A/N: translations are in the footnote.


Chapter 8

Kili charged down the low hill toward a simple pair of hobbit buildings: stable and bunkhouse. But what should be a peaceful place with smoke coming from the bunkhouse chimney and hobbits working in the little kitchen garden was the opposite: windows shuttered, doors closed, and a two-wheel cart propped against a stump, one wheel off and set aside, hand tools abandoned.

Kili slowed as he approached a paddock area, grabbing the collar of his nephew Gunz as the lad nearly ran past.

And then a long, black fletched orc-arrow thunked into the ground several strides to his right—ill aimed and too heavy to go far.

Movement caught his eye—there, on the corner of the stable roof. Kili raised his bow and fired on instinct. The orc jerked back but held its position.

Tuilind, closer to the bunkhouse, shouted in elvish (Kili didn't bother to translate) as he re-armed and fired again. This time, the rooftop orc tried to rise but the force of the arrow knocked him back. He appeared to roll, then dropped off the roof to the ground and lay still.

Gunz, his blade unsheathed, pointed it toward Tuilind, who had just stepped into the open, showing her position.

Kili nodded. "They can't resist an elf," Kili murmured to the lad. Sure enough, a string of five goblin-types lumbered out of the bunkhouse, eyes wide, hooting at each other and making rude gestures toward the female elf.

Kili nocked and arrow and drew the bow, eyeing possible targets. He spotted Tuilind when she raised her own bow and fired dead-center into the heart of a red-cloaked goblin in the lead, and Kili aimed at the one just behind him, picking off a hunch-back with a spiked club.

He re-armed as the remaining three watched their two leaders fall to the ground and then look at each other, obviously confused about what to do next.

Tuilind's arrow hit goblin number three as it stood gaping and it froze, then slowly toppled over backwards.

The last two turned into each other, backed up in a panic, and scrambled to run back to bunkhouse, but Kili aimed for the closer one, fired, and it stumbled, landing face-first into the dirt. The other one went two more steps, then stumbled to its knees with Tuilind's white-fletched arrow through its gut.

Kili re-armed his bow one more time. For a moment, he and Gunz stood still. Would more orcs emerge from the bunkhouse? He scanned the stable roof where the first orc had fired at them. Anyone else up there?

Kili and Tuilind looked at each other, but before they could make another move, a muffled bang and crash came from inside the little building, followed my an unmistakably hobbit voice.

"That's for horse thieving!"

And then a rather flustered group of young hobbits scrambled from the bunkhouse as if fleeing a fire.

Gunz didn't need direction—he waved at them, drawing them toward an old oak and away from Kili's position.

Tuilind and Kili advanced.

"Dwarves!" one of the hobbits said to the others.

"Yes!" Gunz waved them over. "This way!"

One last hobbit emerged from the house with a wicked heavy frying pan in one hand, looking annoyed at the elf and dwarf arrows pointed at him. He was a plump old smith and ignored both Kili and Tuilind as he counted the dead goblins in the yard. "There's one inside, and here's another five of the rascals," he declared. "You missed one."

Kili, trying to keep his expression serious, pointed to the one he'd toppled from the stable roof.

"That him?"

The old smith took a deep breath, nodded, then looked around. "And their chief—that one took off on our best cart horse about a quarter hour back."

Kili, still on alert for more orc, nodded to the old smith. "Got that one too, and our other elf friend has your cart horse," he said. "Any more in your bunkhouse?"

The old smith brushed off his frying pan. "Not any more. This is the lot."

The young hobbits were huddled under the oak with Gunnar, and they were nodding their heads in agreement. The old smith stamped over to the two-wheel cart. "Thieving scum," he said. "Ruffians. Interrupting a good day's work, upsetting the horses." He looked up at the stables as if listening for the other occupants.

It took Kili and Tuilind only a few minutes to go through the stables and bunkhouse, drag out one senseless goblin with a large lump on his head (and quickly dispatch it permanently) and agree with the old smith that no more goblin-kind were there.

Tuilind excused herself and took off at a run to find Yanu and the wounded Dunedain.

Kili approached the grumbling old smith and bowed, hand on heart.

"Kíli," he said. "At your Service.''

