Chapter 4: Threshold I: Crossing
I would never, for as long as I lived, forget the moment I saw my life unfulfilled; the life that I could've had, had I been allowed to stay.
Thorin's people settled in the ruins of the once grand Belegost. The years following the re-settlement of Belegost were not an easy time for the Broadbeams or the refugees from Erebor. I believe the dwarves from Erebor, though long lost from their homes, were accustomed still to a way of life that the Blue Mountains could never provide, no matter how prosperous their settlement grew. Certainly there was an air of disdain for their more humbler life, these dwarves whose kingdom was once the jewel of the dwarven clans.
Meanwhile, the Broadbeams of Belegost, accustomed already to their hardened life, strained under the weight of first supporting, then living alongside their kin. More humble than Durin's folk, yet still prouder by half than the race of Men, the Broadbeams regularly chafed against their new neighbours.
Discontent simmered. Small fights began to break out, often between the Broadbeams of Ered Luin and the former dwarves of Erebor. And then the worst happened: murder. The accidental killing of a Broadbeam woman as she tried to break up one of the many fights. The Erebor dwarf who did the deed went mad when he realised what he'd done and took his own life. Kinslaying. Suicide. Acts near unheard of among people made to be as hardy and loyal as stone; worse, it robbed all of the satisfaction of justice done.
It was into this tumultuous situation that Thorin announced his decision to reclaim the Lonely Mountain.
It seemed like the whole of the Company peered at us from various doorways and it should have been funny, the timing of it all—
Thorin didn't seem too upset with the interruption, though his eyes half-closed for a moment and I felt the thrum of annoyance. He turned to face the Company, releasing my hand as he did, leaving me reeling from the sudden lack.
I watched the back of his head as he strode into Bag End, greeting his gathered kin. there was a sudden ease to him, a sense of belonging and surety that I had not felt from him before that left me with a slight ache, a gnawing emptiness.
The dwarves' eyes were mainly on Thorin as he greeted them, though more than a few were shooting perplexed and not-quite hostile, but definitely mistrusting glances at me. Gandalf was the only one who stared at me fully, nary even a glance at the king.
I looked up into a face that was both aged, and ageless at once. His eyes were a sparkling, piercing blue and his beard was very long and white, tucked in his belt. His hat was a pale blue, and he had a shining silver scarf. His robes were also closer to blue in colour, a soft ashen blue rather than completely grey in the movies.
"And who might you be?" Gandalf his voice filled with genuine curiosity and wariness both.
My heart sank. Some part of me had hoped that Gandalf would recognise instantly that I wasn't of Arda. An even more secret part of me could admit I'd hoped he would recognise me as sent by the Valar or the like and whisk me away to advise me on what to do next. He was a goddamn demigod after all. Surely he should know? I looked up at him with not a little despair.
"She is one who I met upon the road. She helped to guide me here." Thorin interjected smoothly. Too many faces were staring at me, and my face grew hot. Gandalf, followed my eyes to the dwarf king, making a 'hmm' sound.
Thorin cast his eyes around. "Where is the food? We have travelled long today, and are weary from the road." His voice was no longer light, but edged with command.
The dwarves instantly took heed, and I saw many a spine straighten.
"Food's this way, Thorin. Still quite a bit left, not even Bombur managed to eat everything," said Balin.
For it was him. Even if he was not the dwarf from the films, I looked upon that old dwarf and felt that twinkle of familiarity within me.
I recalled the last time we'd seen each other, contracts we'd worked through together, the agreements on funeral arrangements, the amounts to be divided up. The provisions for illness and next of kin. We'd emptied a few ale tankards together, burned through several pipefuls of pipeweed as we'd discussed it—
Balin looking at me carefully at the night drew to a close, his eyes gleaming like diamonds tempered in old pain, as he reminded me, gently, that it would be a difficult task, and one that we did not need to do—
"Ah, hang on a moment." A small voice piped up, and pushing through the crowd of dwarves, had to be one Bilbo Baggins, looking very much the put-upon hobbit I knew he was. He was trying so hard to be polite, but the clear edge of indignation was in his tone. My initial impression was one of foppishness; surrounded as he was by the dwarves with their road-worn gear and mud-splattered boots. Even Gandalf was very much the Grey Pilgrim, his clothes suggesting to me none of the strength and power he had, truly, yet still one accustomed to travel and hardship that contrasted to the hobbit in their midst.
Bilbo stopped before Thorin and straighten his waistcoat, tilting his head defiantly. Even in my state of near panic, I found I could admire his bravery. "I didn't catch your name, Mr...?"
The dwarf king was not as impressed as I. "Thorin. It is my Company that you will be joining. You must be Bilbo Baggins, the would-be-burglar."
Bilbo looked very taken aback. His mouth opened and closed several times. "The would-be what?"
Thorin looked Bilbo up and down, then turned, dismissing the hobbit and looking fully at me. "Are you not coming in?"
All eyes turned back to me.
My mouth dropped open, but no words emerged.
As I stood there frozen, Thorin strode forward, grabbed my arm, and pulled me along behind him. Dwarves parted like the Red Sea before the dwarf king and closed in behind us to follow with many a confused stare. I don't think I was the only one shocked to silence.
There was still the remains of a feast on the table. Mostly everything else was picked over, and it was messier than the snack table at many a house party I'd been to before. Several different loaves of bread, various cold-cut meats, sliced vegetables, one or two wheels of cheese that hadn't been turned into rinds, and various drinks, mugs, and tankards were scattered about. There were crumbs and split booze everywhere. Pipes, still lit and smouldering were pegged in little ashtray-style holders. Replace the pipes with cigarettes, add electro-dubstep or 90's hits playing from someone's speakers, and the smell of weed drifting from another room, and I would be transported to my uni days.
Strange, as I thought I recalled Thorin arriving after they'd cleaned up.
"Sit," said Thorin briefly. "And eat."
He deposited me in one chair, and took the seat on its left, at the head of the table. I watched, stomach tying in knots, as he loaded two plates, dumping one unceremoniously in front of me. The others shuffled in, eyes upon us. They took wary seats around the table, though one dwarf bristling with weapons and taller than the rest took up a post at Thorin's shoulder, arms crossed and glaring.
Dwalin. I experienced a rush of fear and love both, confusing, dizzing, encompassing. The fear was my own, but Thorin—
I saw Dwalin as he clasped my arm. "Mahal tadnani astû, sanzigil tamkhihi astû," he'd said. I was going to a meeting of our kin in Ered Luin to discuss their aid on the quest. Dwalin's eyes gleamed with pride and hope, and I could not bring myself to tell my akrâgkharm that I thought it fruitless. That I had not the Arkenstone, and no right to command their loyalty—
"So... who is she?" said a dwarf with grey hair. Dori, who was famed for his strength, whispered my mind. I myself had signed off on a document awarding him a small payment as a reward for saving some miners through the strength of his back during a tunnel collapse—
I ruthlessly shoved away that knowledge, terrified of drowning in memories while I essentially stood on a stage.
