Chapter 1: The Call

His voice was thunder, the falling of heavy stones, an avalanche— inevitable and intractable.

There is a place in the mountains, where the rocky peaks give way to hills and a forest with no name; wind-blasted and patched with coarse yellow grass, cold and empty and utterly bleak.

In that lonely place, there is a tree: a young oak sapling, quite unlike the tall pines that grow around it. And the grass that grows around it is green and soft, nurtured by soft loam quite unlike the sparse rocky soil of that blasted peak.

I am told it is both lovely and kind. That even the Eagles come to pay tribute to that wistful dell.

In my mind's eye, it is a brave thing: the tree proud and proper compared to the ragged pine forest it stands apart from.

There are days I wake, my face wet with tears, and I know I have dreamt of returning there, as I once swore I would.

But time cares not for the promises we make. My life dwindles; I only travel farther and farther away—and I fear no road leads back to that lone tree in the mountains.

Eventually, the jumble receded. Eventually, I was able to open my eyes and no longer feel like I was untethered in memories.

It did not happen immediately.

Life has a way of moving on, continuing, even if the poor souls caught in it are not ready to.

But that did not happen for some time.

First, I had to fall farther.

—

The stars still gleamed overhead as I awoke; the smell of cedar, earth and growing things surrounded me. The faintest light in the east promised the coming of dawn within an hour, or perhaps two.

There was a crick in my neck and my muscle ached. Sleeping on the ground had done me no favours.

I was also uncomfortably warm. As I sat up, groaning, a blanket pooled around me. The fire was coal and ashes, our surroundings a reflection: trees that were black smudges against a grey pre-dawn. For a moment, I only sat there and blinked as my eyes adjusted to the half-light.

A sense of muddled unease had settled on my chest. Had I dreamt, or had I stepped from the stars and discomfort of the night before, into the cold pre-dawn of the morning?

There was a twitch of awareness. Thorin was awake and watching me from the other side of the embers. His turbulent emotions from the night before had settled into an undercurrent of unhappiness that plucked at me.

"Hi."

A flicker of irritation. He did not deign to respond. I dropped my eyes.

"This your blanket?" I gestured at the soft green wool. At his silence, I added, "Thanks."

"You were cold during the night. It kept me awake." Resignation. Weariness. His emotions battered me like the tide.

"Ah." I tugged on my necklace. "Do you… do you want your blanket back?"

Thorin's level stare was my response.

I sighed and stood and stretched. How could I have woken up so early with no alarm? How had I even slept at all?

There was something, not quite guilt—shame perhaps, trying to claw its way into the hollow well inside me. I wondered about my boyfriend, my family; I thought of a white ceiling and the light slanting through shuttered blinds.

The sound of cars in the distance and the deep, deep silence of a slumbering house.

A quiet garden, the sound of running water, the sun so bright and warm and cheery when it should've been anything but—

Thorin stood in front of me holding two wooden poles, roughly hewn from the branches of one of the trees. "What do you know of swordplay?"

"Nothing," I said, thrown. "Are you offering to teach me?"

He tossed a stick and I was forced to catch it else it would hit me. "I will teach. You will learn."

I stared. "Why?"

Thorin's eyes were dark pits. "I will not let you drown me."

—

When was I? That was foremost on my mind. For I knew Thorin had a quest to undertake, a mountain to win. A destiny with death.

There was too much information to sort through, and I could not tell when I was. Erebor had fallen, yes, that much was clear. But how long had it been?

Where did Thorin travel to? His clothes were well-made, fur-lined. He had a cloak about him, and a heavy bag that seemed as though it would fit me in it, and weighed at least as much. Several weapons bristled from him, enough to raw my nerves.

He did not look like I'd recalled him from the movie, though perhaps there was enough similar that I could match them against each other.

If only I could remember correctly with the jumble in my head and the fist closing around my heart.

—

Thorin's lesson concluded when the promise of dawn turned true. The stars fled before the coming sun and lit our surroundings with a pink half-light. Despite the rising of the sun, my phone gave the time as midnight. I turned it off, and my watch too. If Thorin had questions about my technology, he kept them to himself, not even a hint of curiosity emanating from him.

