I never really 'got it' when authors would write about their characters wanting to do things differently than how they, the author, wanted it done...and now I know. If any of you think my characters are moving WAAAAAY too fast...believe me, I feel it too. The struggle is real. XD I have to pull the reins on my characters all the time and tell them "No! That's not realistic! I'm trying to write a respectable story that's worthy of reviews! Get back in line where I put you!"

And for those who think they're moving fast but it's a good fast...well, I'm glad! And I'm sorry if this chapter slows it down just a tad. Please leave a review either way!

And, as always enjoy the chapter!

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"Sometimes people don't want to hear the truth because they don't want their illusions destroyed. The truth may hurt for a little while, but a lie hurts forever." - Unknown

~Chapter 12~

Seers, Songs, and Spiders

Perhaps it's just a fantasy of mine that I can pop future knowledge on Thorin and everything be hunky dory. And while, yeah, sure, I knew it wouldn't be easy, I certainly didn't expect it going anything like this.

The next day, Thorin is silent towards me. And I had been 100% sure it would be the exact opposite.

Wasn't he going to assault me with pointed and difficult questions? Isn't he going to demand I tell him everything? His family is the most important thing to him...so wouldn't he, at the very least, demand that we turn the company around and then I'd have to have a long exhausting conversation in order to convince him otherwise?

In fact, it's so out of character for him that I wonder if I ever really knew his character at all! I'm at a loss as to what's going on in his head, what he might be thinking or feeling. He's as impenetrable as Fort Knox, refusing to even glance in my direction. I study him for any tell-tale signs of stress. And while I can tell he's tense, he does a pretty good job of holding it together.

It just doesn't make sense! One moment he and Dwalin had been amused at my flustered state as I walk away and the next morning, he pretends I don't even exist. What gives?

As a couple of days pass, the company inching 25 miles closer to our destination every day, I finally reach the only conclusion I can: He thinks I'm lying, so he's cut me off.

The mere thought that he might consider me a liar churns my stomach and makes me feel nauseous. Why on Middle Earth would I lie about something so monumental? Up until now, I've been nothing but honest with everyone! To a fault even!

Well...mostly honest.

You'd think that if someone from another world came to yours, claiming to know the future, and offered a coin from your treasure hoard in Erebor as proof, you might give them at least a smidgen of credit. He accepted my apology and told me that he believed in my genuine intentions towards the group. So, why wouldn't he trust me now?

Apparently, the joke's on me because Thorin, it seems, doesn't trust many people.

When I inform Gandalf about the situation he hurrumps and shoots me a stern look. "Serves you right. I told you to keep your foresight to yourself! We do not know the consequences of what may happen!"

I groan with exasperation, "Gandalf! If the Valar sent me to save Thorin from Azog, then why the hell would I NOT tell him that he's alive!? What would be the motive for keeping that VERY important tidbit secret? That'd be counterproductive to my mission here!"

Gandalf sighs, "You heard Balin's story...no one comes back from battle without having lost a piece of themselves there. Thorin may have cut off Azog's hand, but Azog cut Thorin's heart."

"Do I pull him aside and talk to him about it?" I worry aloud.

Gandalf falls into a brief silence, deep in thought, "You have only told him the truth. And truth is the only thing that endures at the end of the day. Perhaps it is indeed for the best that you spoke to him of it. If Thorin does not believe you, he eventually will. Until then he'll have no one but himself to blame for his stubbornness." He gives me a kind smile, "Do not fret too much about it, my dear. These things have a way of working themselves out."

That evening as we relax for the night, a sigh escapes my lips as I kneel onto my bedroll, ready to climb in and sleep. I resign myself to the rest of the trip being like this between Thorin and I. It sucks, but I'll be alright. I'm just going to hang out with all the less moody dwarves in the company, and have myself a grand old time while King Jerk can enjoy his quiet time.

