Chapter 1: Off the Beaten Path
Chapter Text
"Dead, I tell you. Completely without life."
Gandalf the Grey paused on the pathway leading towards a certain hobbit hole and raised a bushel of eyebrows to his left. Waning afternoon light fell onto the whole of the Shire, casting the green hills with a pleasant yellowish haze. The wide brim of his hat blocked the majority of the sun from his eyesight, yet he still narrowed his gaze onto the two hobbits that stood at the shore of The Water.
"Without life? But her chest is rising and falling!"
"Stop staring at her chest! How uncouth of you, brother dearest. If only mummy were alive to hear your words. Unbecoming, she would say! Unbecoming, indeed."
Gandalf suppressed an amused smile at this, taking a moment to ponder which was more humorous: a hobbit being admonished over glancing at a bosom, or a hobbit finding itself harried over the simple mentioning of the word 'adventure'. Still, with all of his years in Middle Earth and all his wisdom, there was no possible way the wizard could have known that said adventure was just about to become a little more colorful.
He peered up the pathway that would eventually lead to Bag End, immediately detecting the broad silhouettes of two dwarves on ponies fading into the Shire's scenic horizon. For a moment the wizard found himself within the rarity of being torn between two curiosities, and faltered a step. He pressed his lips together and deliberated quickly—join the dwarves and see how Bilbo was faring under the weight of playing impromptu host to an amassing company of dwarves, or to take a moment and squelch his inquisitiveness over what had the two hobbits flustered about.
In the end, Gandalf decided that two flustered hobbits was a little better than one and proceeded to adjust his robe, straighten his posture, and reposition the grasp on his old wooden staff. He stepped off the beaten path and onto plush greensward, careful not to completely take the hobbits by surprise.
"Primula and Fastolph Peatfingers of Brockenborings," he greeted cordially. "Just what sort of tomfooleries have you two gotten yourself into?"
The hobbits in question jumped at the sound of his voice, blinked up at him for all of two seconds before looking back at the other, exchanging an immediate and unspoken agreement.
Primula and Fastolph Peatfingers of Brockenborings were timeworn hobbits now, but had been thought of as rather peculiar even as younglings scuttling about the last time Gandalf had laid eyes upon them—the twins had been known for making odd remarks about odder things, perpetually on the same odd brainwave. Still, their tufts of bright red hair remained unchanged, as did their penchant for finishing each other's sentences, but they now possessed bodies so potbellied from years of skillful baking that folds of skin had blossomed underneath their eyes and chins and cheeks, looking more like flesh-hued heads of talking cabbages than anything else.
Gandalf quirked his mouth at the thought, noting the excessively generous spread of a picnic before him, now utterly forgotten. Instead, their attention was fixed on the very strange sight of a small, drenched body that had washed ashore.
Fastolph nudged his sister, peering back at Gandalf with a beady eye. "A stranger, sister."
"That's no stranger, Fastolph," Primula said, waving him off. "That's a wizard."
"A wizard? Nonsense. Haven't seen a wizard in about seventy years."
"Fastolph," she chided. "That's Gandalf."
The brother cocked his head to the side. "Gandalf?"
"Yes," she reaffirmed primly. "Gandalf. Are you going to repeat everything I say?"
"Are you?"
"But I haven't."
"But you will."
"If you say so."
"I do."
"Grand!"
Fastolph tapered his eyes until they became mere slits. "What's a Gandalf again?"
Primula pointed a chubby finger behind. "That's a Gandalf, Fastolph. No need to stare."
The hobbit looked bemused, but then revelation erupted on his face. "Oh. Gandalf! With the smashing fireworks, right?"
"Right!"
Gandalf sighed wearily, taking a step forward to peer down at the riverbed. He immediately hitched a breath, realizing himself that there was, indeed, a body before the two hobbits. How peculiar, he thought to himself—and how very unexpected. The wizard bent his angular frame forward to gain a better view, brows furrowing and nearly rendering him sightless by their own abundance, but his steely blue eyes caught every aspect of the body that had washed ashore.
"By the Valar," he muttered in near disbelief, "What have you two discovered?"
"We found a girl!" Fastolph crowed.
Primula nodded sagely. "Indeed, we found a girl."
"You repeated me," Fastolph grinned victoriously. "I told you."