But then—he wouldn't, would he? I had Thorin's life overlaid over my own, a half-remembered dream, things familiar and unfamiliar, focused and unfocused. Knowledge of Khuzdul and Westron and Daleish, a smattering of other languages and dialects; the entire layout of Erebor, and political intricacies of the Blue Mountains and Dwarven Clans; and smaller things, like running wild through Erebor's Hidden Garden as a child, the sound of Dís' booming laughter, Frerin's smirk as he shared his pilfered almond honey tarts, stolen fresh from the kitchen, the pride in Thrór's eye when I won my first sparring match—

When he won his first sparring match—

It was too much. My life, his life, all running together like water slipping through my fingers, pieces and fragments all swirling together and combining. Everything was eroding, falling away, coming apart, tissue paper in clumsy hands.

I couldn't even recognise the pattern of my own thoughts. Alien in my head, the cadence of it, the words, the way my mind came together.

Had I always thought this way? Spoke this way?

Who was it, between the both of us who last saw their father smile at them from his throne? Who crept down the stairs in the dark of night? Who was it who shrank away from the madness of their father?

No.

No—

Was it possible to hold two lifetimes in your head?

What was my thirty years to Thorin's hundred ninety five?

Thorin's life couldn't be my own because that meant—

My hands tightened in my hair, and I realised I was hunched over, digging my nails into my scalp. I straightened and tried to breathe.

One breath. Then another. Then one more. One more, now shaky, unsteady. The world around me blurred.

I allowed myself that moment of foolish weakness, then I clamped down on it.

Thorin's eyes were heavy on me, but I kept my eyes on the light of the rising sun slanting through the trees.

—

We followed the trail, I'd noticed from last night, little more than a bare path through the trees. I stumbled over too-large roots in the path and envied Thorin who was significantly more sure-footed than me.

We did not travel far through the forest before we found ourselves outside it. In fact, it seemed as though I followed Thorin around a tree, and then stumbled into wide open plains. I caught my breath.

Verdant plains stretched into the distance. The sky was gold and red and pink with the rising sun, broken by clouds like cotton. I knelt to touch a tuft of rich grass.

Middle. Fucking. Earth. Arda. Despite all that had happened, I could still be awed.

When we got far enough away from the trees, I spun slowly in a circle. Behind us were mountains, dark grey-blue peaks veined with white snow, fading into the indigo of the sky. The forest was a riotous green that stretched up to gently clutch the mountains. A low mist steamed down from the great peaks.

Even the air was clean and alive. The breeze whispered of life, and growing things, a hint of cold morning dew.

Magic. Arda was made by magic. Sung into being by actual gods. There weren't just elves and dwarves; there were demigods, talking animals, and talking trees around. A silly smile grew on my face despite myself.

Thorin stopped when he realised I wasn't following him. He was perplexed and impatient and he didn't bother to keep it from his expression.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I allowed myself to believe that I was on an adventure. That I was beholden to nothing and no one, and free to run wild and free. That the magic of Arda would steal away my problems and turn me into a hero.

I opened my eyes.

A thoroughly unimpressed dwarf king greeted me with arms crossed and face set with annoyance.

I adjusted the straps on my bag and started walking.

—

And here, the sum of my possessions as I arrived in Arda:

My clothes: a dress and Converse. A backpack, fashionable rather than practical, the straps digging into my shoulders and faux leather peeling on the edges.

My keys, wallet, a compact mirror, and two different colours for my lips.

My phone and a smartwatch, with a charger for them both.

My necklace.

Old receipts and a squashed half-eaten muesli bar that I had forgotten to throw out—

All in all, useless.

I was useless.

But then they were all I had left of my world and the life I once led.

—

The hours trailed by as we travelled. The sun rose, turning the colours of the land into jewel tones of greens and blues.

How had I gotten here? How could I return? My boyfriend, my family, everything I'd left behind—

My mind skated away and I could only remember Thráin as I'd seen him last, his eyes wild with grief as he looked upon his own father, Thrór—

A clench in my heart.

Clouds gathered on the horizon. A breeze ruffled the grass. Thorin paused to look at me, and I resolutely kept my eyes on the clouds, focusing on the beauty of the world. Was that the faint scent of brine in the air—the ocean? The breeze shifted, and all I could smell was lush growth and sunburnt dirt.

I reluctantly met Thorin's eyes when I realised he was watching me. Though he did not speak, his curiosity crept in, coupled with his annoyance and impatience.

I waved him off and he turned away, re-shouldering his pack and trudged off.

For me to know they were Thorin's, and not my own—

How strange, to have disjointed feelings, without the thoughts to match them with.