I'll leave him alone. I'll maintain my distance. I'll be a perfect member of this company! And at the Battle of the Five Armies, I'll hire an elf with some gold that Bilbo will lend me out of his share (he's only going to take a couple of chests home anyways) and he'll tail Thorin throughout the battle and take out the Pale Orc with his expert shot. I'll work out all the details later.

All of my perfectly laid plans are shot to hell when I lock gazes with the beady little eyes of the spawn of Satan himself...staring at me from the soft sanctuary of my pillow. Patiently waiting for me.

A scream rips from my throat, slicing through the silence like a blade, "AHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

My skin crawls as if invaded by a thousand invisible insects, my heart hammers against my ribcage, and my hands' spasm in cold clammy sweat.

The company springs into action, their reactions as swift and alarmed as if the gates of Moria had just spewed forth a horde of Balrogs.

A Balrog, I can handle. This...this is a different beast entirely.

"AHHHHHH! SPIDER! IT'S ON MY PILLOW! GET IT OFF! BILBO! HELP!" My voice is a desperate plea, my words tumbling over each other in panic., "NOT MY PILLOOOW! NOOO! GET OFF MY PILLOOOOOW! GET OFF!"

"What is the meaning of this!?" Thorin roars, struggling to be heard over my frantic cries. He strides over, his eyes narrowing at my shivering, frantic form.

"Spider!... on my pillow!" I manage to choke out, my skin crawling with phantom sensations, goosebumps rising like tiny mountains across my body.

"Calm yourself, woman!" Thorin snarls, "Or you'll alert every foul creature from here until the Misty Mountains!"

Deep breaths, I remind myself, echoing my dad's soothing voice in my head. Just keep breathing, and the panic will subside.

Thorin's angry gaze turns into confusion as he grasps the authenticity of my terror. This isn't some contrived damsel-in-distress act; this is raw, unfiltered fear.

"Miss Peyton, calm yourself," Thorin commands, his tone still firm but now laced with a hint of uncertainty.

"I...I ca...I ca..." I stutter, my lungs refusing to cooperate, feeling as if they've been drained of all air.

I've encountered spiders in Middle Earth before. Of course, I have. And usually, I'll just emit a small squeal of fear and retreat to the opposite side of the camp while Bilbo, brave and lovely friend that he is, will shoo the spider elsewhere. But this time it's different. The little demon was taking a nap on my pillow, which is where my face sleeps. It was lying in wait, biding its time until I would lay my head down. And then it would attack with it's fangs! Or lay eggs in my ear! Or spin webs in my hair!

The edges of my vision start to blur.

If I don't manage to calm down soon, I fear I might faint. I try to take deep breaths, trying to do what my dad taught me. Just keep breathing and the panic attack will pass.

Thorin strong hands firmly grip both of my upper arms and he holds me still, perhaps sensing the same thing about to happen as he orders, "Yes you can, Miss Peyton. Now focus. Look at me."

I force my eyes to meet his. His blue eyes are close and intense, commanding my full attention. "Breathe in. Breathe out."

It's the first time we've really made eye contact in three days. And now I'm being overwhelmed by it. I attempt to look away, but his voice orders again, "Look at me." Causing my eyes to snap back to his.

Gradually, under his steady guidance, my breaths become less frantic, more controlled as the fresh air calms the storm within me.

"Now," Thorin's voice is a gravelly rumble, calm yet firm, tinged with a hint of annoyance. "Can you explain to me what just happened?"

"There was a spider on my pillow." I explain.

"Yes, I know. But did it bite you?" He questions more gruffly.

"No." I calmly respond, maintaining eye contact.

"Then why did you scream?"

"Because...it was on my pillow," I explain again.

"She has arachnophobia," Bilbo interjects, obviously the better communicator out of the two of us, causing Thorin to break eye contact to turn around to face him. "It's, uh, an intense fear of spiders. I had to eradicate my home of them completely. Which, is very difficult to do when you live underground!" He chuckles, attempting to lighten the mood, but it falls short on the face of Thorin's temper.

