I do not own any of the characters or The Hobbit (Just the AU storyline and my OC). Those are the work of the esteemed and brilliant John Ronald Reuel Tolkien, and without his genius, this and many other fanfics would not be in existence.

As always, please review, favorite, and follow -it is really encouraging ?

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Thorin wiped the sweat off his hot brow, before bringing his forge-hammer down upon the spade head in his hand. The force of the impact traveled up his arm, but the dwarf barely even noticed it, so used he had become to the rigors of iron smithing.

An unassuming bystander might be awed at the sheer amount of focus in his sharp blue eyes, and wonder what sort of fine creation he was bringing to life within his hands. Doubtless they would be excited at the prospect of obtaining something, a sword or tool, made by a master dwarven craftsman. If he were fortunate, they may even pay him handsomely for his wares. Even these standoffish Bree-Men knew the value of dwarvish smith-work, though they cared little for the actual folk themselves.

But his mind was not on the object slowly taking shape beneath his hands, or the price it would fetch when it was completed. No, his mind was on the two heartless people he hated most in this world. The first…who forced his once-mighty people into destitution, and the second, who mercilessly abandoned them in their hour of utmost need.

Clang! That strike was for Smaug, the fire-drake who swept in upon their Mountain unawares, and cruelly decimated everything in his wake. Calling him a person would be a stretch, for he was a vile creation of the dark lord who smote ruin upon all Middle-earth, including the dwarves who inhabited it. But he was sentient and cunning, and Thorin hated him with a vengeance. He had not only stolen their home, and their treasure…he had stolen the lives of hundreds of his people with the hot flames of his deadly breath. But, though his anger and hatred of the great wyrm was mighty, there was one other whom he hated even more.

Clang! Thorin remembered the moment of betrayal keenly. Up until that moment, there was still a shred of grudging respect for the tall elven-king, as one prince of a mighty kingdom to another. He himself was of lesser consequence to Thranduil, being merely the grandson of the ruling King Under the Mountain at the time. Little did Thror care for elves, and the feeling was mutual. However, the two had always accorded each other the proper deference, as befitted their respective lordships, and the shared admiration of the Arkenstone of their people had resulted in a hesitant, but prosperous, relationship and respect between their two peoples.

That respect was shattered in an instant. There he was, helping his injured grandfather out of the billowing, smoking Mountain behind them, with his people running and screaming as they fled the fearsome beast within. Children cried, the beards of men and women no less wet as they rushed toward the safety of the outside world. Naught but the clothes on their backs did they have, for the dragon's pillage was immediate, and his habitation of Erebor absolute. None could withstand the terrible might of a fire-drake of Morgoth, so ill-prepared and unawares they had been.

In that moment, when all was lost, King Thranduil appeared with an armed host at his back. For a brief second, Thorin believed they were saved. He began to have hope in elves once more, knowing that, in their time of need, the elven-king had proven himself faithful. A fire-drake was no easy foe, and only an army could have hoped to defeat him. Thranduil, faithful elven-lord, had come to help them, to save his allies from a certain and fiery death. He had come to slay the dragon, avenge the fallen, and restore the kingdom of the dwarves to its rightful inhabitants.

Clang! He looked into the eyes of whom he thought was a friend, pleading, shouting for help, praying that he would see compassion in the fair face. But all he saw in the sharp blue orbs was ice. A shiver of shock went through him as truth dawned in his mind. He watched, shock turning to pure hatred, as the tall, ethereal being, turned away. Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, left with his host, turning his back on the suffering of Thorin's people, and the inferno that destroyed them! He proved himself not faithful, but faithless that day…and every day thereafter.

Clang! Anger flared within him as red-hot as the spade-head in his hand. If he hated Smaug, he hated Thranduil even more. Dragons were evil, vile creatures. There was no question in anyone's mind about that. But the betrayal of one who was of a fair and noble race, who was a friend and ally…there could be no forgiveness, no mercy, just sheer enmity. An enemy who was always an enemy is nothing. There are no surprises, no questions, no hesitation. The betrayal of a friend is everything.

Because of that thrice-damned elf, his people suffered. Impoverished, destitute, and exposed, they starved, they languished, they perished. All because of the cruelty and cold-heartedness of Thranduil, son of Oropher.

And that was something he would never, ever forget.