When I raised my head, there were looks being exchanged. Everyone seemed uncomfortable as I. And so they should. This was to be a meeting of utmost secrecy amongst to discuss reclaiming their home. And here was a strange woman, not even a dwarf, brought in by their king, just sitting at the table in the middle of it. I was clearly not a warrior, and I knew my short hair was unusual for the time. Not to mention my clothing: I still wore Thorin's cloak over my dress. But it could hardly cover my strangeness. I tried not to tug the dress hem knowing it sat above the midpoint of my thigh.
"Her name is Gullveig. The Seer," said Thorin and oh, a pin could drop into the silence that followed.
I choked on a bit of cheese and began coughing. The nearest tankard turned out to contain ale, I discovered, as I drained it dry.
"Gullveig?" One of the grey dwarves stood, affixing an ear trumpet. Óin. He and Glóin had come to me together and haggled over the finer points of the contract. Most of it I'd dismissed, but I'd put Balin to work on the amendments for kin that Glóin proposed. "The Seer who foretold the end of the Beast's reign?"
"I heard Gullveig was just a craftsman's wife who wanted to gain favour."
"No, no, you got it all wrong, the Seer Gullveig was a friend of a cousin of mine, so this can't be her. She's no dwarf."
"Maybe she is a dwarf, with no beard? She's very small," said Kíli, looking at me speculatively, and I felt a rush of love and pain as I met his eyes (—he looked too much like Frerin with that inquisitive look in his eyes, the same one he got when we would puzzle over treatises together—) and I clamped down on the Bond, making me sway dizzily, a buzzing in my ears.
"I heard Gullveig was very strange, kept to herself, before she disappeared," piped up a small redhead—Ori, whispered the Bond. I knew his brothers more, Dori having come to me to tell me his brother was ready to prove himself, though I saw the worry shining clearly in his eye, calling memories of Frerin—
"Who's ever heard of a dwarf with no beard?" Nori—he'd come to my attention through reports of the blooming blackmarket trade of dwarven steel. Dwalin had been sent to arrest the ringleaders, but some had gotten away. Nori was suspected, but we'd had no proof, and I was desperate for allies—
"Are you sure she's not a hobbit?" Bofur—I did not know him well, but he was a fair hand at mining, and his loyalty to his kin, especially to his cousin Bifur was beyond question—
"Wrong feet. And her hair strange." Bifur, speaking in a mix of fractured Khuzdul and Iglishmêk as he only could now. He was famous, in his own way, once a warrior, now a toymaker; his story was somewhere between a legend and a cautionary tale. It was he who had come to me first, of his family, and insisted that he was of sound enough mind for the rigours of the quest. I'd had my misgivings, especially after Thrór, after Thráin—
My head was pounding, my hands aching where they clenched the table. It was too much, a cacophony of light and sound and feeling and, ah, but was this not how it had felt for the Valar to have sung Arda into existence, an outpouring of light and knowing—
"Harkulul!" barked Thorin. "She will be accompanying us on the quest to advise us with her Sight."
All the arguing ceased and the weight of the combined stares turned to me once more.
I spun an unmoored ship. How did one not feel? I'd tried it before, I'd tried to keep Thorin out, and I'd not succeeded, and now, now it was too much. How was it done, how did I separate us before? How did I keep us apart, that last time we'd crashed into each other?
Gandalf blew out smoke and made another humming sound. The only one who wasn't staring at me was Bilbo, and that was because he was busy giving everyone disapproving looks. My mug was empty. I took Thorin's mug and drained it too. Oh, ale. I was never particularly fond of ale, but any port in a storm.
"Well, speak up, lass," said Óin.
My heart was in my ears, my mouth dry despite the two tankards I'd drained.
I'm not Gullveig, I wanted to say. My name is Gabrielle. But between the booze and the nerves and the Bond pushing itself into my head, the words wouldn't form.
"How do ye know she speaks truly?" This from Dwalin. "This Gullveig, the Seer. No one here knew her. She's a legend, a story we tell wee children."
"I have heard her speak of events that came to pass," said Thorin firmly.
Shock. Confusion. Anxiety. They all vied for control of me. But Thorin was calm. There was some worry, but he was resolved.
A flash of insight: He'd planned this for some time and made his peace with it. The knowledge rose in me, bolstered by sick certainty.
My mouth flapped, until finally I managed a sound. "Huh?"
"Did you not speak to me of the future?" Calm, he was so damn calm.
"I did, but that's not—"
"She is a prophet."
"No, I'm not."
Heads swivelled back and forth between us.
"And she has promised to guide us."
"What? I—no! I said none of that, Thorin, what the fuck—" I was speaking English, I realised with growing horror. I scrabbled through my brain for the right words in Westron to support my cause. What was Westron for 'your king is lying to you?'
The Bond. Fuck. The more I tried to keep out Thorin's knowledge, the more my grip on Westron was fading—
But when I relented—
"On my own honour, I swear it: She will help us."
Forget dropping a pin, a cotton ball falling could have been heard in the resulting silence. Some even had their mouths hanging open; the biggest dwarf in the back (Bombur, insisted my mind, a dwarf whose loyalty was beyond question, whose girth hid a keen mind—) actually had food fall straight out. The dwarves near simultaneously turned to look at me with assessing eyes. Gandalf hadn't stopped watching me. He unnerved me the most of all the gathering, though I couldn't name why.
For Thorin, proud and stubborn, to swear his honour like this—
And if I told the truth, and revealed myself as just an ordinary girl now, and one who did not plan to aid them—
Could I even convince the dwarves that Thorin lied? What was my word to Thorin's?
"I'm not Gullveig," I managed, softly.
"You hear that boys? She just confirmed it!"
"No, she was speaking in that language of hers. She could've said anything."
"I heard her say Gullveig."
"Does she speak Westron?"
Thorin was looking at me. His gaze was steady, and he was so damn calm.
"Does the dragon still live?" That last was actually directed to me. "Or has it left?"
Before I could say anything, Bilbo piped up. "Sorry, but dragon? You have all just been—there's a dragon, and you still want to go?"
"Oh yeah. You know, big fella, flying furnace," said the dwarf with the hat, casually. Bofur. "Melt the bones right off your skin with a breath. Sharp claws like—"
"It is why we need a burglar." Thorin interrupted and turned to look at Bilbo. I don't know what Bilbo read in his face, but he blanched. "We will need someone who the beast will not see."
"A burglar—that's the second time you've... me? You think I'm a burglar? Me?" Bilbo spluttered indignantly. "I've never stolen a thing in my life!"
Thorin turned to look around at Gandalf, then pinned me with his gaze. Disbelief. Disappointment. Concern.
Bilbo was still ranting. "I'll have you know I'm a very respectable gentle-hobbit, and I do not go off on 'adventures' and steal things. Especially from—from dragons," his voice rose shrilly at the word 'dragons'. "I don't know who you think you are talking to, but you've definitely got the wrong hobbit!"
There was a chorus of scornful sounds. Many loud arguments overlapped.
Bilbo's face was caught between fear and indignation, and something else, something I could not name, let alone had the mind for.
"Tha' hobbit is useless. Good for nothing except hiding," said Dwalin, and Bilbo nodded decisively, then scrunched his face as the insult landed.