Thorin turns back to me, and breaths a heavy sigh through his nose as if it's taking all his willpower to deal with this right now, "In the future, Miss Peyton, I would advise you not to scream as if you are being murdered lest you attract the attention of something far worse than a spider." His tone is biting.

He turns from me and walks past Bilbo.

I feel embarrassed and full of shame. I can't help it, although I desperately wish I could. Fear isn't something you can turn on or off. I've tried. I've gone to zoos and aquariums where they have spiders in glass boxes and I try to look at them. But when I do-my skin does something weird where it will prickle and tingle and I'll feel as if the spider I'm looking at is physically crawling all over my body, searching for a tender place to bite.

I make Bilbo switch his pillow with me. Both pillows are his, so he thankfully doesn't mind that much. And then I place my bedroll in between Kili and Fili, both of them promising that no spiders will get past them. And I believe it. Their snores are so loud it's sure to scare away any spiders.

Thorin frowns at us from across camp where he is laying down to sleep. I know he must view it as a bit improper, but he does nothing to stop it so it must be alright.

As I am forcing myself to fall asleep with thoughts of butterflies and ladybugs, the memory of Thorin's fury comes back to me. A strange thought occurs to me that I may have actually frightened Thorin with my shrieking cries. I'm willing to bet that, despite himself, a Pale Orc was the first thing that shot into his mind like an arrow when he first heard my scream.

I find myself standing in the heart of my bustling living room, surrounded by my family. My nieces and nephews dart around, their laughter echoing as they chase each other with cans of silly string and playfully bop balloons on each other's heads. The walls are adorned with decorations and balloons, hinting at a celebration. Ah, a party!

"Duck and cover, kids!" I chuckle as Jillian and Henry whizz past me, their hands filled with water balloons. They pay me no mind, their focus solely on their playful warfare.

I make my way into the kitchen, where all the adults seem to have congregated.

"Katelyn is starting kindergarten this year," my brother Paul announces, cradling my sleeping baby niece, Annabelle, in his arms.

"She's growing up so fast." my sister-in-law, Tricia, laments at his side.

My gaze shifts to my mom, who is nodding and I freeze, taken aback. My mother appears to have shed a significant amount of weight, and dark circles mar the skin beneath her eyes. Despite her frail appearance, she attempts to maintain a cheerful facade.

She nods and forces a smile, saying, "They really do. Before you know it, she'll be bringing home boyfriends, and then you'll REALLY have your hands full."

My brothers erupt into laughter, each one chiming in with their own set of impossible rules they've established for their children regarding dating, some as absurd as forbidding it until they're thirty.

"Come on, guys, you've got to let them grow up someday," I retort, rolling my eyes at their overprotectiveness.

They ignore me.

"Alright, the cake's ready! Let's round up the kids and sing 'Happy Birthday'," my dad announces, turning around from where he'd been standing at the counter with his back towards me.

I gasp as I take in his appearance. "Dad?" I whisper, shocked. I hadn't even realized it was him with his back turned to me. His once dark brown hair is now peppered with more grey than I've ever seen before, with matching bags under his eyes.

He doesn't acknowledge me, and a wave of anxiety washes over me.

As my brother Craig emerges from the kitchen, his piercing whistle reverberates through the house, commanding everyone's attention. "Alright, it's birthday time!" he exclaims. "Everyone to the table!"

In a whirlwind of chaos, all eleven of my nieces and nephews flood into the already crowded room, their voices blending into a symphony of shouts, shrieks, cries, and laughter. The adults scramble to restore order, attempting to coax the children into settling down and taking their seats at the table like civilized human beings.

"Here, Emily, sit at the head of the table," my mom directs, guiding Emily to the front.

Ah, so it's Emily's birthday... I realize, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

Emily assumes her place with grace, resembling a quiet and sweet princess amidst the boisterous commotion of her cousins. She's always been the quietest of my nieces, very observant for her age. I quickly count the candles and remember that she's turning nine this year.