Thorin woke with a start. Blinking, he looked into the inky darkness around them, trying to get his bearings. A hand gripped his shoulder, and he whipped his head around, only to sigh with relief as he recognized Dwalin's shadow hovering over him.

"Sorry I startled you, laddie," his friend apologized, his face dim in the coal-light of the fire. "It's your watch. You can put that sword away now." Thorin gently released the hilt of his sword and laid it back on the ground beside him.

"Forgive me, my friend," he apologized in turn. The burly dwarf shrugged.

"I've had worse," he joked, winking at him. Thorin chuckled.

"You've been worse," he retorted. Dwalin grinned, and helped him to his feet. His friend was not known for his good-naturedness upon waking, and they both knew it.

"Anything amiss?" he asked quietly, looking around. Dwalin shook his head.

"It's been quiet tonight," he replied, also cautiously observing their surroundings. "No sign of any unsavory creatures, save for a few very ugly squirrels that I wouldn't dare consider for a cooking-pot." Thorin sighed, and glanced at the slowly-lightening packs being currently used as pillows by the rest of their slumbering companions.

"What I wouldn't give for some meat," he muttered. "Why in Mahal's name doesn't Beorn eat meat, anyway? Even these folk hunt!" He, of course, meant elves…but there wasn't a force in all the world that would compel him to utter that word now, especially after the amount of noise the company had made that afternoon. Dwalin shrugged.

"He is a black bear," he reminded him. "I've yet to see a black bear hunt, unless he were very hungry and desperate." The dwarf king looked at him, before sighing.

"Whatever the cause," he muttered, "it would have been nice if he had included some dried stag amongst our provisions." Dwalin nodded.

"There may yet be something worth shooting for supper in these woods," he mused, "but, given the look of those mangy squirrels, I wouldn't bet my hammer on it." Thorin glanced over toward the bow Beorn had given him lying next to his pack. The skinchanger had given them all bows, in addition to their provisions, though he knew most of them couldn't hit a horse standing right in front of them.

"There are few amongst us who are skilled with a bow," he said, looking at the other. "From now on, whoever can passably shoot shall keep an arrow to the string, in case something more pleasant than those squirrels you saw cross our path." Dwalin nodded in agreement.

"Aye, I shall tell them." The big dwarf yawned, and Thorin clasped his shoulder.

"Get some sleep," he ordered. "You look like you need it." The burly dwarf needed no encouragement, and immediately went to his bedroll and laid down. Within a minute, he was sound asleep.

Thorin glanced around the camp, eyes settling on Bilbo. He was supposed to be his partner on watch, but he had tripped and twisted his ankle on a large root earlier, and had been limping for the rest of the day with the appendage swollen. The dwarf king knew he could handle the watch alone, especially if it had been as quiet as Dwalin said. He also did not want to slow the whole company down by having to shift packs around so someone could carry the hobbit, should his ankle become more injured due to a lack of rest.

Sighing, he turned and grabbed his sword and whetstone. Moving to a large rock on the north side of the path, he sat down, oiled the stone, and began to sharpen his sword. He could handle this watch alone just fine, and, if he were honest with himself, he quite appreciated the solitude. He had grown rather fond of the hobbit, finding him a, loyal, dependable companion, and, though he was loth to admit it, he was glad that Gandalf had chosen Bilbo as their burglar. His burgling skills were yet to be proven, and his fighting skills still rather lacking. But his defense of himself and Fili on the mountainside had earned him a deep and profound respect from the dwarf king.

Bilbo is a true friend, he thought to himself as he moved the whetstone in practiced, circular motions over his blade. Unlike that thrice-cursed elf princess. He quickly realized he'd pushed too hard on the whetstone, causing a slight gouge in the edge of his sword. Cursing under his breath, he began to correct it, when suddenly a shadow fell upon him, blocking his light.

"What?" he asked grumpily, looking up at the young woman with not a little annoyance. You're standing in my light. Her eyes fell on his sword, and she immediately stepped sideways, allowing the dim light of the fire to reach his weapon once more.

"Sorry," she apologized quietly. "I didn't realize I was blocking your light." Thorin blinked, surprised that she knew exactly why her position had annoyed him.

"How did you know you were blocking my light?" he asked testily, both annoyed, and just a little bit curious. She gestured toward his sword.

"You're sharpening your sword," she explained sheepishly, "and you stopped when I stood in front of you. I looked down, and realized I was blocking your light, and that was annoying you, so I moved." He looked at her for a moment, before resuming his task. She continued to linger, annoying him further.

