Chapter Three
A King and a Madwoman
Thorin Oakenshield was not pleased.
He and his Company had arrived that morning in Bree for the chance of some last-minute purchases and ale, and not to mention their last stay in a warm bed with a roof over their heads and hot food in their bellies before they set out on the Road again. What he had not expected, however, was to meet a madwoman claiming that she knew of their quest, and that she wished to join it.
"I must say, this is quite a shock," Gandalf said to the woman, puffing on his pipe as they sat around a large center table in The Prancing Pony's lounge. Thorin was already distinctly uncomfortable at the appearance of the strange woman, but being seated in the middle of the room only increased his nerves, and he couldn't help but to sweep the area with his eyes frequently, the reminder of his last visit still fresh in his mind.
"Believe me, I know the feeling," the woman said, taking a sip from her ale and wrinkling her nose at the taste. Thorin drank from his own tankard, the bitterness of the ale only causing him to scowl further.
"And where did you say you hailed from, Miss…?" Gandalf trailed off, raising a bushy eyebrow in question.
"Miller," she said. "Kate Miller. And I come from Boston."
"Where is that?" Dwalin growled, eyeing the woman distrustfully. "I've never heard of it."
"I wouldn't expect you to," she said, and her airy tone made Dwalin glower even more at her. "It's certainly not from anywhere around here."
"And what does that mean?" Balin asked shrewdly. He had sat in silence the whole time, like Thorin, but he sounded more curious than critical. "I would say it sounds like something far to the east, but you don't look like an Easterling."
Indeed, she did not, Thorin silently agreed. Easterlings were a dark-skinned people, with hair even darker and eyes that appeared obsidian in the right light. To Thorin, she looked like a northerner, similar to the Snowmen of Forochel, with her fair hair and skin, though he had had enough dealings with them to notice that she did not share their accent.
The woman hesitated, her eyes shifting between the wizard and the three dwarves seated around her. "I'm not from the east, nor was I born anywhere in this world."
"What are ye on about?" Dwalin said. "That doesn't make a lick of sense."
"I know it doesn't," she said hastily. "But just…hear me out, okay?" She took a deep breath, meeting each of their gazes steadily. "Arda—Middle-earth—is not my home. I'm from a different world."
"The bloody hell is that supposed to mean—?" Dwalin started, but Gandalf held up a hand, silencing the dwarf as he stared at the woman intently.
"When I was seventeen, I made a wish on a star." Her face flushed a light shade of red at this admission, and Dwalin scoffed under his breath, though she didn't seem to hear. "My life at the time…I thought it was terrible. I was miserable, and I wanted out. And the next thing I knew, I was here."
She paused, licking her lips nervously. "I met someone upon my arrival—one of the Valar. Aulë—er, Mahal."
Thorin stiffened, his eyes darting to meet the shocked glances of Balin and Dwalin. Knowing the name of a Vala was no special thing, but actually meeting one was as ludicrous as it sounded. Thorin had no doubt that this woman was mad, yet he continued to listen in stony silence.
"He told me that there would be a quest, one that you would lead, Thorin Oakenshield." She gestured to him, and Thorin's eye twitched as his name rolled off her foreign tongue. "He asked me to help you reclaim the Lonely Mountain, and kill the dragon Smaug."
"Keep yer voice down!" Dwalin hissed, leaning closer to the table and looking around wildly. "Do ye want the whole damn inn to hear?"
She gave the burly dwarf a dry look. "Must you be so paranoid?"
Dwalin bristled at her tone, but Balin steadied him with a hand on his arm. "Not now, brother. Let's listen to what she has to say."
The dwarf glowered, but sat up straight again at his brother's request. The woman nodded her thanks to Balin and went on.
"He gave me five years to live on my own in this world and become accustomed to it. I could do whatever I saw fit to help me prepare for this journey, and so that is what I did. I learned basic healing methods, was taught how to ride a horse properly, studied maps and scrolls that pertained to the mountain and the dragon, and I even trained to fight, all in preparation for this day and the days to come."