After several failed attempts to hush the excited chatter, my dad takes charge, igniting the candles atop the cake. As the room plunges into darkness, the soft glow of the flickering flames becomes the centerpiece of attention.

"Happy birthday to you...Happy birthday to you..." The familiar tune fills the room, and I find myself overcome with emotion at the sight of all family gathered together. It's a rare occurrence for us all to be in the same place at the same time. With some living in California, Idaho, Arizona, and Utah, we're scattered across the West Coast, managing to convene maybe only once a year. But for a simple birthday? It's very unusual.

"Happy birthday, dear Emily! Happy birthday to you!" The final notes ring out, followed by a chorus of cheers.

"Alright, sweetheart. Make a wish!" My sister-in-law, Kate, says with her hands on Emily's shoulders.

Emily doesn't hesitate. She takes the deepest breath her little lungs can muster and blows with all her might. The room erupts into applause as she successfully extinguishes all the candles in one go. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice my mom discreetly wiping a tear from her cheek.

"What did you wish for?" my nephew, Jackson, inquires.

"I wished for Aunt Peyton to come home," Emily confesses, her smile tinged with sadness.

My stomach drops in dread. What?

A heavy silence descends upon the room, extinguishing the lighthearted cheerfulness that had filled the air just moments ago. The adults exchange somber glances, their faces reflecting the weight of desperation and worry that their laughter and jokes have hidden so far.

I take a step back in disbelief, my skin crawling. I feel like a ghost, unseen by my own family. My brother Andrew is the closest to me, and I reach out to touch his shoulder. Strangely, I can... but he doesn't react.

A cold realization dawns on me. I must be dreaming. Or worse, trapped in a nightmare.

My eldest brother Isaac offers a comforting nod and gently pats his daughter on the back. "We all wish that, Emily," he murmurs, his voice filled with empathy.

"I love you, Emily! I'll find a way back to you. I'm not dead!" I cry out, my heart breaking at the sight of the sorrowful expressions that surround the room.

"Alright, enough of this sadness!" My dad interjects, his voice shaky as he attempts to hold the family together as he's always done. He doesn't want the little kids getting sad too, "The police will find Peyton soon enough. Who wants cake and ice cream?!"

It's a rhetorical question, as the children immediately start bouncing in their seats, their excitement filling the room with a chorus of exuberant exclamations. My mom leaves the room in a rush and my sister, Natalie, follows after her.

Suddenly, the dream takes a sharp turn, and I find myself engulfed in a wave of terror as I discover myself once again within the eerie confines of the mysterious grey castle. This time, however, I am inside its foreboding walls. Sinister spikes protrude from the stone, exuding a malevolent aura. Lifeless vines slither in twisted patterns, crawling up the walls and through the cracks, adding to the unsettling atmosphere. I'm shaking head to toe.

The silence is deafening, broken only by the ghostly whisper of the wind and my own terrified breaths. I take a few tentative steps, my footfalls shattering the stillness despite my best efforts to move quietly.

I know this is a dream, but all this scenario needs is some Jaws theme music and I'm going to lose my sh-…...uh, my mind.

I round a corner and let out a scream as a horrifying black mist engulfs me, swirling around me in a terrifying dance. The sensation is dreadful, bringing to mind the description of a dementor's kiss, where all light and hope seem to be sucked out of you, leaving only darkness in its wake. A chilling voice invades my mind, its words a jumbled mess of unfamiliar sounds.

Amirz are lat? amal kramp lat skaat?

The harsh syllables echo in my head, their meaning elusive, their tone ominous. Fear grips me tighter, the strange language adding another layer of terror to the already nightmarish situation.

"Aaaahhhrgh!" I gasp, instinctively covering my head and collapsing to my knees. The black mist seems to grow more oppressive, pressing against me with an unsettling force.