"No," I said sharply, and finally it was in Westron. "Bilbo. Not 'hobbit'. You owe him respect." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. I placed my hands carefully upon the table, finding myself swaying—either the drinks or the rejection of the Bond.
"She does speak Westron!"
"Does she? What accent was that?"
"Are you sure about that, lass?" asked Balin beside me with gleaming eyes.
The heat was burning my face. But I locked eyes with Bilbo. His indignation had only grown. He didn't want my help in this.
But I looked around again, saw the disdain of the Company, and thought again of the way Thorin had dismissed Bilbo, how Dwalin had scowled, violence in every line of his body.
For a moment, I was pulled—
I remembered standing stock still as he towered over me—
No one had championed me then.
My knuckles grew white on the table. "Bilbo will become one of the most important people in Middle Earth. He just does not know it yet."
There were several disbelieving noises. I looked around and found my eyes caught on Balin. An odd thing happened: his face grew quite still, black eyes piercing. I saw him again, through Thorin's eyes: Balin, son of Fundin. Kidizbâha. The royal advisor. He'd been advisor to Thrór. To Thráin. And now to Thorin. He had been a diplomat for longer than Thorin had been alive. The keen assessment in his eyes, the careful stifling of emotions. A courtier's mask.
The sound of my necklace pendant running up and down the chain as I fidgeted with it was calming. I took a breath. And then another one. Then I met Thorin's eyes. He was calm. Resolved.
For a moment, I tasted white-hot fury. I tasted ash. I tasted blood.
Then the moment passed as the dwarves all began to speak at once. "So you really are the Seer Gullveig?" asked Fíli. I recognised the tempered caution in his eyes.
"We succeed? We reclaim Erebor?" asked simultaneously by Kíli.
"Does the Beast live or nae?" asked another. Glóin, supplied that whisper of Thorin's memories; Glóin who was crafty and greedy, but only because he desperately wanted to provide the world for his wife and child—and I pushed it back, panicked.
My vision wavered and for a terrifying moment I thought I would faint. I picked up a glass and drained it dry. Red wine. Strong, slightly bitter. It wasn't enough. I cast my eyes about desperately at the various mugs around me.
Thorin watched with equanimity.
He wanted me to prove myself. He wanted me to support his claim of my own volition.
My fury was a welcome entrant into the cacophony in my head. Of all the arrogant, self-assured things—
Thorin was a fucking asshole of the highest magnitude.
If I said I was not truly a Seer, my word would not be believed over the King's.
Or, perhaps worse, I would be, and I would make Thorin foresworn.
To lose his honour would deny him entrance to the Halls of Mahal after his death. I knew that. Tasted the surety of it in my bones. The conviction of it—
And even if I was feeling uncharitable to him, I still needed him to succeed—the first step in the journey to save Arda, I couldn't hamper his quest, would do anything to ensure the future played out as closely as possible, despite my presence, and Thorin knew that about me—and he'd taken advantage of it.
"I can not tell you," I began, carefully sounding out the unfamiliar Westron. I thought my voice would be drowned out in the sea of voices, but the moment I started speaking, all the dwarves fell silent and leaned close. Utterly terrifying. "What I know—what I have Seen—" and I hoped I kept back enough of my bitterness, "—needs to be given at the right times, or it will all go astray."
"Well tha's rubbish," snorted Nori.
My knuckles turned white. A glorious Fourth Age. I breathed out my panic. "It is so," I said, my voice wavering in carefully constructed Westron, my mind desperately scrabbling for the right words. "The future is perilous. I know but one path that this quest will succeed, and if we stray from it, you will fail." My eyes caught on Gandalf who had been sitting quietly the whole time. He had not stopped watching me. He should have intervened several times during the conversation with what he knew, surely. But there was something in his gaze. A question? A challenge? "You have the key, do you not? And the map?"
Gandalf blew out smoke. In one hand, a piece of folded parchment appeared, which he set upon the table. And then the next moment, a key that he placed carefully next to the map. He hadn't blinked.
There was another hush.
Thorin's hand was steady as he reached out and picked up the key, but I felt how shaken he was. It was one thing for me to tell him, another for him to see it with his own eyes.
The closest glass looked and smelled like wine. I downed the whole thing. Beside me, Balin looked at me reprovingly. That was probably his.
Gandalf explained the map, pointing out that the writing indicated a hidden message. Bilbo was hovering curiously, despite himself. The attention had moved away from me to the map, but my anxiety didn't recede.
There was a bottle that seemed like it contained more wine, still half-full.
"Does the lass know what the hidden writing says?"
I considered the bottle and my glass, then dispensed with the glass entirely and decisively tipped back the bottle.
"Lass?"
The taste of the wine made my nose wrinkle, but I wasn't going to complain.
"Gullveig."
When I put down the bottle, everyone was staring at me again. "What?"
"The map. Do you know what it says?"
Half-remembered phrases danced through my head. "Something about a bird and light." At the looks I was getting, I rolled my shoulders in an irritable half-shrug and reached for the bottle, only for Balin to pull it out of my reach. "I do not know," I muttered, sullen.
"And why not?" Dwalin demanded.
Because I wasn't a prophet, and what little I remembered of the books and movies was fading rapidly under a haze of alcohol and anxiety. "Look, mate, the words on that map are some awfully specific verse. It's moon runes. Take 'em to Elrond, and he'll give you the exact verse."
The warrior dwarf just looked baffled.
"Westron, Gullveig," Thorin said.
When I reached for the bottle again, Balin stopped me, hand on my arm. "I think you've had enough, lass."
I was done with dwarves telling me what to do. "No, I very much haven't." On my feet, I easily snatched up the bottle and drank the rest, slamming it down hard enough for there to be an audible cracking sound. Bilbo made a noise of distress. "If you're gonna try to saddle me with a fucking quest, when I should be fucking grieving, you can bet you I'm going to get very, very trashed. Oi, Bilbo, I don't suppose there's more of this?"
The hobbit looked very confused. "Er. Your pardon?"
"Fuck it." This time, I reached across and snatched a tankard from across the table over to me. Gloin looked scandalised. Probably his drink. I tipped back the mug. Gross, ale. I hated ale.
"Gullveig," began Thorin warningly.
"No, don't you dare Thorin goddamn Oakenshield. I told you I didn't want to go on this bloody fucking quest, and now you've just made me to lie my ass off to save your fucking honour. I don't know what you could be possibly thinking except to force me into coming with you by getting everyone on board. Well, guess what? I ain't doing this anymore, mate. I told you the whole deal. You lot can save yourselves." I switched to Westron as I glared around them all with the bravery of the truly drunk. "Here is a glimpse into the future for you: Thorin and Fíli and Kíli are to die at the end of this quest."
I stood and stormed out the door.
—
Once upon a time, there was a Seer, their name lost to the vagaries of far history. They read the signs and foretold the rise of Durin, and their fall. They predicted the dragon, the loss of the Rings of Power, the sundering of old kingdoms—
And in the early days of the dwarves, they were instrumental to guiding the clans to brighter futures.
Then they disappeared.
Ah, but it was spoken that the Seer would arise anew. Like Durin, they were bound to be reborn again, and again—
Once upon a time.
But this was a dwarfling's tale, and no dwarf still believed in such old and forgotten myths.