"I'm sorry, Miss Miller, but I must agree with my brother on this matter," Balin said. "This doesn't make sense. You say Mahal asked you to help us, but why would you agree? You are a daughter of Man—why would he have asked you, and not a dwarf?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Master Balin," she said, shrugging. "Perhaps it was fate, perhaps it was something else—perhaps it was foolish little me making a silly wish on a silly star.
"As for why I would agree, I want to help you. And not only that, but because I made a deal with Mahal."
"What sort of deal?" Balin said.
"That if I helped you reclaim your home and rid it of the dragon, then he would send me back to my world once the quest was completed," she said. Thorin saw a faint glimmer in her eyes then, one of longing and hope, before she blinked and it was gone, her face unreadable once more.
"This is madness," Dwalin growled, shaking his head. "You're a fine liar, lass, I'll give ye that, but yer full of shite."
"Brother!" Balin said reproachfully. "That is no way to speak to a lady, liar or no!"
"I understand your hesitance to believe me," she said, breaking in before Dwalin could retort. "I would be skeptical too if I were in your place. But I swear I am telling you the truth."
"If you're telling the truth, then I'm a tree-shagging elf," Dwalin snorted, and the woman's lips twitched.
"A meeting with the Valar is a rare occurrence, but not an impossible one," Gandalf mused, his head wreathed in smoke. "I believe there have been several accounts of this in the past, all in times of dire need. But it is strange that Aulë would choose you for this task, unless he had some reason to believe that you have some valuable skill or knowledge that we do not."
He eyed her shrewdly, and she shrugged again, causing Thorin to grit his teeth. Her casual demeanor was starting to grate on his nerves, acting as if she were above them all and deserved to be obeyed without question.
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't," she said loftily. "But there's only one way to find out."
"Enough of this," Thorin said, breaking his silence and glaring at the woman. She looked back to him innocently, and his fingers clenched beneath the table. "You are a liar seeking nothing but attention and to waste our time with your foolishness. You have no proof whatsoever other than your supposed word, and—"
"I do, actually," she said, cutting off the rest of his sentence. His eyes narrowed at her as he silently fumed, unused to being interrupted. "Proof, that is," she said to their dubious looks.
"And what proof would that be?" Thorin said.
She hesitated only briefly, pursing her lips at his tone, before reaching for her right forearm. Immediately the dwarves' own hands were on their weapons, but she merely rolled her eyes.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, I'm not going to gut you in the middle of this room," she said. She shook her head, muttering something under her breath as she began to roll up the sleeve of her grey tunic.
Thorin saw it first, the mark upon her arm: a dark blotch of ink etched into the inside of her wrist, and when she turned her arm over and bared the mark for them to see, his breath left him in haste.
The Crown of Durin was inked into her flesh, a black contrast to the freckled and suntanned expanse of her forearm. The sigil of his house. The sign of his bloodline. And it was sitting right there on her skin.
"How did you get this?" he breathed.
"It was branded into my skin by Mahal after our deal was made," she said, and he didn't miss the note of bitterness in her voice. "It serves as a reminder for the duty I have to fulfill, and proof for stubborn dwarves who would not believe me."
She gave them a pointed glance, but Thorin was still staring at the mark in disbelief.
"Well, this is a surprising turn of events," Gandalf said cheerfully, nodding at her wrist and stowing away his pipe.
"Wait, ye believe her?" Dwalin demanded. "All because of a bloody tattoo? I've got more tattoos than ye can count, and ye don't see me claiming to be the savior of the damn world!"
"I'm not a savior," the woman snapped. "I'm just a helper."
"Because Mahal gave ye a special tattoo," he said patronizingly, and her jaw clenched. "Bleeding thing is probably fake, anyway—"
He grabbed her wrist and froze instantly. Thorin and Balin leaped to their feet, scraping their chairs back as the dwarf's eyes widened, and Thorin whirled on the woman. "What are you doing—"
Dwalin let go of the woman's wrist, staggering back into his chair and slumping down, his grey eyes still wide as saucers and breathing heavily.