Lat give izish later bugud? Amat are lat katu?

The voice persists, its words still foreign and incomprehensible.

"I don't understand!" I yell back, frustration and fear mingling in my voice. "Leave me alone!"

The black mist continues to swirl, while the voice falls silent, as if contemplating my words.

Thou speakest the common tongue?

The voice suddenly asks, its words now clear and understandable. My eyes widen in surprise as the dark mist finally makes sense.

I jolt awake, gasping for breath. I glance around, trembling and disoriented, at the sleeping figures barely visible by the coals of our now low fire. I'm in Middle Earth. The others are still asleep, undisturbed by my ordeal. Only one person was a witness to my frightened and shivering display, and he is on watch duty.

Thorin's dark eyes bore into me questioningly from where he sits nearby on a log. He's very close, most likely having chosen that spot to keep an eye on the three of us like a concerned parent at a sleepover.

"I didn't scream...did I?" I whisper to him, unable to suppress another shiver that runs through me, my fear still lingering.

He's silent for a moment, and something akin to concern flashes over his face before disappearing once more. He shakes his head, "No." His rumble is quiet, an attempt to not wake his nephews who are both snoring softly.

I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding and run a hand through my sweaty hair. This is the second time I've had a dream like this. The first time was with Bilbo and I had woken him with how loudly I had screamed.

I feel the need to talk about my dream with someone, and though he doesn't volunteer, poor Thorin just happens to be the unfortunate soul awake at the moment.

"I... I've been having these strange dreams," I begin, my quiet voice filled with a mix of apprehension and vulnerability. "In these dreams, I see my family mourning me. I try to communicate to them, but I can't. It's like I'm a ghost or something. And then, suddenly, I find myself in this dark and creepy castle. A...black mist creature surrounds me, suffocating me with fear and hopelessness." I turn to back to face Thorin, my eyes wide with fear and uncertainty.

My voice trembles as I whisper, more to myself than to him, "Do you think... do you think that I might actually BE dead? That this is my afterlife, and I just haven't accepted it yet?"

Thorin's eyebrows furrow. Perhaps he's surprised that I'm telling him this of all people, but his expression turns thoughtful before finally shaking his head a second time. "No," he murmurs again.

Looking away from him, I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the chill I feel settle over me. Despite his response, the idea of being trapped in some sort of limbo, unable to fully move on, begins to take hold. It would explain the dreams of home where no one can sense me, and it makes even more sense than the coma theory. But the idea is sickening; that maybe I am dead and I don't even realize it, like a twisted form of the movie, the Sixth Sense, but I'm constantly trapped in a Middle Earth fantasy of my own making.

A movement catches my attention, and I turn back to Thorin. He reaches into his pocket and retrieves the Malkudur coin from Erebor, its golden surface glinting in the dying firelight.

"I cannot say for certain, of course," he rumbles, his voice steady and reassuring, "but unless this coin killed you, your death wouldn't make sense with your story of how you arrived."

In a sudden motion, he flips the coin with a resounding TING!, sending it soaring through the air in a graceful arc towards me. With a gasp, I snatch it from the air, my fingers instinctively closing around it. I turn my gaze back to Thorin, filled with questions.

He nods towards me, a surprisingly gentle look in his eyes. "Keep hold of it for a while. You seem to need it more than I do."

A wave of overwhelming gratitude washes over me as I clutch the coin, its warmth from his pocket seeping into my frigid hands. I'm at a loss for words, my mind filled with a mix of confusion and appreciation. Thorin's keen observation and thoughtful gesture touch me deeply, offering a glimmer of comfort in this unsettling situation.

"Thank you," I whisper, my voice barely audible, as I hold onto the coin with all my might, as if it serves as a lifeline to reality.

Thorin gives a small nod in acknowledgment, then turns back to his night watch duty.