The rolling emotions I sensed from him weren't constant. He was like the tide; strong waves, with occasional breaks. His emotions would intrude on me—a wave crashing into me, then receding, leaving only the cold impression of what was.

I found that I could focus and draw more of it into me. If I wanted, I could seek his heart and know it as well as my own—

But it was wrong to do so intentionally. A violation of what little privacy there could be between us; strangers who suddenly knew each other's lives as well as their own. What he felt was private, the same way what I felt belonged to me. Yet what could I do about it?

Trying to will myself not to feel was hard enough. Trying to will another not to feel? I may as well have tried to topple Erebor alone. The more I focused to try and push him out, the more I realised how bound together our feelings were. When I was anxious, it crept into him and made him anxious, which in turn made him angry at the anxiety. Then I tasted the echo of rage in myself. Round and round we went.

Did that mean that if I forced calm on myself, I would force calm on him? If I felt suspicious, could I make him suspicious? I didn't want to think of it, but the idea remained, as did the pit in my stomach.

It was a tangle, and one that was no different to the tangle around my head; my memories, and his, everything that we were all bleeding together until I could not discern what each of us was.

—

"So. You're a dwarf."

Thorin looked at me askance.

We were walking up a hill, my Converse sliding a little on the grass.

"And you're a king. Well, 'king in exile', which honestly makes no sense to me. You're still a king." I caught my breath, as the pace made speaking difficult. "I don't really know why 'king in exile' needs to be specified, seems fucking rude really—"

"I do not have a kingdom," said Thorin. I suspected he did so to prevent me from continuing to babble at him.

"Oh, well. Right. Of course."

He gave me another sidelong glance, but held his silence.

"So," I said, drawing out the syllable. "We should talk about it."

He made no outward response, but he had a way of turning his attention to me that made me know he listened.

"The, uh, Bond?" My hands made an incomprehensible gesture between us. Thorin's eyes flicked over to meet mine. "It's what I've been calling it in my head. Not really good with names for things. But 'link' sounded too passive, and 'connection' sounded too positive. So, Bond."

"There is little left to say," said Thorin slowly. "We are connected. And there is nothing either of us can do about it."

"Right." I drew out the word. "But how? And why? Aren't you curious?"

He shot me a look but said nothing.

"No theories, nothing?"

Thorin kept walking

"How are you not—" I stopped where I was, my hands clenching and unclenching as the words choked me. Then, "Thorin, who the fuck am I?"

That made him finally look at me.

There was perhaps a more graceful way to explain the jumble in my head, but—

"I know you've felt it too," I said. "All your fucking life in my head." I stopped to rub my head, trying to tease out a sense of normalcy. "You know humans retain about eighty years of their memories? And even then, most of those fade towards the end. You've twice that, and it's all in my head, and I don't know what's mine any more. Doesn't it fucking affect you? Don't tell me you're all good with having all of my shit in your head."

After a heavy silence, I threw my hands up and decided to let it be, marching past him, irritated. I crested the top of the hill and caught my breath, relieved.

"Gabrielle."

There was a long enough pause that I turned to look at Thorin. His brows were furrowed and arms crossed, eyes not on me, but at some unknowable point in the distance as he came to stand beside me. I frowned. "What?"

"The place you came from—your world. Tell me about it," he said, somewhere between a request and a demand.

My frown deepened. "Why? You have all of my goddamn life stuffed into your head." A shiver ran through me.

Thorin started walking, but slowly. He was not quite looking at me, choosing to stare at the ground, a furrow in his brow. It was strange behaviour for the proud king. He wasn't one to avoid direct eye contact. "I wish to hear it from you."

The petty part of me wished to refuse him. But—

(He stood over me, I couldn't move, I stood over him, he didn't move—)

(The emptiness, horrible and alone, the consuming nothing—)

I sorted my memories.

So.

Earth.

What was Earth like?

Slowly, I pieced together the tale of it:

I told him of a world with barely any monarchies left, of complex politics and alliances based in old wars, of global conflicts rooted in history, drenched in blood. I spoke of slavery, and race, and oppression and colonisation.

I told him about Australia, where I grew up, but also of the Philippines, where I was born. A multinational identity in a country that had made me feel torn between two worlds growing up—

I told him about great towering buildings of metal and glass. Of horseless carriages powered by liquid made of long-dead creatures. I spoke of a complex world that was interconnected, and distant all at once, where one could instantly speak with anyone no matter where they were. I showed him my phone, and my smart watch—turning them both on as an example.