"Brother, what happened?" Balin demanded. "Nadad—"
"Mahal," Dwalin said weakly. "Mahal…"
"What did you do to him?" Thorin growled, keeping his voice low despite wanting to bellow at her, the few patrons that were scattered about giving them curious looks.
"I-I don't know," she stammered, looking as shaken as Dwalin. "H-he just grabbed me, and—"
"I heard him," Dwalin said hoarsely. "I…I felt him."
"What?" Balin said, perplexed. "Impossible!"
"Touch it," Dwalin insisted, his voice stronger. "Touch the mark."
Balin looked from his brother to the woman skeptically, but finally nodded. The woman stretched out her arm warily, and Balin wrapped his large hand around her wrist, right over the tattoo. In mere seconds his face had gone ashy, and he took a step back, letting out a shaky breath.
"Aye," he said. "He's right."
Thorin stared. "What are you talking about?"
Balin shook his head, his lips pursed. "This you have to find out yourself."
Thorin hesitated, looking at the woman, and it was only the offering of her arm that goaded him closer. He raised his hand, placing it over the mark, and immediately a jolt went through him.
"Thorin Oakenshield," an ancient voice said. "Heed my words, and know that they are true: You need her. She is your only chance for survival. She is the Heart."
It was over in a split second. Thorin recoiled from her as if he had been burned, that powerful voice still reverberating in his ears.
Gandalf looked around at all of them before his piercing eyes settled on the woman curiously. "May I?"
He touched the mark with his fingertip, holding it there for several long moments before drawing it away, humming in confusion. "Interesting. The enchantment only seems to work on dwarves." He chuckled. "Understandable, given their stubborn nature."
Thorin exchanged a glance with the others, the only question between them remaining: What were they to do now?
"Mahal chose her," Balin said, answering their silent question aloud. "You heard him yourselves. We need her."
"Aye," Dwalin said, nodding. "I don't know what for, but we can't ignore our Maker's demand. Thorin?"
They looked to their king-in-exile, who still stood rigidly, processing all that had just transpired. At his friend's insistence, however, he dragged himself out of his thoughts long enough to look from his companions to the woman.
"She comes," he said grudgingly, and they nodded. He turned back to the woman, who had been watching the proceedings with an indecipherable expression, still holding her wrist.
"Gather what you need today," he told her gruffly. "We leave on the morrow."
And I pray I won't come to regret this.
Kate retired to her room for the night, her head pounding and her limbs dragging. After the disaster that had taken place that morning with Thorin Oakenshield, she had run around Bree for hours, collecting all that she needed for her long journey and returning to The Prancing Pony with her coin purse considerably lighter than she had started the day with.
She supposed she should feel excited, or at least nervous—she was finally going on the quest with Thorin Oakenshield and his Company and upholding her deal with Mahal, but all she felt was an intense surge of dread.
The three dwarves she had met that morning had been nothing like they were described in Tolkien's books. She had been in Middle-earth long enough to know that not all dwarves looked like they had walked straight out of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, but Thorin Oakenshield and his companions had been…not quite what she had anticipated.
She had met dwarves during her travels, but they had mostly been from the east, in the Iron Hills. They had been short and stocky, almost the size of children compared to her, and they had been uproariously loud and wild.
Thorin Oakenshield was not like that at all. He had been taller than the other dwarves—still not as quite as tall as her, but at least she didn't feel like a giant compared to him. And where she had grown accustomed to the long and elaborately-braided beards of the dwarves, his had been short and well-kempt, worn close to his sharp jaw, the raven color matching that of his longer hair, streaked with grey. She hadn't been prepared for his eyes, either—a stark blue that stood out clearly in his angular face, and his demeanor was no less striking. He was stoic and silent, a person who clearly enjoyed brooding, and she had wondered if he had ever laughed in his life when she first came face-to-face with him.