—
I didn't get far. Halfway out the gate, I realised I had left my bag behind.
My feet took me back to Bilbo's front door before my embarrassment caught up to me. I sank down to perch on the front doorstep and didn't think very highly of myself.
Fucking Thorin Oakenshield. That dwarven king whose agitation I could feel thrumming down the Bond. I could hear nothing from behind the closed door. If there was an argument, there were keeping it quiet.
My mind drifted on a haze of alcohol. Gods, I could use more. When I sighed and leaned back on the door it gave way.
"Fuck—" I managed to catch myself on the side.
"Ah, I didn't realise—" came a voice near simultaneously. My head lolled over in my awkward sprawl to the apologetic face of one Bilbo Baggins.
"Ah, erm, ahem. Miss Gullveig, do you mind if I join you?" Bilbo hesitated, looking a little unsure as he held the door open.
"Uh, no, of course," I pushed myself up from the floor to dizzily slump against the jamb and waved a spot on the step next to me.
Bilbo glanced down then stepped fully outside, shutting the door behind him with a firm click. He settled next to me with a sigh, elbows braced on his knees. "You know," he said conversationally. "There is a perfectly good garden bench a few steps in that direction."
I eyed the hobbit. "Yes, but then I would not be sulking disconsolately at your front door."
"I suppose that's true." Bilbo tipped his head to me. "So why are you then? Sulking so disconsolately at my front door, I mean."
"Poor life choices. Alcohol. My dad died. Thorin is a cock. Honestly, it could be anything. Take your pick."
Bilbo choked and began coughing. I gave him several hard thumps on the back. "My apologies. I know why I am here, but why are you here? Too many dwarves?"
He regained his breath. "Too many dwarves—well. That is quite right. Too many dwarves and wizards, I should think!"
"But hopefully the right amount of women?" I smiled cheekily and gave him a playful nudge.
In the dark, it was hard to be sure, but I could have sworn he was blushing at that. "Ah well, you see—that is, ahem—you are of course very welcome here, but—" Bilbo cleared his throat. "Is it true? Everything you said in there?"
Oh. My mirth faded. I spoke carefully, trying to marshal my thoughts through my drunken haze. "Bilbo, I do not want to cause distress, but you must know: I meant what I said. You will become one of the most important people in Middle Earth because of this quest."
Bilbo sighed and clasped his hands together. We sat in silence. "The dwarves think I'm a burglar. Gandalf says that I'm a Took and have adventure in me. And you say that I'm going to be a great hero. Miss Gullveig, that's just not who I am. I'm not a burglar, or—or an adventurer or some hero-to-be. I'm just plain old Bilbo Baggins. I'm respectable, play a good game of conkers, and grow the best tulips this side of the Farthing-Downs. And I certainly don't plan to leave the Shire."
"Perhaps not yet, but you will," I said stubbornly.
Bilbo searched my face. "What about you?"
I looked at him askance. "What about me?"
"You don't want to go. You're terrified of going," said Bilbo, his words soft, but sure.
"Yes, I suppose I am," I said slowly. "We cannot all be heroes."
"And how do you know you're not a great hero waiting to happen?"
I laughed. "Easy, I know myself."
"And I know myself," said Bilbo pointedly. "You must know how awful it is to have a stranger insist you'll be a hero. To hang the world on your head."
"Ah. I take your point."
"Mhm." Bilbo nodded decisively and went back to staring out into the night.
My feet slid over the stony pathway to Bilbo's door, and I had a sense of surreality of the sight of my muddy Converse against the worked stone, beside Bilbo's large hairy feet.
The Shire. Hobbiton. Bag End. The Party Tree—oh the wonders hobbits made.
The latter glowed in the distance, lit by soft lanterns, a beacon, a port in the storm. Hobbiton itself was idyllic as I imagined, a cosy hug made into a sleepy town. My eyes turned to Bilbo, who looked out to the Shire as I did, with soft, wistful eyes.
Though the silence between us had drawn long, I picked up the threads of the conversation. "I am not going to talk you into coming. It is a decision you have to make yourself, not one to be forced upon you." My lips twisted at the irony. "Bilbo, what do you want your life to mean?"
Bilbo looked at his hands. "Does it have to mean something? Isn't it enough to have a long, quiet and happy life? Good food. A warm bed. A lovely home. A long life of contentment and peace."
I swallowed past the sudden lump in my throat. "I suppose not."
Overhead, Eärendil sailed across the Great Ocean in his eternal watch. I could not see Durin's Crown. I saw instead only the Hammer and the Anvil, but blocked partially by the trees, and wisps of clouds. I lowered my eyes.
In the distance, a hobbit walked up the path to his home. The door opened, admitting a stream of soft golden light into the dark. Several voices raised in cheery greetings. Then the hobbit moved into the house, and the door closed.
"And if I promised you would return?" I said quietly.
Bilbo glanced at me. "Did you See that?"
Despite the warm Shire evening, I shivered. "Yes."
Bilbo clasped his hands, a furrow in his brow, but made no attempt to speak, frowning into the dark.
"Bilbo?"
"Mmm?"
"If you are coming, remember to pack your handkerchief."
—
Once upon a time, there was a Seer, and her name was Gullveig. She warned of a deadly shadow with fiery wings, and of the end of the line of Durin.
And then she disappeared into the woods, vowing to return when her people had need of her.
But isn't that the way all such tales go?
—
Everyone's eyes were on me. I resisted the urge to cower behind the clearly braver hobbit. It had been his idea to come back in. If I had a choice, I'd have been quite happy to just disappear into the hills of the Shire and never speak to another living creature again. Surely there was a bridge I could live under, like the troll I was.
"No. If I have to go on a quest and become some important hero, then you can walk back in there and apologise," Bilbo had said.
"But why?"
"You did make quite a scene." At my despairing look, he added. "Now, young miss, you told three people they were going to die. I may not be fond of any of them, but I still find that quite unkind."
"Thorin is a fucking dick-swab, shitheel cunt stick, though," I whined with all the misery of someone who knows the other person has a point but is unwilling to admit it. "'M too drunk. 'Snot a good idea."
Bilbo's brows raised. "I'm not going to pretend I understood any of that, but I don't think I need to. Whatever Thorin has said or done, doesn't mean you take it out on everyone, including his nephews." He gave me a pointed look when I continued to childishly pout. "You'll feel better for it."
The dwarves had moved the conversation away from the dining room to the sitting room. Gandalf threw the Ring into the fire there, I remembered hazily. It also meant that I was spotted the moment I came back in.
The conversation died off the moment I walked back in, and they all turned to look at me with near-identical expressions of outrage. My hand went to my necklace.
"Uh, heyyy, 'sup?" I laughed nervously and switched to Westron. "I wish to apologise. I may have been a little… abrupt."
I avoided Thorin's eyes, for all the good that did me. The bond thrummed with the tense wariness that had characterised our initial days.
My eyes sought out and found Thorin's nephews in the crowd. Kíli gave me light nod, face set, while Fíli gave me a speculative look that slid over to where his uncle brooded in the corner.
