on me."

"I bet they have," she managed to croak out. He took the flask from her and took a swig as well, before placing the lid back on and returning it into his pocket.

By that time, they had stopped to regard the trench before them. There used to be a bridge that led to the gates, but Thorin had destroyed it using the head of one of the stone statues. Now, the head could act as a bridge as well, but between it and the space it still had from the ledge, it could still rock to and fro from time to time.

Wordlessly, Fheon jumped onto one of the stones peeking out of the water and then onto the head, which she nearly slipped on. The rope they had dropped from the top of the wall was still there, unmoved, which meant that none of the dwarves had seen it yet. None of them knew about their absence, and none of them ever would, if Fheon had anything to say about it.

With her healed shoulder, she was able to scale the rope more quickly. Once she was at the top, she looked down from the edge and found Bilbo already halfway up. He pulled himself past the railing, with some help from Fheon, and then they hastily ran back to the sleeping quarters.

"Go in and stay there for another hour," she told the hobbit. "And don't let anyone see the flask. They'll wonder where you got it."

"We know nothing about the Arkenstone."

"Nothing," she agreed, before practically shoving him down the hall towards his own room. Without looking back to see what happened to him, she opened the door to her room and closed it behind her.

Absolutely nothing had changed about the chamber. Everything was where she had left it, which, she supposed, was only logical, for she had left and returned when everyone else was asleep. Unless Thorin had come back and found her gone… No, if he had done so, he would have seen the rope at the front gates and waited there, and then he would have caught them—which he did not.

Trying to calm herself, Fheon removed her hauberk and then lied down sideways on the bed.

A soft tinkling sound reached her ears and she reached to the crook of her knee to pick out the necklace Thorin had given her. Her heart clenched at the memory, though she thrust it out of her mind and placed the necklace on her bedside table, doing her best to ignore it.

Her mind wandered to what would happen when she went back outside again. She and the dwarves would be met with the possibility of peace, or war. It all depended on how generous Thranduil felt like at such an hour, and how forgiving Thorin would be. If Thranduil accepted Bilbo's suggestion for a trade, everything would be thrusted upon Thorin. He would decide whether he was going to give a few hundred gold pieces to the men of Lake-town, or if there was going to be war.

Obviously, Fheon wanted him to go for the first; no matter what happened, it was her duty to protect the dwarves. If Thorin chose peace, then she would celebrate with them. If Thorin chose war, then she had no other choice but to side with them, fight with them and—if it came to it—die with them.

When she was still a child, the prospect of death used to frighten her so much, just thinking about it made her cry, and nothing but the hold of her mother could calm her down. She always used to wonder whether there was something more—perhaps a place every being went to after death. After what Thorin had told her about his brother's death, she knew now that the dwarves believed in an afterlife, in the Halls of Mandos, if her memory served her. But that was a religion the dwarves kept to themselves.

She could not be sure if the elves believed in such as well, though her father had never told her of such an afterlife. The only memory she had of him stating something even close to such a thing was when a man from the village, a dear friend of his, died because of food poisoning. She remembered being completely incompetent about what was happening, but being saddened anyway.

With tears in his eyes, Leon had told her, "He is in a much better place now." For days, she had pondered on his words, musing about castles in the sky and flying horses and such.

Now, having gone through everything she has, Fheon was not so sure whether such a luxury could exist, even high above in the heavens. But similarly, the thought of dying was not as frightening as it had been before. If she fell in battle, then she would die a warrior's death, which was anything a Ranger could ever hope for. If she survived and lived a long life, then she would be grateful nonetheless.

But if she died not having finished a mission she sorely wanted to finish… It was the kind of fate that frightened her. The prospect of lying on the ground in her death throes and not being able to think of anything else but the fact that she had failed, and then passing into the void—or a more peaceful place, if there was one).

