A/N Hiya! So, this chapter is kind of a bridge to the next, introducing more characters and concepts for the big sha-BANG that kicks off the real plot. That is to say, one chapter stands between this one and the coming of Smaug the Terrible. Enjoy it!

Chapter 3

The forges were as hot as a dragon's gut. The hum of industry made chatter almost impossible. Not that there was much desire to talk—focus was required to produce the high-caliber work that the dwarves were known for. Hammers swung in the light of torches, and the golden emission of the fires made the steel, and the sweat beading on the blacksmith's foreheads, glint in the relative darkness.

One figure in the midst of them was quite hard to not notice. He was startling, and yet, seemed at home, handling the hammer like an extension of his tattooed arm. His long bushy hair was pulled back, except for the shock of hair that stood on end on top of his head. Just from looking at him, one would think that he belonged on some battlefield far away, hacking savagely at orcs. But since the Lonely Mountain was in the middle of peacetime, this warrior's most difficult adversary was the particularly stubborn bit of iron, slowly yielding into a more recognizable form.

The guard recognized Dwalin immediately, and approached his anvil.

"Master Dwalin!" he yelled once, twice over the din.

Dwalin turned and acknowledged him.

"His Majesty has doubled the guard. You are needed tonight."

Dwalin's bushy brow furrowed.

"He has redoubled it again?"

"Yes, sir. You've been assigned to—"

"The south again, I presume."

"No, sir," the guard replied, "You're in the treasury tonight."

Dwalin stopped in his tracks. The treasury. The pacing. The hallucinations. If what Thorin was telling him was true, he would have a chance to see for himself.

"I'll report," he muttered.

As his fellow guard turned away, he desperately hoped that Thorin was wrong about the King.

A few days later, another caravan arrived at the gates of Erebor. However, this group was met with much more genial reception, as the dwarves from the Iron Hills had always had a close relationship with the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain.

"Thrain!"

Nain, the flame-haired patriarch of the Iron Hills, greeted his cousin heartily, embracing him with a thump on the back. He was rather large for a dwarf, and stood a fair amount taller than Thrain. His booming voice only increased his sizeable presence, and ensured that everyone within a few feet of the conversation could hear every word he said.

"It has been a long time, cousin!" Nain boomed.

"Indeed it has," Thrain replied.

Behind him, the rest of the dwarves began to talk amongst themselves, and began to unload their wagons. As they did so, Thorin scanned the crowd, looking for one dwarf in particular. He had only seen her once or twice, but by Durin, did he know her. He knew her thoughts, ideas, and he felt as though he knew her very spirit. Even now, her latest letter rested in one of his pockets. As soon as he saw the unruly tangle of brown curls, he knew he had spotted her. Moving toward her as she began to lift a trunk out of a wagon, he came up behind her and said, "Do you need help?"

She turned, but her smile soon grew as she recognized him. Her hazel eyes twinkled mischievously as she said, "I don't think so, sir."

"Are you sure, my lady?" Thorin played along, smirking.

She set down the trunk on the ground with a thud.

"You could greet me properly," the woman said. Without needing any more encouragement, Thorin pulled her into a tight embrace, which she wholeheartedly returned.

"It is good to see you, Áre," Thorin murmured into her ear as they separated.

Áre smiled up at him. "And you, Thorin. As I understand it, we have much to talk about."

"My dear, you have no idea."

A/N: I know this chapter seems like it's really minor, but it is necessary foundation for the rest of this first act. Please, if you will, look at it as a prologue for the next chapter—which will come early this time! See you on Friday!