I had a brief moment of dizziness, as I remembered holding them as babies. Dís had complained they were so much like Frerin and I that we may as well have given birth to them. I leaned my hand against the door jamb and blinked the room back into focus. I knew a moment's relief, knowing that any strangeness in action would only seem like drunkeness.
"Was it true?" Balin was closest to me, so I could clearly see his eyes gleaming with unshed tears.
I searched the faces in the room: emotions ranged, and I read shock, fear, determination, sorrow, and anger. My eyes returned to the old dwarf. Perhaps I could have lied. "Yes, it is true."
I may as well have stabbed him in the heart. His eyes shone with the pain of it and I was struck by an echo of familiar grief.
"I should not have said what I said, when I said it. But I spoke the truth. It is the cost of winning Erebor, as I have seen it."
There seemed to be nothing anyone wanted to say to that. I thought there would still be some disbelief in some of the faces gathered, but whether it was due to Thorin's oath, or the contents of the argument that took place when I'd left, I didn't know. Perhaps it was because of both.
"Gullveig, we should speak." Thorin was freighted with emotion that I was too drunk to untangle, but I was pretty sure he was pissed either way. Good. I was pissed too.
Gandalf moved up from the shadows behind me, making me jump. "Yes, I believe a conversation is in order."
I shot Bilbo an accusing look as he melted back into the shadows. Well. I may have deserved that.
Gandalf and Thorin moved across the hall into the room on the other side of the entranceway. I followed sullenly, hands clenched.
Behind us, the room erupted into whispers.
"You want her on this quest, but what I don't know is why," said Gandalf quietly, the moment we were out of earshot.
Thorin crossed his arms. "She has value. Much like your hobbit."
"She does not want to accompany us."
"Neither does your hobbit."
"Bilbo is crucial to the outcome of this quest."
"I require her."
"For what reason?"
"Okay, okay, that's it. Hey, hi! I am standing right here." I waved my arms ineffectually at them.
"I know in my heart that Bilbo has a role to play," continued Gandalf, ignoring me utterly. "I cannot say the same for this woman."
"I do not need your permission for whom I decide to add into my Company."
I stepped between them. I didn't care to deal with Thorin, so I faced Gandalf. "Talk to me, not him. What's your problem, dude?" At his look, I switched to Westron, feeling like I was pushing my brain through the holes of a cheesegrater. "I do not like being spoken of as though I was invisible. What is it you want to know of me, Gandalf?"
The wizard narrowed his eyes, and I instantly regretted everything. Here was a Maia, a demi-god, created by Illuvatar himself, before Arda had even existed, wielding one of the elven Rings of Power. Ageless and Wise, his true powers and wisdom were beyond my comprehension.
And I was drunkenly sassing him.
My world shrunk down to two eyes like blue fire. "From whence did you come, Gullveig. And what purpose drew you here?"
From a distance, I heard my voice: "I am not from here. I—I was torn away; brought here by him. He gave me no choice. I do not know his plans."
My arm was pulled and I was pushed aside roughly. The pain of that vice-like hold sent me tumbling back into a body that wavered and spun.
"You will speak to her not at all," snarled Thorin, and oh, he was as furious as I'd ever sensed him. And then he turned his fury on me. "You will be silent—No!" He snapped when I took an angry breath. "Gullveig, enough." His hand tightened on my arm. He glared at me a moment longer, and I lost my tongue. Satisfied by my silence, he looked to Gandalf, releasing me in the process.
"I will trust you with the Hobbit, if you will trust me with her. I am responsible for her fate, and you are for his."
A peculiar expression crossed Gandalf's face. He searched Thorin's face, then turned the look to me, and my sight was filled with that blue fire again. After a long moment, they released me, and the rest of the world came back. I swayed a little, and managed to catch myself. "Very well."
Seemingly satisfied, Gandalf straightened as much as he could, and strode out of the room.
Thorin made to follow him, and this time, I caught his arm.
"How—How dare you? You threw me in the fucking deep end and expected me to swim. No, worse, you dragged me down and threw weights on top of me for added spice." Forcing my voice to a whisper made my words catch in my throat. "A fucking famous Seer? And you just expected me to go with it! All I had to do was say something demonstrably untrue. Or I could've made it clear I wasn't a Seer—let alone this mythical Gullveig. And then where would you be?"
Thorin, strangely, would not meet my eyes. "So you say. But you would not, would you?"
I stared, then I sensed his shame, beneath all else, like prising back a log to find rot. Cold swamped me. "You… knew I would not fight. You knew I'd lie for you." I could've choked on those words. Fear, genuine fear gripped me, and I stepped away from him, backing until there was a low table between us. I thought I'd understood Thorin, the entirety of his being imprinted in my heart. But this was—
His eyes grazed mine and then yes, there was the shame, acknowledged, but then controlled quickly by his conviction and anger. "You have never been a fighter," he said.
Hot tears rose up, deep shame—his, my own, both together twined up in me, threatening to drag me under. I was a child again, spine straight and oh so still, my heart beating in my ears as he loomed over me and I cringed away. But Thorin had not moved, watching me with too-knowing eyes and I tried to loosen my shoulders, unclench my fists, force back my tears. Only one question flew out of my mouth: "Why, Thorin?" He would not look at me, and the tension in him was coiled so tight, I was worried it would snap and take me with it. But I had to know. "All this just to have me come with you on this quest. Why does it matter so much? Mahal's beard, why can't you let me stay here in peace?"
He finally met my eyes. "When did you start swearing by Mahal?"
A shift, a step missed in the dark, my heart falling through my stomach.
The silence that crept between us was weighted with fear. Thorin spoke into that silence, his voice hoarse and broken. "How do you not understand? I had no choice. There was no choice at all." He strode out of the room before I could respond.
Not that I would have been able to if he had chosen to wait. I could only stare after him. Fear and shame dominated the Bond. Yet it wasn't solely mine.
—
The dwarves were up far later than I was willing to stay up with a spinning head. Bilbo ushered me into a bedroom, muttering something about women needing their own space.
I think I may have argued, but by then, I struggled to put my feet in front of each other, and I may have also forgotten how to speak Westron.
Despite that, I slept poorly. Whether it was the alcohol or the new surroundings, I tossed and turned in the bed while my head span. I dozed fitfully. At one point, I dreamt of Steve and I arguing, ending with me in desperate tears. But then he'd only smiled coldly at me and said he did not care. In another one, I stood upon wind-blasted plains and looked into the East. A shadow grew there, large enough to swallow the Light.
In another, I dreamt of Thorin arguing. It is what must be done.
I do not think it wise. The other voice was resigned. This quest is perilous enough. But to know—
Erebor is worth it.
It is not—Your nephews, by Durin's beard, Thorin. Your Sister-Sons. You.
A crack. Desperation. There will be a way to save them. I know there is. A prayer, a plea.
Is that why—?
Yes. And no.
Then the voices faded out and I drifted away again.
—
I came back to consciousness slowly, gradually, like I waded through thick mud. The sheets were warm and smelled of lavender and posies. I flung out an arm, and was disconcerted to find an empty space beside me. My heart lurched sideways.