Knowing how twisted the humor of fate was, Fheon knew that it would pay to be two steps ahead. The problem was that it was not always easy. There was always not enough time, not enough trust, not enough patience. It was infuriating, and always had her hoping that the flow of things would go her way. Because things certainly did not go the way of her mother, or her father, or the people of Lake-town, or Elijah—

Stop, Fheon told herself. She nestled her head deeper into the soft pillow, curling around herself, closed her eyes and, almost immediately, fell asleep.

She awoke to the sound of someone rapping on her door, and even in her groggy state of mind, she knew that it was time. Hurriedly, she got to her feet, opened the door, and was greeted with the sight of Bilbo standing in the hallway, wearing no kind of armor at all except for the mithril Thorin had given him, which he wore beneath his coat.

He said, "Thorin wants everybody at the gates. I've heard there's quite a view."

"The elves are there already?" Fheon hissed, pulling him into the room and locking the door. He answered with an affirmative.

Cursing under her breath, she strode across the room and slipped her hauberk back onto her body. Then she pulled Gokukara's armor out from beneath the bed and, in the same manner as she had done before, got herself into it.

"What's that?" Bilbo asked; she looked to where he was looking and saw that he had noticed the sparkling Necklace of Lasgalen. Who would not?

"Nothing. It's a gift." She reached around and held the back of her cuirass together, saying, "Help me with these," as she nodded over her shoulder. Bilbo started slightly, rather surprised, and then took his place behind her and started tying the silver cords together.

"Tighter," she told him.

"… Like this?"

"Little more."

"… There."

"Perfect."

By feel, she judged his progress. Once he was almost to the base of her neck, a thought occurred to her and her stomach churned slightly. "You do know what you're doing," she said, "right?"

He was quiet for a moment, which only worsened her despair, until finally he said, "Yes, I think so. Thorin asked me to do something similar a while back."

"Good."

When he was almost finished, she felt a particularly hard tug at the cords behind the base of her neck, which was Bilbo tying the final knot that would seal all the cords in place. His hands pulled away from her, and she turned around, looking down at herself for a moment before raising her eyes. She spread her hands at her sides and said, "How do I look?"

He nodded, as if in approval. "Deadly," he answered. "Those elves will be sorry they ever sought to fight with you."

Fheon bobbed her head in agreement, satisfied with his words, and then pulled her belt out from beneath the bed. As she bent forward, she noticed that the material of the armor did not restrain her, not even the sewing around the hips, which should have been very firm and unyielding.

When she straightened up with the belt and sword sheath in hand, the armor bent with her and then returned to its original state. The material of the cuirass itself was hard and metallic, but the stuff around her waist—which was what held the cuirass and the faulds together—yielded to her twisting about. It must have been made from the same material as the faulds: firm and able protect her from being sliced at the hip and waist, but soft as well, so she could move around freely.

Fheon came to the conclusion that armor made by dwarves had no equal opposition in all of Middle Earth.

She strapped the belt around her waist, with her sword at her left hip. Her bow and arrow—which she was very excited to be able to use again—went over her shoulder. Then she, with a final glance at the Necklace of Lasgalen, exited the sleeping quarters with Bilbo and rushed to the front gates.

They climbed up the stone steps that led to the overhang, where Thorin and the rest of the Company were already waiting, armed and ready, looking out over the edge. Fheon did not find the need to announce her arrival to all, and instead took her place beside Bifur and Bombur. She was quite surprised that the latter was wearing armor that seemed completely perfect for his size.

A smirk was playing on her lips when she caught the grimly threatening expressions on all of the dwarves' faces. So she looked out over the railing as well, and the smirk quickly died out.

Standing there below them was row upon row of elves. There had to be at least five thousand of them, if not more. Their armor shone golden beneath the light of the newly risen sun. The first several rows at the front were armed with bows and arrow, while the rest behind them held spears and no doubt had shields hanging on their backs.

Walking through the shining mass was the Elf King Thranduil, riding atop a large stag with even larger horns. Riding on a familiar white steed beside him was a human, clad in ragged clothes and looking completely out of place among the grandeur of the elves. Bard.