The smith's eyes went round and his huffiness quite suddenly vanished. "My…my Lord Durin," he stammered, using the name many Shire hobbits called him. Then the fellow seemed to recall his manners, stood as tall as he could, and nodded. "Omer Longfoot. At yours and your family's."


Fili was aware that for the last two days, his youngest daughter had been smiling and laughing more and his oldest fussed less over his brooding.

Maybe, he reflected, because he wasn't brooding. It was as if his beloved An had smacked him on the arm and told him to take better care of her girls. In fact, it was Fili who quickly devoured a slice of meat pie and called for Iri instead of the other way around.

"If you're going with me, get moving!" he called down the hall. Fjalar would already be out on Ravenhill for the evening news. Fili and Iri would take duty on the Western Terrace. "Hurry up, lass!"

Iri hastened out of her rooms to join him, leather coat in hand. And if Fili's pace was more brisk than it had been in the past year, she didn't comment.

They were met on the terrace by a large mass of noisy ravens that the Guards called the King's Flock. So many wanted his attention that it was best for Iri to assist and help manage the traffic.

An hour into their evening chat with Erebor's gossipy helpers, Iri brought one sleek bird to him, transferring the blue-black bird from her gauntlet to his.

"Father," she said in a quiet voice as she handed the hen over. "From Ered Luin."

Fili took the bird, trying not to look too eager and frighten it into garbling its message.

Slowly, he stepped away from the crowd of other birds as Iri helpfully distracted most of the flock by rattling a fresh box of nuts.

Most conversations with ravens were short and cryptic, and a long-distance raven usually recalled less of its message than others because of the flight time. This bird only said Gunz Gunz over and over.

As he calmed the bird, he got a good look at it and spied the little message pouch it carried. He released the light harness and provided nuts. "A very fine bird you are, flying so far. Best bird."

The raven eyed the harness and pouch Fili had removed, fluffed and shook itself, and then grabbed the largest hazelnut in Fili's gloved hand and launched itself for a flat place on a sunny rock.

Fili watched it, then stripped off his gauntlet and separated the message pouch from the little harness.

Gunz. Gunnar. My sunny lad.

And with both eagerness and dread, he contemplated what message this could be from his absent son.

Would it be good news or...not?


East of the River Lhun, the sun was setting over the Westfarthing and a large autumn moon was just rising over the barn at Little Delving. Inside, two Shire notables had unpacked a delivery and arranged things to their liking.

"You don't think they'll miss this bit of ham…?" Pippin held up a small slice of juicy ham between his fingers, considered it, and popped it in his mouth, eyes closing at the taste. "Now this is just perfect dwarf food."

"Unless you eat all of it first," Sam glared at him. They had a whole sidebar full of provender ready for tonight's meeting: meats and vegetables, since the guest list ran from dwarves to elves.

"We could never serve this to a King," Pippin emphasized, "without sampling it first."

"Yes," Sam barked. "But that King is a dwarf and we both know he'll eat anything-"

Pippin grinned widely and joined Sam in finishing, "Unless it's green!"

Sam sighed as Pippin laughed. Then he cocked his head to listen. "Elves," he whispered. "Outside."

Sam looked to the door while Pippin looked back at the array of fruits and vegetables. "Well, we've got eight kinds of lettuces, the apples, all those currants, plus the walnuts and…"

Sam let out his breath in exasperation, tossed a tea towel at Pippin, and headed for the door to meet his guests. Pippin's words trailed off as he looked at the towel in his hands as if it were a puzzling object, then quickly wiped off his hands and hurried to follow Sam.

Outside Sam found one very regal elf holding the light reins of a horse. Pippin took the reins and led the tall mount away to food and water, while Sam bowed his most formal bow.

The regal elf smiled and inclined his head. "N'uma anta, Mellon," he said gently.

Sam straightened up and smiled. "I just want you to be welcome is all," he said. He was always a bit tongue-tied around elves, especially Elladan, who was a son of Elrond—because, well, he was Elrond's son! And how a Shire-lad like himself had become on speaking terms with such folk…?

Sam stopped that line of thinking. Yes. Well.