It was still dark, but I had a moment of panic as I sat up and stared into the dark, and that space beside me in bed that should've held someone, had held someone for ten years—
I was seemingly in a guest bedroom of some sort. Or perhaps Bilbo had surrendered his own bedroom; it was hard to tell, and I hadn't really taken any notice last night. I had been pretty hazy at the time.
I fell back down. A wave of exhaustion washed over me. My eyes burned.
Somewhere, deep within, there was a question, a hesitant concern, and I quashed it ruthlessly. If I let myself, if I let him for a single moment—
I squeezed my eyes shut, determinedly thinking of nothing. It seemed only a moment later that there was a hard shake to my shoulder. "Up you get, Miss Gullveig."
I groaned.
"Thorin sent me to wake you."
"Thorin? Where's Thorin?" I asked, my mind still hazy. In the not-quite-dawn light, I saw the silhouette of a dwarf, but I wasn't sure which one.
"Thorin? He's up and about somewhere in the house."
"Uh, right." I yawned. "Thanks, mate."
There was a pause, then the dwarf continued. "Yes, well. Come to the dining room, Bombur's scrounging some breakfast before we go."
He didn't wait for a response. The door made a small click as he closed it behind him. It made me wonder how good dwarf night vision was that the dwarf who woke me hadn't stumbled at all.
The events of last night were trickling back in, and I grabbed the pillow and slapped it to my face. When would I stop putting my foot in my mouth? And why the fuck did I decide to drink instead of enacting my half-baked escape plan? Now my next window was Bree. Or Rivendale—if we'd even get there given Thorin's aversion to it.
My head was spinning, and my stomach was turning, but I managed to get out of the bed.
I felt grungy and gross. Between the drinking and finally sleeping in a bed again, I desperately craved a shower. Or failing that, a bath. Besides which, my bladder was looking to burst. I felt a pit of dread, but the room didn't seem to have a bedpan. Hobbits had bathrooms? I went in search of one.
The hallways weren't lit, but the light was a little brighter in the halls, at least enough for me to navigate with only a few stumbles. There was a quiet murmur of voices from the direction of the dining room that I avoided.
I found the bathroom after two doors. Despite its small size, it managed to squeeze in a toilet (of sorts), a fat bathtub and a sink of sorts. It was still dark, but I was surprised to find drainage for all of them.
Hobbits had sewer systems? Huh. I made a mental note to ask Bilbo. What they didn't have was running water—there was a huge bucket of water by the tub, and a cautionary sniff told me it wasn't dirty. It actually smelled floral.
Hoping it wasn't a faux pas, I cleaned up as best as I could. There seemed to be a nice enough soap, scented faintly with a soft floral smell, much like the water. I mentally apologised to Bilbo for the mess I undoubtedly made in the dark.
With my body freshly cleansed, my clothes, particularly my underwear and socks, were more obviously foul after nearly a week of continuous use and heavy exercise. I almost couldn't stand to wear them any longer- but I didn't have other options.
When I was done, the hallways were still deserted, and I found my feet slowing when I could see the door, listening to the sounds of quiet conversation from the direction of the dining room. The memory of my conversation with Thorin last night crept in to fill me with remembered shame and fear. Thorin, I sensed, was nearby, but preoccupied. The way to the doorway was clear. Would I get another chance?
Thorin's cloak and clasp were left folded on the bed. I tried to keep my fear down, knowing that it would alert Thorin.
I got all the way to having my hand on the front door when I felt a prickle of awareness. I snatched my hand from the doorknob and whirled around to find Thorin emerging from the shadows, the old dwarf with the snowy beard on his heels. I blinked and realised I knew him not. Didn't I know his name? My heart pounded in my ears.
Thorin's eyes moved from me to the door.
I forced myself to stillness and looked back at him defiantly, cheeks burning.
He was not surprised to see me, nor was he angry. He was disgusted, but only faintly. He was more resigned than anything.
"Going for a walk?" Thorin's voice was very, very even.
"Yes," I nodded sharply, after too long a pause. "Just a quick one."
"With your bag?"
"Why not. Gotta get my strength up, y'know."
"Perhaps we should join you on this walk." It wasn't phrased as a question.
"Wouldn't want to inconvenience you."
The sound of a throat clearing broke in. My eyes moved from Thorin to the old dwarf. "Are you two quite done? Gullveig, what in the name of Mahal was your plan?"
There was a knowing look in his eyes that made me feel more shamed than Thorin's resigned judgement.
"I…" I trailed off when I realised I didn't have a good answer. I hadn't thought much beyond 'run'. And in going to say it aloud, realised how foolish a plan it was. A tense silence. For the first time, I realised how deep my anger went. My brief glimpse of freedom disappeared like the pop of a bubble. I considered opening the door and bolting despite it all. But Thorin was there, and at that moment all I wanted was the strength to tear the door off the hinges and fling it at his stupid stubborn face.
Back very straight, I turned and walked away. I felt their eyes on me until I turned the corner.
There was a spill of golden candlelight ahead. Behind, there was the barely audible rumble of voices. I didn't want to know what they said of me so I hurried towards the light.
It seemed like most of the dwarves were in the dining room, making surprisingly restrained conversation. Gandalf was even perched at the end of the table, mulling over a cup of tea.
I pushed down my anger and sidled into the room. "Hey. I, uh, heard there might be food?"
The big dwarf who bristled with weapons—Dwalin?—glared at me as I took a seat across from him. I tried not to look at him. I didn't need a Bond to tell that he wanted to kill me. Or at the very least, like he wanted to lock me in a room and throw away the key.
"It's mainly the leftovers from last night," said a familiar voice. A dwarf with a hat carried a loaded plate in my direction. I recognised his voice as the dwarf who woke me. "And Bombur's done up some hot food. Here you are," said Hat Dwarf, depositing a plate with a chunk of cheese, a few slices of bread and a number of tomatoes scattered on it. There was also a small pile of scrambled eggs, still steaming and a bit of meat that was probably bacon. A mug of steaming liquid was added by the dwarf I guessed was Bombur as he squeezed past. I sniffed. Some sort of herbal tea. I felt a little humbled by their kindness considering how poor an impression I had made the night before.
Well, two were being kind enough, I avoided eye contact with the still glaring warrior across from me.
My stomach turned a little at the food, but I nibbled a little for politeness' sake. Silence rippled outwards as most of the dwarves stopped talking and began to openly watch me. I put down the bread I'd been toying with and went to worrying at my necklace. "So, uh… Mornings. What a morning. Love mornings. Actually, no, that's a lie. I hate mornings. I'm a night person. Did everyone have a good morning so far?"
I glanced around. Gandalf had cocked his head to watch me with keen eyes. God that Wizard was inscrutable. Why couldn't I have known how he felt? I'd kill to know what he thought of the whole shitty business.
"Nobody's gonna say anything, huh? Just going to keep staring at me, and let me just shove my foot right in my mouth? Okay, great, cool cool cool."
Two young ones, who had been having a quiet conversation in the corner, now joined in on staring at me.
I flailed around for conversation. "Thanks for the food, and the tea?"
"What language is that?" This came from a red-headed dwarf next to the big angry one across from me. "You spoke it last night."