As they walked, the elves stepped aside in what seemed to be a practiced fashion, waiting just the right time for their king to pass before returning to their original positions—simultaneously—until finally Thranduil and Bard were walking on a blank, snowy valley—the valley between the elven army and the gates of Erebor.

Before they had even reached the edge of the watery trench, Fheon heard the faint, familiar sound of a bow being drawn, followed quickly by the whizzing of an arrow. She jumped slightly, taken aback, when the arrow landed just mere inches away from the hooves of Thranduil's stag. The animal stopped, though Bard and the Elven King looked up at Thorin—for it was he who had released the arrow—in shock.

Thorin nocked another arrow and said, loud enough for the people below them to hear, he said, "I will put the next one between your eyes."

His statement was met with cheers and cries of agreement from the dwarves, and Fheon made it a point to look at each of them with her usual indifferent stare, though she was really irritated with them inside.

A cold, humorless smile appeared on Thranduil's face, and then was gone just as quickly when one of the dwarves—Dwalin, Fheon thought—yelled something in Khuzdul that might have been a massive insult. Thranduil then dipped his head, and immediately, the elves at the few front rows got their bows into position, nocked their arrows, and aimed at the overhang. And all this, in perfect synchronicity.

While the dwarves beside her crouched low to hide from what they thought was an attack, Fheon stood, unblinking, and could not help but to marvel at how much patience the elves must have had in order to learn their tricks.

For a second or two, there was nothing but silence. She was aware of Thranduil glaring daggers at Thorin, and Thorin doing the same, albeit in a much more powerless state. Then Thranduil raised his hand, and the elves behind him returned their arrows into their quivers. Thorin still did not withdraw his arrow.

"We have come to tell you payment of your debt has been offered," said Thranduil, and Fheon's stomach clenched in anticipation, when finally he concluded, "And accepted," to which she breathed inwardly in relief. Now it was up to Thorin; he would decide what was to be their fate.

"What payment?" Thorin gruffly demanded. "I gave you nothing. You have nothing!"

Thranduil turned his head and looked expectantly at Bard, who, for a while, dug within his coat's pocket. Fheon heard the tinkling of metal and, when he pulled his coat aside, saw that he was wearing chainmail underneath, same as Bilbo. She frowned. The bargeman then pulled the Arkenstone out of his pocket, raising it above his head, and it sparkled in majesty beneath the sun.

"We have this," he called back to Thorin. From the corner of her eye, Fheon watched the Dwarf King slowly lower his bow in what might have been awe or astonishment.

Kili's gasp from beside him was definitely one of astonishment. "They have the Arkenstone," he said, and then his expression turned into one of pure anger. "Thieves! How came you by the heirloom of our house? That stone belongs to the king!"

"And the king may have it—with our good will," said Bard, tossing the gem into the air and then catching it again, before returning it to his pocket. "But first he must honor his word."

Fheon was able to register a slight intake of breath from Thorin at the sight of Bard's chainmail. And then in a hushed whisper that only she, the dwarves, and Bilbo would hear, he said, "They are taking us for fools. This is a ruse… a filthy lie." To Bard and Thranduil now, he yelled, "The Arkenstone is in this Mountain! It is a trick!"

"I-It's no trick," came the familiar stuttering voice of Bilbo.

Fheon waved her hand at the hobbit who was supposed to be beside her, but found only empty air. Her heart dropped and she whirled around to find he had stepped out from the group of dwarves and went to stand where Thorin would see him, though not directly in front of him. Fheon knew for a fact that he was not so mad, but he was as close as he could get, considering their circumstances.

"The stone is real," he continued. "I gave it to them."

Slowly, Thorin turned and placed his gaze onto the hobbit. "You?" he said, and for a moment there was the look of hurt and betrayal in his eyes.

"I took it as my fourteenth share," Bilbo explained.

"You would steal from me?"

"Steal from you? No. No, I may be a burglar but I like to think I'm an honest one. I'm willing to let it stand against my claim."