I continue to remain awake though, my mind grappling with doubts and uncertainties, unable to go to sleep now. I remind myself of certain facts: I had my cellphone and tic-tacs with me, items that most in my world would agree CAN'T be taken to the afterlife. Furthermore, if I were truly dead, why would my mindset be in the world of The Hobbit? Why not a fantastical realm where I'm a happy little unicorn? I'm just saying.

Unless... this is hell?

I glance over at Thorin's quiet form, a playful thought crossing my mind. Nah. Too many attractive guys for this to be hell. The two brothers beside me continue their sweet slumber as I take in their uncle's hunched posture, the smoke curing from the pipe held in his hand and the matter of Azog comes back to me.

"Thorin?" I venture, emboldened by the kindness he's shown me.

He glances back at me.

"I'm sorry for the way I told you about Azog. All I could think about was how much I wanted you to know and it didn't come across like I'd hoped."

Instead of calming him, like I had last time, my apology seems to ruin Thorin's peaceful mood.

He shakes his head and turns away, "Miss Peyton, I must insist that you cease this nonsense." His voice is calm but cold as he shuts down the conversation.

"You think I'm lying, don't you," I whisper, feeling the blood drain from my face. Have I really messed up that bad by warning him?

Thorin releases a deep sigh before turning to look at me once more. He watches my face for a long, contemplative moment before finally responding with a frown. "No. I do not believe you are lying. But seers..." He pauses, seemingly searching for the right words. "Seers have a peculiar reputation amongst my kind. Not everything they predict comes to pass. Much of it is symbolic and not to be taken literally." His voice carries a gruffness as if some old memory haunts him.

I frown and tilt my head, seeking clarification. "So, you don't think I'm lying... but you believe I'm, what? Inventing all of this in my head? That I'm as mad as Boin?"

He says nothing and his silence is the confirmation I need.

I suddenly feel...almost relieved. I let out a chuckle to myself and shake my head. His silence towards me now made more sense. He seems to think that because I'm a 'seer,' I say weird things and spout cryptic nonsense with multiple interpretations. It's as if he believes I'm into crystals, tarot cards, and speaking with the dead or something. While a small part of me feels offended, the rational side of me reminds me that it's better than him thinking I'm a liar or malicious. Besides, in a fantasy world, anything can become possible. Who knows? Maybe I am a little crazy.

"What do I need to do to prove to you that I'm not crazy?" I ask with an amused smile.

I've never had to prove I'm not crazy to someone before. This could be interesting.

Thorin's eyes reflect the orange glow of the fire's dying coals as he contemplates my question. It seems to have stumped him. "Proving one's sanity in a world as fantastical as this is not a straightforward task, Miss Peyton." He finally responds, his voice carrying a hint of resignation.

I realize that a part of him might actually prefer to believe I'm just a delusional seer. It would offer a simpler explanation than having to confront the intricate web of Azog's looming threat.

And with that realization, it's like a light comes on inside my head, and I suddenly see a reflection of myself in Thorin. We share a common approach to dealing with inconvenient truths. In our own stubborn ways, he and I are both grappling with the inexplicable nature of our circumstances. I can't help but remember how long it took Dr. Pudbrook to convince me that I was truly in Middle Earth. It had taken a painful, skull-breaking rap on my head with a cane to wake me up to my situation. Could it be that Thorin needs a similar jolt to accept the reality before him?

Perhaps, in time, my actions will speak louder than words. If I can genuinely help the company on this trip, if I can prove my worth during our journey, then maybe he will come to trust my insights more.

I nod to my inner dialogue with myself and look into the distance as I speak my thoughts out loud, "This entire situation—me being here in another world—it was all so confusing and strange at first. It took me a while to accept it." Catching his gaze, my voice turns almost pleading, "If I had waited until Azog showed up at the end, would you have felt better or worse when you realized that I knew all along?"

Thorin's eyes darken as I persist in my claim about Azog, but he maintains his silence. I can sense his frustration, as he grapples with the same inner turmoil that once consumed me. He's holding onto his denial out of sheer desperation, a familiar struggle that I can empathize with completely.