"I—oh. OH." I focused. "Westron is not my, uh, first language. My—my native language is known as English." I rolled out my Westron, feeling painfully uncomfortable as I did. It was one thing to know the words, and another thing entirely to speak them—my mouth was not used to shaping the words, my tongue clumsy when I tried to match the accents for the vowels. I regretted not spending more time practising with Thorin. It seemed especially hard first thing in the morning. Or, perhaps the most likely explanation was the hangover squeezing my brain out through my ears and eyes. I mentally rewound back and realised I hadn't been speaking Westron from the moment I woke. No wonder every dwarf but Thorin had reacted to me so oddly.
The dwarf leaned forwards, eyes gleaming. "So you are from far away! Is that why you talk like that?"
"Ori!" The grey-haired dwarf beside him looked reproving and pulled the younger dwarf back to sit fully in his seat. The elder dwarf turned the look onto me like I was at fault.
I stared at Ori(?), for perhaps too long to be polite. Had the hangover truly obliterated my knowledge of their names and deeds from my head?
Ori, for his part, blushed, and stammered, while the dwarf beside him looked affronted. "What's that look for, Miss," said the grey-haired dwarf and his words were polite where his tone was not.
I desperately wished for paracetamol, Hydralite, and a Maccas breakky.
I cleared my throat and swallowed my nausea. "Would everyone mind introducing themselves to me? I did not manage to get your names last night."
"Ye don't know our names already?" The warrior dwarf across from me seemed to be slowly swelling with rage. He was one scary motherfucker. It seemed like he was actually taller than me by several inches.
I managed to only slightly stumble over my words. "I do, Master Dwarf, but knowing your names and knowing whose face they belong to are different matters. Would you like me to guess?"
He glared at me for a few moments, then conceded with a slight bow of his head. "Dwalin."
That was enough to set off a round of introductions. I did my best to try and match faces to names, but I still felt like it was a lost cause. Hangover aside, I'd never been good with names. I said as much aloud.
"I have trouble with names too," said Ori. He smiled. "And I'm the Company scribe."
I tried for a smile but found I couldn't quite manage it, with all my nerves on edge. Still, Ori seemed reassured. "Perhaps you and I can compare notes. I assume you have a—oh, Westron doesn't have the phrase 'cheat sheet' —perhaps a bit of parchment with the names and faces matched up?"
"Something like that!" Ori leaned forward eagerly again while Dori beside him watched disapprovingly. "I drew little portraits."
"Really?" I was genuinely interested. I'd never given much thought to art in Middle Earth before, but now I was curious. Art was my life, at home. I wondered what period of art Middle Earth would correspond to. Surely they understood perspective in art, which put them past early-medieval art. What was their understanding of anatomy and the accepted portrayal of people? I thought first of the way it was portrayed in the movies, but then my mind flashed to illuminated texts from the middle ages, and then the romanticised odd proportions of the Renaissance. I near bounced in my seat. "Can you show me?"
Ori looked taken aback by my eagerness, and a flush ran across his face. "Of course. They're not very good, but I did my best."
"Don't say that about yourself," said his brother (Dori?), looking affronted, as Ori flipped through the pages. He addressed me directly for the first time since introducing himself. He sounded very defensive. "He's very talented, my brother. All the craftsmanship went to this one."
Ori slid the book across the table, while Dori gave me a warning look.
I peered at the book. It was reminiscent of Da Vinci's journals. Inked sketches with neat writing that near fell off the pages where it ran into other sketches. The completed drawings were mainly of the dwarves' faces, but there were little smaller, half-completed sketches around the portraits. Studies of the dwarves, mainly from last night. Talking, laughing, drinking. Here was one of Bombur, rolling off his seat, food flying into the air. Glóin and Óin playing a board game. Dwalin balancing his weapons on his fingertips.
"Oh, Ori. These are incredible." Ori's flush grew, but Dori puffed up.
I peered closer at Thorin's. Ori had captured his face, looking off into a far-off point. He looked serious and slightly sad, a little crease between his brows that I knew was when he was deep in thought. I raised my eyes over a smaller sketch that was Thorin talking to— "Is that me?"
"Aye, well, I thought it was important."
It was the moment I had ranted at Thorin before I stormed out. I was leaning aggressively towards him, hands splayed on the table. It was too small for detailed expressions, but Ori's fine hand caught the gist of the moment through the sharp shadows that gathered like a cloud around us.
"Huh. I do not believe I was that scary."
"Ye're not, lass. Ye're more like a wee pup, yapping at the thunderstorm. I wouldn't be surprised if ye pissed yerself." Dwalin's words had a sharpness to them that was honed to hurt.
I didn't know what to say so I just slid the book back across to Ori. "They are honestly some of the best I have ever seen," I said quietly. "My thanks for that."
I returned to my food. The bacon and eggs had gotten a little cold while I'd been admiring the art. I tried eating some anyway, but could hardly eat while Dwalin was glaring down at me.
"Hmph, just as I thought," growled Dwalin. "So you'd insult our King to his face, spit at his honour, but haven't the nerve to even stand up for yourself."
Dwalin stood and leaned across the table. I shrank down, heart thundering in my chest, a ringing in my ears, familiar, oh so familiar—
The rest of the dwarves seemed content to watch the by-play. A faint thought, an awareness of knowledge granted by the Bond: dwarves respected strength, and this was my fight. All I had to do was stand up to Dwalin, and they'd accept me.
Dwalin stared me down. I breathed, I counted, I made a crumbled tower of cheese bits. The light caught on an old scar at the back of my hand and I had to move that hand under the table. And not once did I look up.
He made a contemptuous sound and leaned back. I felt every eye on me like a brand, but I breathed out and promised myself: only until Rivendell. Just put up with them till then.
Thorin entered with the only dwarf missing from the introductions trailing behind him. Balin, I assumed. The older dwarf looked troubled, though his expression so quickly smoothed into a neutral mask as he entered the room that it could've been a trick of the light.
Thorin was filled with a fatalistic conviction. Fury, sudden and helpless, rose up in me at the sight of him. The bread squeezed to pulp in my hands. I forced out a shuddering breath. Fucking Thorin. My jaw worked as I determinedly unclenched it.
"Miss Gullveig," Balin addressed me, an odd twist to his voice I couldn't name. He handed me a folded bit of parchment, his face twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Your contract."
I hoped my apprehension didn't show on my face. In slow motion my hand reached out of my own volition.
It was written in Cirth runes, which I was happy to find I could read. Though, much like Westron, there was a slight hitch in my brain that made the reading slow going.
"Says I am being hired as a 'wise-woman,'" I said aloud. I tried to blank my expression, but knew my mouth twisted.
"Yes, that would be the job," said Balin, in his curiously weighted voice. I looked up at him, then around. Everyone was watching me with solemn or speculative faces.
"Which means what exactly?"
Balin shot an unreadable look at Thorin. Thorin tilted his head fractionally and I caught a quick gesture that I recognised as Iglishmêk that I pretended not to understand. Balin gave me a sparse smile. "Well, lass. The contract lays out the terms. But essentially, that would be the business of helping us win Erebor."
The contract was vaguely worded that I would provide 'insight' and 'knowledge' to assist the Company. There was not a promise of a fifteenth share of treasure, as there had been with Bilbo's. I wondered at that, for a moment, then realised that, of course there couldn't be. The other contracts had already been signed and filed, with only Bilbo's around to amend.