Fheon noticed the change in Thorin's eyes, then—from the betrayal came something more malicious, more twisted. Thinking quickly, she placed a hand on the pommel of her sword and stepped closer to Bilbo.

"Against your claim?" said Thorin, sneering derisively. "Your claim… You have no claim over me, you miserable rat!"

He threw his bow to the ground and took a single, threatening step towards Bilbo, who stepped back once, but decided to hold his ground, saying, "I was going to give it to you." As he spoke, Fheon kept her eyes on Thorin and her hand on her sword. "Many times I wanted to, but…"

"But what, thief?" Thorin growled.

"You are changed, Thorin. The dwarf I met in Bag End would never have gone back on his word, would never have doubted the loyalty of his kin!" At this, he nodded to Balin, who acknowledged him with nothing but a frightened stare.

There seemed to be tears in Thorin's eyes now, and Fheon hoped that this was because he was fighting with the dragon-sickness, not because of anger. Yet she could only hope, and it turned out to be worth nothing.

"Do not speak to me of loyalty," he spat, and then, "Throw him from the rampart!"

A cold, tense silence came over the dwarves as his words settled in. It was met with the shifting of heavy feet. Fheon spared a sideways glance below them and found expressions of shock on both Thranduil's and Bard's faces. Her hand tightened around the hilt of her sword, though none of the dwarves made any move against Bilbo.

Thorin whirled around at his kin, utter disbelief and anger on his face. "Did you not hear me?" he shouted, dragging Fili over to him. Fili pulled his arm back and gave his uncle a look of surety.

"I will do it myself." Thorin snarled, and then was onto Bilbo in two long strides, pulling at his clothes and forcibly lugging him to the edge of the overhang. "Curse you! Cursed be the wizard that forced you onto this Company!"

The dwarves then all rushed forward to pry him off, pushing Fheon back a few feet, and it took her several seconds before finally being able to get through them and push Thorin back with a mighty shove. Once she did this and as he stumbled backwards, he pulled his sword out from its sheath. Fheon did the same and, in a split second, their swords met with a loud clang; though neither of them made any move after that—Thorin in his surprise and Fheon in her determination.

From below, there was a bellow: "If you don't like my burglar, then please, don't damage him. Return him to me."

Fheon looked from the corner of her eye and found that it was Gandalf. He was sure to be startled and infuriated that she and Bilbo had snuck out of the encampment. "You're not making a very splendid figure as King Under the Mountain, are you, Thorin, son of Thrain?"

At this, Thorin pulled his sword back, as if burned, and then turned his head to shout at him, "Never again will I have dealings with wizards, or Shire rats!"

While he did this, Fheon quickly pulled Bilbo back onto his feet and pushed him to where the recoiled length of rope was hidden beneath the snow. Bilbo looked at her in alarm and questioned, "What about you?"

"Go," she muttered in response.

"But—"

"Go, Bilbo. I'll take care of things here."

Thankfully, he said no more and scaled down the wall outside, where Thorin could not reach him.

From below, there came the voice of Bard. He said, "Are we resolved? The return of the Arkenstone for what was promised?"

Cautiously, Fheon gave the King a wide girth as she returned to her place at the far side of the overhang, keeping her sword out and pointed at him. He had all but forgotten her and was listening with keen, fuming ears as the bargeman below continued speaking: "Give us your answer! Will you have peace or war?"

Suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, a black raven flew into view. This was the same black raven, Fheon knew, Dwalin had released with a message for the dwarves of the Iron Hills. Upon realizing this, she did not become joyous or hopeful or jubilant. She knew that, with an army, Thorin would only thirst for war even more. And she was right.

"I will have war," said the King, his eyes turning to the hill at the west, where a mass of iron-clad dwarves had appeared and were marching down the mound.

Not even a quarter of them had appeared on the horizon yet, and they were already at least five hundred strong. The sound of their iron feet colliding with the ground echoed all across the terrain. And while the dwarves around her cheered and yelled, Fheon was filled with a strong sense of anxiety and, after a while, dismay.

next one comes right after this! ;)