"They'll run out of charge soon," I said, taking my phone out to show him as we walked. "I have a battery in my bag, but I mean… who cares really? Still, I think this is the longest I've been without my technology. I, uh, I don't know what to do without them."

Our pace had slowed to allow me the breath to speak. But my hand still shook as I held out my phone to Thorin. To my surprise, he took it. He stared at it for a long moment, and before my disbelieving eyes, he unlocked it, his fingers moving mechanically fast as they entered my pin.

"Oh," I said.

I took in the surreal sight of Thorin, phone in hand, my heart pounding. With the same rapidity, he locked it once more and held it back out to me.

My hand reached out to take the phone, and I realised then that I trembled. "So. The Bond, huh?"

Thorin's face was pallid. But, "We will not speak of it," he said stiffly.

"Christ. Jesus fucking Christ, you are a proudly stubborn ass," I said without rancour.

Strangely, he did not react with the anger I expected. He only silently turned and walked away. A moment later, I followed, as silent as he.

—

That singular moment was etched into my memory like a still from a film. The expression of confusion and anger on his face. His rough grip on my bare arm. A feeling like static in the air. I even remembered the warmth of smooth metal against my skin from the ring he wore. Then a moment that was both a watercolour impression and as sharply defined as a bolt of lightning. I tried to sort through the moment, but it was like recalling the details of a dream. All I had were vague impressions. Was that a bright light, like starlight—?

We had obviously shared knowledge of each other. I had his language, his names, his entire life held to my heart like a leaf pressed in the pages of a book, preserved, yet fragile and crumbling when I went to examine it—

I had known Thorin all my life. I had known Thorin for a single day.

I was Thorin—

(Fire, fire from the dragon, fire in his grandfather's eyes, the Arkenstone's cold fire, madness burning, the Gold-sickness burned, Erebor burned, his people burned, he burned to prove himself and reclaim his home—)

My breath caught in my throat and I cleared it, causing Thorin to eye me sidelong. "Phew this weather we're having, eh?"

He turned his head slightly then away.

"Mm, yup! Wow the air's SO clear, huh?"

Finally, he frowned at me. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Just makin' small talk."

We walked in silence for a time.

"That cloud looks like a bunny."

Thorin growled.

(Fire, fire, FIRE—)

I swallowed the rest of my words.

—

We walked until we hit the edges of a small copse of trees. The sun was beginning to set when Thorin broke off from the path to find a place to camp.

I blundered into a rabbit warren and Thorin's quick reflexes killed two rabbits as they darted past him.

The gory mess of it at the edge of his blade had me gagging.

Thorin dismissed me to assemble wood for the fire, while he salvaged what he could of the rabbit for dinner.

"You are truly ignorant of the most basic of woodskills." Thorin stared at me, caught between disdain and bafflement when I finally dared to return to camp.

I looked down at the twigs I had gathered and shrugged. "Really? That comes as a shock to you, does it?" I asked caustically. Then, at his rising temper, I clutched the twigs closer to myself. "Just teach me. I won't be a fucking burden."

Thorin slowed in his task, hands bloodied with rabbit guts. He cocked his head slightly, weighing the value of my words. "You should begin with watching well what I do now."

Despite my words, I winced at the butchered body. "Maybe not that. I tend to get faint at the sight of blood."

Annoyance. Contempt. I did not need to feel the hammer of Thorin's heart to read it on his face.

"Yeah. I know. Ironic, what with my period and all," I said blandly, which only caused his scowl to deepen.

"Gabrielle," said Thorin warningly.

I sighed, and held up my hands. "Christ. Right, show me. I'll try not to barf."

Thorin proved himself to be a very adept teacher. He showed me how to finish preparing the rabbit he'd begun, ensuring he explained why he did all the various parts involved. He made sure I was able to repeat back to him what he'd said. He was not patient with mistakes, nor did he take my nausea as a reason for me to have not paid attention.

Once done, I was expected to prepare the other one myself. For a moment, I stood over the rabbit, my hands shaking, my stomach roiling. Then suddenly, I shifted the grip of my knife and gutted it with a competent hand.

Thorin was not the only one surprised.

"I thought you had not done this before," said Thorin.

"I haven't."