Dwalin and Balin had been a shock, as well. Balin was more familiar to her: shorter, plumper, and with a long white beard that flipped elegantly at the ends. Dwalin, however, was the most frightening person she had seen, Man or Dwarf. Despite his height, he was corded with muscle and bulked in armor, and his weapons seemed just as lethal as he. The chunk missing from his right ear and the tattoos inked on his bald head only heightened his dangerous appearance, and she had made a mental note to herself to never get on his bad side again.
She had yet to meet any of the others besides Gandalf and the three dwarves she had spoken with earlier, but the wizard had advised her to leave the introductions until the morning. Convincing the other members of the Company that she was to be traveling with them was going to be a long and arduous task, one that would not be any easier if her presence was there, he had explained, and she had agreed. She'd gotten a glimpse of them in the tavern on her way through to her room, and they had all seemed to be in the midst of a heated argument. That, she had decided, was a problem for the morrow.
She made her way into the room, shoving the door shut with her foot as she dumped her new purchases on her bed, debating whether she had the strength to pack tonight or the time to pack in the morning. She sighed, scrubbing her hand over her eyes, and turned back to the door to lock it when she saw someone standing in front of it.
She yelped, stumbling back into her bed and reaching for the sword she had hidden under the mattress before stopping when the man in her room began to chuckle.
"Oh, great, it's you," she said, rolling her eyes and straightening herself. "What do you want?"
"Your words are arrows, Kate Miller," Mahal said. "They wound me."
She sighed, sitting down on the edge of her bed and beginning to unlace her boots, ignoring the Vala that was currently standing in her room. He had reverted to a reasonable height, thank goodness—she didn't want to have to explain to Anne why there had been a hole in the ceiling—and he was dressed like a regular blacksmith, but his eyes still glowed with fire.
"What do you want?" she repeated, yanking her boots off with more force than was necessary. "You drop me off in this shithole of a world for five years with nothing but a stupid tattoo, and now you're here—to what? Congratulate me? Send me back home?"
"We have a deal, Kate Miller," he said sternly, crossing his arms. "And that stupid tattoo, as you call it, is what binds you to that oath."
"I know, I know," she huffed. "Is there a specific reason why you're here, though? Because I gotta sleep if you want me to be of any help on this quest."
Mahal was unamused at her behavior. "I came to make sure that you were prepared for what lies ahead."
"You asked me to trek halfway across the world and kill a dragon to take back a kingdom while making sure no one died," she said. "I'm as prepared as I'll ever be, which means not at all."
Mahal scowled. "Your flippancy in such matters annoys me."
"You annoy me," she muttered under her breath, and he sighed laboriously as if sensing he was fighting a lost cause.
He nodded to her wrist. "It seemed my mark worked, though. At least you have already completed the challenge of joining Thorin Oakenshield's Company."
She frowned at the area he had indicated, fingering the tattoo thoughtfully. "What did you do to it?" she asked. "The dwarves, when they touched me… They said they heard you speak to them. How?"
"I enchanted it," he said simply. "I knew my dwarves would need convincing somehow."
"But why didn't you tell me about it?" she demanded. "And how come Gandalf couldn't hear anything, but I could, if it was only meant for the dwarves?"
Mahal looked surprised, though it was hard to tell on his stony features. "You heard something?"
She nodded slowly. "When Thorin touched me, I heard what you said to him. What did you mean? That I was the Heart?"
"That was not meant for your ears," he grumbled, and she frowned when he did not answer her. Perhaps he had not meant it quite so literally, that she was just the heart of the quest, and everyone would adore her. She did have the personality for it…
"Whatever," she said, flopping back on the mattress and trying not to think of how long it would be until she got to sleep on another one. "Is there anything else?"
"I wish you good fortune, Kate Miller," he said, and if he didn't irritate her so much she would've been touched by the note of sincerity in his voice. However, that thought quickly faded when he added, "Try not to die."
She sat back up, opening her mouth to retort, but the Vala was already gone, the only evidence he had ever been in the room being the flickering candle by her bedside that had not been lit before.