"Why are you awake?" he asked, quickly realizing that she wasn't going away. "Your watch doesn't start for another two hours."

"I, uh," she replied hesitantly, "N-nevermind." She turned to leave, and he stopped sharpening his sword.

"What is it?" he asked again. She paused, before turning around. "If you're going to interrupt me during watch, you may as well speak." She hesitated again, before coming over and sitting on a rock facing him.

"I, um," she began again. He was growing impatient, and raised his eyebrow at her.

"If you're not going to—" he began, but she interrupted him.

"Why do you hate elves so much?" she asked quickly. His hand stilled on his blade, and his eyes darkened. She immediately shrunk back as if he had struck her.

"I'm sorry," she apologized again, face downcast. "I shouldn't have asked." She stood up to leave, and he sighed again.

"I have my reasons," he answered stiffly. He wasn't comfortable talking about feelings…or elves. She paused, and looked back at him. There wa genuine curiosity, and hesitancy, in her blue eyes. Kili had shown that same childish curiosity his entire life, and the look on her face reminded him very much of his nephew in that moment. He sighed.

"Sit down," he commanded. He continued to sharpen his sword, fixing the gouge he'd made earlier. It would be nearly imperceptible to an untrained eye, but for a skilled dwarf craftsman, it was glaringly obvious. She sat there, silent as he worked, and he could tell she was watching both him, and the movements of his hands. If nothing else, perhaps he could show her how to properly sharpen a sword by example. She would need every moment of training they could spare, if, Mahal forbid, they encountered the inhabitants of these woods.

"What have the others told you?" he asked quietly. "About the fall of Erebor?" Despite their conversation, and his task, his ears were listening keenly to their surroundings, and eyes were scanning the same. He did not need to look at his sword to sharpen it properly, so skilled he was with a blade. Providing that his anger didn't distract him, that is.

"I know that the dragon came," she answered, and he was glad to note she kept her voice down. "That the Mountain was attacked, and that your people were left to wander the wilderness, and that no one was kind to you, or your people afterward." He nodded.

"Aye," he affirmed, turning his sword over to sharpen the other side. "He did, and we were." He fell silent, and the only sound to be heard was the snapping of the hot coals, and the rough, scratching sound of the whetstone sliding over steel.

"Then…" she began after a moment, "Why…I mean, Lord Elrond was so nice, and gave you that sword…" He paused, and looked her in the eye.

"That doesn't mean anything," he rebuffed. "I found that sword. He did not give it to me. He merely admired it, and returned it when he was done doing so." Her gaze fell to her lap, and he sighed.

"Suffice to say that you should not let your guard down in these woods," he warned her quietly. "These elves, they are not to be trusted. They may seem pleasant at first, but they will betray you the first chance they get." Her eyes widened in surprise.

"Does…that mean you were once friends?" she asked, disbelief in her voice. He scoffed.

"We were never friends," he clarified, his tone one of disgust. He looked her right in the eye.

"Cirashala," he warned, his tone dead serious as he whispered, "Their king is a pointy-eared horse's arse who thinks he's the king of all Middle-earth. He is without honor, and untrustworthy. Loth as I am to say it, he's no fool, save for being foolish enough to earn my undying hatred for what he did to my people. He is cunning, and cruel. If, by some unforeseen chance, we are caught by them, do not say anything to him about our quest. Understood?" She nodded, and he resumed his task.

"That is all you need know," he finished, his tone one of finality. She stood up to leave, and he stopped her.

"Cira," he added, "I know this forest is wretched and miserable. You are not the only one who was at fault today. Let no one say that some of our companions can be a little…raucous. But no more jokes. We have at least a fortnight and a half longer in these woods before we come out at the other end, and we cannot risk being spotted."

"Yes, Thorin," she said quietly. "And…Thorin?" He sighed in annoyance, and looked up at her again.

"Thank you." It was unexpected, and he nodded.

"Get some sleep," he ordered. "We have a long march tomorrow, and we will not slow down for you."

The camp grew quiet once more, and he finally buffed out that gouge in his blade. As his eyes and ears surveyed the forest around, he could only hope that the incident earlier that day had not alerted the elves to their presence.

The last thing they needed to do was jeopardize the entire quest because, of all things, a well-devised joke.