We considered the butchered rabbit together.

"You did well." The way he formed his words made it not quite a compliment.

"Right," I said, looking at my fingers, wet with blood.

—Like water through my fingers.

Mixing, swirling together—

I blinked, hard, and turned and stumbled away to throw up.

There was a heavy footfall nearby and I automatically launched myself backwards, eyes wide.

Thorin stood there, face blank.

We stared at one another.

Wordlessly, he held out a rag.

Grass. Trees. Rabbit. Thorin. Bushes. Leaves. Sticks.

My heart slowed.

I took the rag.

As I used it to wipe my hands coated in viscera, Thorin showed me how to light a fire. I tried not to think about germs, then with a grey resignation, decided that there was little else that I could do about it—if my fate was to die because I got the shits from skinning a rabbit and not washing my hands properly, then that was it. There could be worse ways to go. The thought pulled a twitching rictus across my face, such that Thorin paused in what he showed me to look at me with something that was almost concern.

Useless, said that voice.

And: yes, I said.

—

The sun had long set, the campsite lit only by the fire and the uncovered moon.

Thorin's proud face was shadowed, but I read his expression easily as he faced me down.

"I can do this," I said, tightening my grip on my 'sword'.

He said nothing at first, and doubt and impatience filled that silence. "Again," he said eventually, and I shoved back at the feelings swamping me.

I swung, but I couldn't muster much strength behind it. The day had been too long, and my muscles were not used to the moves I made. My arms moved as if the air was molasses, the stick wobbling in my grip as I held it extended at the end of the swing.

Annoyance flooded me and twisted my mouth. The long heavy stick that doubled as my walking staff and practice sword felt like it had tripled in weight, but the irritation grew in me and I tightened my grip instead. Another swing. Pathetic.

The irritation grew, now edged with contempt. Thorin's face was cold and pitiless. "Again."

I clutched that anger made it my own and swung again.

For a moment, it moved smoothly, and I saw it then: a sword in my hand, the dim light of the training halls, my father watching my practice—

I blinked.

Thorin's stick was on the ground. He looked at it, then at me.

My stomach rolled.

"Thorin—"

"Enough." His voice was cold.

"No," I said, and threw down my stick. "This fucking Bond, we have to talk about it, it's clearly fucking us both up—"

"I will not discuss this with you," hissed Thorin.

I hunched my shoulders and did not reply.

"You are easily cowed by anger."

"Am I?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"When I am angry, you fear me. Even when the anger is not directed at you."

I forced myself to look at him. "So what?"

"Why?"

"You already know, don't you?"

As usual, Thorin merely looked back at me, his face a study in trained neutrality, while his emotions roiled beneath the surface. Only the hint of a crease on his brow, and the slight bowing of his head gave him away.

"Why?" he asked me, voice a deep rumble.

I fiddled with my sword. For something carved in haste, it was remarkably smooth. Dwarves were truly fine craftsmen. Thorin waited. He was made of stone, that one. A mountain, even. My lips twisted, but there was no humour in it. I took a breath and blew out slowly to consider how to answer. "I've known people with tempers."

The silence grew. He waited for me to continue but I didn't. Thorin's face betrayed no emotions, but I felt a surge of feeling in him, the waves hitting a crescendo, and I closed my eyes to try and shut it out. When I opened them again, they were blurry and pretended to wipe the sweat from my face to clear them.

I forced my next words out, in an even voice. "They're not here now so who cares, right?"

A longer pause. I did not dare meet Thorin's eyes.

The silence held so long that Thorin's stern voice was almost a shock. "You will never be a good warrior while you are ruled by fear."

"I suppose it's good I do not need to be a warrior. I just need to survive."

"Perhaps you need to do more than survive."

I couldn't think of a rejoinder. I went to sleep, thinking of a sad, fearful child who had grown to be a sad, fearful woman.

A/N: Each chapter will be named for a stage in the hero's journey. Here we have The Call to Adventure. Traditionally this is where the hero is pulled from their ordinary life by, well, the Call to Adventure!

I recommend listening to the soundtrack to the game Journey, which lines up fairly well with the chapters.

Tolkien Lore stuff:

I mentioned Melkor last chapter and didn't want to make the starting note too long, so here: Melkor, also known as Morgoth, was the first Dark Lord, predating Sauron. He's the first evil, and was cast into the Void which is basically outside creation. Sauron was his lieutenant.