I don't blame him for his reaction; in fact, I understand it all too well. In that brief moment, I catch a glimpse of his vulnerability beneath the stoic exterior he presents to the outside world. This trip's going to be a hard journey and I may have just made it harder on him. He's been warned of what may lie in wait at the end of the road.

But if he manages to navigate this treacherous path and emerge victorious, this experience will undoubtedly forge him into a stronger leader in the end.

I continue in sincerity, "I don't know how Boin is, and I don't know how your seers operate in this world, but you can trust that I'm trying to change the future, not just simply talk about it. I hope that by the time all of this is over—and assuming I survive this mess—we can be friends."

It's undoubtedly a long shot. But to return home with the ability to claim Thorin Oakenshield as a friend would be the highest honor.

He contemplates my words and hopeful expression before finally huffing out a frustrated breath and shaking his head, "Miss Peyton...you are unlike anyone I have ever encountered in my long years." He falls silent again, at war with himself before continuing, "While I may not fully understand or even agree with everything you claim, there is...an undeniable strength of will that you possess. A stubborn determination to do things in your own peculiar way that seems to serve you well." Thorin's voice carries a hint of grudging acknowledgment.

I feel hope spark a light inside of me. His words are a surprising mixture of sternness and understanding, leaving me with a sense of cautious optimism.

He continues, his gaze steady. "As for friendship...we shall see."

It's a small step, and not exactly what I was hoping for. But in a world as vast and uncertain as Middle Earth, it's a significant one.

I offer him a grateful smile and nod. We may not have resolved all the complexities of our situation, but at least we have once more found that common ground to build upon as we continue our journey together. I just wish we could stop slipping off of it.

Even though there's no epic travel music, we have a constant soundtrack to our journey. The company has sung every single day since leaving the Shire. All the time. Whenever they feel like it. Thorin sings very frequently as well, to my immense satisfaction. I do my best to keep a polite look on my face when he does, but inside I'm ecstatic. Their voices fill the air with melodies of battle, adventure, loss, love, and everything in between. Drinking and Feasting are some of the favorite genres of this predominantly male group. The melodies are unfamiliar to me, often reflecting our current adventures and experiences.

Of course, this whole 'getting sucked into Middle Earth' thing would be a huge opportunity wasted if I didn't sing the most famous dwarf song of all...

"Hi ho! Hi ho! It's off to Erebor I go!" I sing cheerfully, punctuating the melody with a playful whistle. "Hi ho! Hi ho!"

"You're singing offbeat."

I turn in surprise to find Thorin riding his black pony beside me, as casually and naturally as if he's always done this. It feels like an olive branch, that he's begun communicating with me once more and I eagerly take it.

Hiding my surprise with a chuckle, I tease him with a mischievous glint in my eyes. "Well, excuse me, Mr. I-Sing-So-Beautifully-I-Make-Angels-Cry! It's not the original lyrics to the song, so it doesn't have a good rhythm."

I actually sing very well. Besides joining chorals my entire high school years and being a lead soloist a few times, I was forced through ten years of piano lessons. Long story short, I know how to carry a tune. But the word 'Erebor' has 3 syllables instead of 'work' or 'home' which has only one. So, of course, my singing is offbeat since I am singing more as a joke than for show.

He's silent for a moment, processing my compliment with a small smile. He finally moves past it and asks, "What are you singing about?"

I grin, excited to share the story behind the song. "It's about seven dwarves who take in a lost human princess, and they always sing this tune while they're going to and from working in the mines in the woods. It's a children's fairytale. I thought that since you're all dwarves and I'm a human woman, it was fitting for the occasion."

"Well, let's hear it then."

I hesitate for a moment before responding, "You just did."

Thorin furrows his brow in confusion. "No, you only sang the first verse."

I feel a blush creep up my cheeks as I scratch my head sheepishly. "Yeah, they, uh, they just repeat it over and over again."