"I am the first," Elladan said, reaching out to touch Sam's shoulder. "Because a raven found me earlier this evening to say that our Lord Dwarf has been occupied with routing goblins near the White Towers and is on the way with a wounded Dunedain. I should like to help the fellow, if I can."

Sam's eyebrows went up. A wounded Dunedain? That was unexpected. They would need a healing hall. "Right, well. You can use this tackroom…" Sam shifted to battle captain and led Elladan inside. Of course, it was a hobbit barn and Elladan had to duck in order to enter.

"Where did they find an injured man?" Sam asked, clearing a workbench for use.

"I'm not sure," Elladan replied. Then he looked up and listened. "Though I'm certain we are about to find out."

Elladan led the way back outside and indeed, three dwarves, two silvan elves, and Mr. Merry driving a pony cart, lanterns alight, were coming down the tree-lined lane to the old barn just outside Little Delving.

Sam rushed forward, but Merry had things in hand. He pulled the wagon right inside the barn, and the two silvan elves, after quick hand on heart bows to Lord Elladan, worked together to lift a large, unconscious man from the wagon. Elladan led them into the tack room.

"Where did you find a wounded man?" Sam asked Merry, his brows drawn in concern.

"We'll tell you later," Merry answered, turning back to tend the pony and cart. "But we've had ruffians again—cornered Omer Longfoot out at the stable."

"Hah," Sam said. "And that was their last mistake, I'll say that for Old Omer."

"Indeed it was," a mildly amused, very deep voice replied.

Sam turned to see Thorin Oakenshield's own nephew smiling in amusement. Recalling his manners, Sam bowed. "Welcome, my good King…"

Kili put one arm on Sam's shoulder, then pulled him in for a hug.

Sam smiled, though a dwarf hug was always slightly dangerous—so many bits of armor and metal…

"It is good to see you, Sam," Kili said quietly.

"And you," Sam replied, warrior to warrior. He had only met the brothers Fili and Kili after the war—after Mr. Frodo had taken the ship—but he'd heard tales about them all his life, of course.

Then Sam spied a sunny-haired dwarf as they all helped Merry back the pony cart from the barn—a youngster with fuzz for a beard. "Hello," he said, as they stood in front of the old Shire barn. He was surprised to see the lad outside of dwarf lands. "Is this our young Prince Gunnar?"

Merry clucked to the pony and drove the cart away for unhitching, and the young dwarf turned to smiled at Sam. "Yes, Master Hobbit. Gunnar," he bowed. "Son of Fili, at your service."

"Sam of Bag End." Sam put his hand over his heart. "At yours and your family's."

In the midst of this, two large ravens swooped overhead, circled, and alighted on the barn roof, quorking loudly.

"If you'll excuse me," Kili nodded to Sam.

"Of course," Sam said, looking up at the birds. Night was falling—these two birds were apparently making their last delivery of news for the day. He watched as Ered Luin's King in his battle leathers took several steps away and held up a hand. The ravens seemed to argue with each other a moment, then Kili called to one. The argument ceased and the one that had claimed the weather vane for a perch spread its wings and glided down.

Kili soothed the bird, had a murmuring conversation with it.

"Just the evening reports," Gunnar commented. "That one's in from Khelethur, I think."

Sam looked at Gunnar, so much a younger version of Erebor's King, as Kili called the lad over to him and handed off the bird. Gunnar took the raven, pulling some kind of treat from his pocket and feeding the raven by hand while Kili motioned to the second bird.

And then Sam realized why the younger dwarf had been brought out of Ered Luin to this meeting in the Shire. Put that lad with the Dunedain and we'll have two battle forces who can communicate by raven.

Because, of course, he knew his family history, and while some elves and even the odd hobbit could understand a few raven words in a pinch, Durin-blooded dwarves could communicate with them in great detail.

.

.


Translation: N'uma anta, Mellon = no need, friend (from the website realelvish.)

.

THANK you for reading...looks like my pace will be about one chapter a month, lol. Special thanks (as always) to beta reader Jessie152, who also translates these chapters into German for posting on fanfiktion, a German fan fic site. If you're spiffy with Google translate, that's another source of fan fic reading fun!

Hand on heart to all of you-and a gentle reminder to leave a note, even if it's just a quick one, and let me know you're reading! -Summer