Instead, I was offered—
Well, if I wasn't mistaken, it was part of Thorin's share. Amounting to no more than my weight in gold tripled. It was a laughable amount of treasure, relative to the others. But then—I didn't want the money, so I wasn't offended, per say—
Almost, I wondered if it was some standardised amount for contracts, but the part of my brain that housed that knowledge seemed to be getting progressively squeezed out my skull with every thrum of my heart as my hangover made itself known.
I scanned the parchment, playing with my necklace, the comforting zip of the pendant running up and down the chain settled my nerves. My eyes returned to Balin.
Balin peered at me, a keen gleam in dark eyes. "Ask your question, lass."
I really had the worst poker face. I hesitated, still, looking around at the gathered dwarves. "You do not want me to save Thorin, or Fíli, or Kíli?" I asked haltingly.
All the air left the room. It was all I could do to not look at Thorin or his nephews, my eyes locked on Balin. His face wore pain unmasked. I wondered again at what Thorin had said to convince them of my veracity so completely.
"No." Balin's eyes moved over the contract. "It was… decided that this was the agreement we would make with you. Win Erebor. At all costs."
"At all costs," I echoed in a hollow voice. Another surge of dizzying, helpless anger washed through me towards Thorin for putting me in this position. The edges of the contract crumpled beneath my hands. The crackling was too loud and the room too quiet, the stares of many solemn dwarf eyes like a weight around my neck. I released my death grip on the parchment and smoothed it out beneath my fingers. The creases remained.
"I will need a quill," I said.
Ori was the one who slid a quill and ink pot across to me.
I dipped the quill into the ink and held it awkwardly. Thorin gave me the name 'Gullveig', but I didn't know how to spell that, based on just the phonetics and a spotty translation into Cirth runes. And…
It didn't feel right to sign with a false name. It felt too dishonest; a bizarre moral line given I was neck deep in lies, and had no intention of fulfilling the contract I was signing.
Ink dripped. It made a small splotch.
I exhaled slowly.
Another drop of ink joined the first.
It was just a signature. It didn't have to mean anything.
Drip. The third drop nearly hit Thorin's name.
I shook my head and re-dipped my quill. As if in a fever dream, I watched myself write. I used my real name. Using the Roman Alphabet, not Cirth. It was splotchy at best, given my unease with quill and ink. But it was my signature and it flowed out of me easily despite the unfamiliar tools.
And there it was: my name in shining ink, a hook fastened to my heart as a little of my resolve flaked away. My dad had always believed that your word was your bond; there were no idle promises in our family. I pushed it back across to Balin wordlessly, the eyes of the Company following the contract across the table.
Balin frowned over it, the unfamiliar writing that contrasted with neat runes. For a moment, I saw how he saw it. Where the runes were clear lines, evenly spaced, my signature was a near illegible scribble that looked like I'd just been playing with the quill.
Almost, Balin looked ready to contest it, but Thorin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. His eyes scraped over my signature, before coming to meet my eyes. I fought to keep my feelings from my face, but they welled up in me all the same; misery and anger, a slow, helpless sickness that rose to swallow my heart. He turned to Balin and nodded.
Balin took a breath like he would argue. But what came out was: "Very well. Welcome to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, Miss Gullveig."
Silence greeted his proclamation. I felt the weight of the Company's judgement and knew I came up wanting. My hands went to my necklace, the feel of the pendant a familiar comforting weight in that awful, heavy empytiness.
Thorin broke the silence. "Make ready to leave."
The Company burst into action. Bombur double-timed eating. Fíli and Kíli just about dropped their plates and near ran out the door. Ori smiled at me and tucked his sketchbook back in. Dori bundled his brother out the door, with barely a nod at me. Bofur and Bifur collected all the discarded plates and cutlery and cleaned them with a speed and efficiency that rivalled modern dishwashers.
Dwalin was the last to leave, with one scalding, backwards look over his shoulder.
I crossed my arms watching Thorin. He stood to one side of the door, as the dwarves shuffled out, one by one, leaving me, the king and Gandalf, who continued smoking contemplatively in the corner.
Had I ever felt so trapped before in my life?
"So. Wise-woman," I said waspishly, once I'd collected my thoughts.
"You do know the future," said Thorin, mirroring my pose and crossing his own arms. He was weary of me. He didn't want to have this conversation.
I clenched my jaw as the burning helpless outrage rose in me again. "The contract?"
"A requirement for the quest we embark upon," Thorin said shortly. "You signed your name."
"Like I had a choice."
"You were not forced."
I ground my teeth. Gandalf watched us both with eyes gleaming like a well-sharpened knife, and I decided then I didn't want the argument either. At least not in front of the wizard. A little chill damped my anger when I realised I'd reverted to English in front of him. And Thorin had clearly understood. "Is Bilbo awake yet?" I asked Gandalf, hoping my face didn't look as guilty as I felt.
Gandalf blew out smoke and I tried not to ignore how closely he looked at me. "No one has seen him this morning," said the wizard eventually. "I believe he is still abed."
I nodded, and drummed my fingers on the table while both of them watched me. "What if he decides not to come because of something I said?"
"Then we are fortunate you know what needs to be done," interjected Thorin.
"Yeah, except for the dragon thing," I said tightly to him. "I ain't going in there for all the gold in Erebor, so you better hope he shows."
Thorin's mouth straightened into a harsh line. Shit. English again. I needed to drop the habit of reverting to English and fast. It wasn't possible for Gandalf's stare to be any sharper, but I didn't need to hand him targets to test its edge.
"Have faith in Bilbo." Gandalf cut into my thoughts. "Your words came as a shock, but they may be the push he needed."
I shook my head. "He was going to come anyway. I might have tipped the scales back."
Gandalf considered me. "And that is why you must have faith."
I had nothing to say to that. My faith died a slow, sad death.
Outside, the sun was painting the sky with purples and reds, but I could only see a pale knuckly hand, laying lax on a sterile sheet.
A/N: It's the Company! As much as I like writing the poetic angst of Thorin/Ellie, Ellie/The Company is a lot of fun.
Dvalin is my creation, his name is from the Poetic Edda, specifically the Voluspa, in which Tolkien poached most Dwarven names.
Now that Thorin's cat is out of the bag: Heith and Gullveig weren't just from the Voluspa, but they're also associated with seers, and gold.
I hope it's not too confusing, but I won't be calling out every instance of when she's speaking English vs Westron. If Ellie isn't aware, then we don't get to know!
Tolkien lore stuff:
There are seven dwarven clans. The Longbeards aka Durin's Folk are the ones we're most familiar with being the ones of Erebor and Moria, but the Broadbeams are another. There were some dwarves who lived in the Blue Mountains, but were not specified as belonging to any particular clan prior to the refugees from Erebor. Belegost is one of the dwarven cities of the First Age that got wrecked and then later abandoned for Khazad-dum early in the Second Age and never resettled.
For the purposes of the story, I'm saying that it was reinhabited by dwarves, especially after the fall of Moria (the Broadbeams), and then later by Ereborians.