The dwarves burst into laughter and make fun of me for a long time after that. No, seriously. They tease me relentlessly for days. Apparently, in Middle Earth when people sing, it's like they are telling a story. They don't repeat the same lines over and over again in a chorus. No such thing as a 'chorus' here, which is mind-boggling to me.

I try to share my other songs with them, in an attempt to redeem my musical era, but it makes me realize that all the popular songs on the radio are very short and rely on the chorus to carry it along. Each time I sing the chorus, the dwarves playfully remind me that I've already sung that part. It becomes a running joke among us, and I can't help but laugh along with them, grateful for the lighthearted moments amidst our grand adventure.

However, there is one song that resonates with the company. Inspired by our journey and the spirit of camaraderie, I changed the lyrics of "Be a Man" from Mulan to "Be a Dwarf." The dwarves love it, even with the repeated chorus. Hmph. Bunch of narcissists.

I realize one night while clapping and stomping with the company as Bofur and Bifer dance in a circle by the fire, singing a lively song about getting pigs into their pen, that this is what people do when there isn't television or cellphones! They create. They connect.

Traveling together for weeks at a time forges bonds between people unlike almost anything else. You suffer and ache together, you fight and snarl at each another, you laugh and tease one another, and the trust and love deepens. I've always been amazed at Animal Planet documentaries where the lions will hunt the wildebeest, quarrel over the scraps, and then lick and make-up when it's all over with. It's because they're a team; a family with the same goal. Survival.

Our large company has the same goal too: We're all on our way to get home. And survive, of course.

Except Bilbo. Bilbo and the dwarves still seem at odds with one another. I'm unsure if it's because of my presence here, or if it was always like that. I know in the story, they were annoyed with him after the troll incident, but the dwarves in this version do not seem as compatible with him as I'd always thought and we haven't even run into any trolls yet.

And the worst part is that it's kind of Bilbo's fault to be honest. He's a bit fussy. He doesn't mean to be, of course, but old habits and comforts die hard. He struggles with the small amount of food we eat, the long hours riding, and the pony hair that gets all over his clothing (although I really do think he's starting to take to Myrtle).

But in these moments with the dwarves, it's a reminder to me of the joy that shared moments of music and dance can have. I have laughed and danced and sang more in the past three months at the Green Dragon pub with Bilbo and now with the Dwarves, than I have in a very long time. I know Bilbo and the company will come around to each other eventually.

As I immerse myself deeper and deeper in this company of misfits, laughing as Bifur pulls me up to join the dance and Bofur pulls Bilbo up, making us unwilling participants in their pig-pen dance, a newfound appreciation for the past begins to take hold inside me. I reflect on Medieval times on Earth and the people, who, despite lacking the knowledge and advancements of modern society, were masters of their craft.

Before technology, people sang and wrote and painted and created masterful pieces of…well, anything and everything really. I had always thought that people from back then were simple-minded and uneducated, but I realize now just how wrong I was. They may not have understood how electricity works or that bacteria was a thing, but they were creative. They had to rely on their own memories, keeping a vast library of stories, poems, and songs within their minds. Back home, I depended on Google for literally everything.

But these dwarves? They only depend on themselves, each other, and their maker, Mahal. And that, to me, is a very powerful concept.

End of Chapter

Sorry if this chapter felt like a filler! It kinda is?Lol. Also, I want to apologize but I won't be updating every single week anymore. I have the story written out, but I recently uploaded all the chapters to the Fanfiction website from where I had originally wrote the story in Microsoft Word because I wanted to see the word count on all of them. Unfortunate it's a lot lower than I had anticipated. So there's a lot of filler that I need to add to each chapter otherwise the rest of the story will only be 3,000-5,000 characters each instead of my usual 6,000-8,000 characters. If you're ok with shorter chapters, then I can go ahead and keep posting every week.

Anyhoo, thanks for your support!