Gandalf's sharp gaze roamed the length of the body, eyes swiftly analyzing and never settling on a feature for more than a breath's length. The more he looked, however, the more startled he became, a sensation more synonymous to troubling than disbelieving.
It was a mere girl, of all things. Small, but not quite as undersized as a hobbit. She was thin with the appearance of someone who had lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time, and there were various shallow lesions across her face, which gave the wizard not only the impression that she had encountered troubled times, but that the bruises along her knuckles read that she was more wild-hearted than timid; there were stark callouses on what fingertips he could see. Dark, earthy hair fanned the riverside from several unraveling braids, revealing small but very tapered ears. His brows furrowed all the more.
"Hmm," Gandalf mused. "How did she get here, I wonder?"
Fastolph, in the wizard's periphery, eyed him. "How did you get here?"
"Me?" Primula mistook to whom her twin was speaking to, and sounded aghast. "The same as you, Fastolph. There once came a time when mummy and pappy loved each other so much that they–"
"Silence," Gandalf interceded rather sharply, too disquieted with the girl to notice otherwise. "The both of you."
The wizard had yet to look away from the girl, and suddenly his hand shot out and pressed his fingers along her neck. A heartbeat later he withdrew his hand, exhaling heavily, the multitude of wrinkles on his face deepening in thought.
Primula shuffled her feet excitedly. "Is she dead?"
"No," Gandalf said, nearly lost in reverie. "She is merely unconscious."
Fastolph eyed the girl. "Who is she?"
"No, no," his twin corrected. "It's what is she."
"Why, she's a girl!"
Primula scoffed. "Of course she's a girl, but what manner of girl is she? A she-dwarf? She-elf?"
"Well, the she-thing clearly isn't a she-hobbit, no matter how little a thing she is, for she is not as little as we are!" Fastolph puffed out his chest, nearly ejecting several brass buttons from his vest. "But lo! Look at those dainty feet! How crude."
"Yes, quite. Terribly uncouth."
Gandalf inched closer, kneeling onto the plush grass. He leaned against his staff, resisting the urge to take a page out of Fastolph's book and cocked his head to the side in unabashed bewilderment. Instead, a curious twinkle entered into his eyes.
He reached forward, very carefully lifting an eyelid to reveal an unseeing eye, the iris a color that reminded him of memories long past—that of a sea in sunlight, not a shadowy blue, but something much lighter and veiled in green. She was adorned in a grey homespun tunic with leggings and undershirt beneath, each muddied and bloodied and torn. A belt was cinched loosely around her waist, pocketed and too large for her thin frame. Her feet bobbed with the current of the river, her body swaying as a warm breeze rippled through the water. Her boots, Gandalf noted, appeared of Rohirrim design, a reddish brown that came below the knees, a thick and hardy leather with knotwork scrolling along the shafts, the toes rounded with light plated steal.
He sighed when he retracted his arm, studying the girl as ever before, coming no closer to any conclusion about her fate.
It was her left arm, however, that the wizard found to be both equal parts intriguing and troublesome. The entire length of the appendage was wrapped tightly in a bandage, from upper arm until it had been bound securely around her palm, tied off at the wrist. The wrapping gave no indication of what lay beneath, no marring of blood dotting the length of it, no pink tints of a healing wound around the edges, but merely a drenched swatch of cloth. Gandalf eyed it, puckering his lips, a habit whenever his thoughts were legions away.
Then, once more, wizard found himself reaching forward—ignoring how his instincts firmly told him that such action could be deemed foolhardy—to remove the wrapping. Instead, his ever-whetted curiosity and urge for further knowledge burned within his fingertips. He was in the midst of slipping his fingers beneath the bandage when he felt a presence closing in on his direction.
Or, rather, many presences.
Gandalf sighed, having sensed that he was no longer alone with the two Peatfingers twins who were currently jabbering with the other, and began to straighten.
As if on cue, a large, trapper-style hat abruptly appeared from behind a hedge. Gandalf could almost tangibly feel the lighthearted grin spreading across Bofur's face from behind his back, and nearly grinned himself when the dwarf spoke.
"Oi, Gandalf! Fancy meeting yah here. Spending quality time with the locals, aye?" he asked, bounding forward, the remainder of the dwarven company in the midst of catching up.
"Greetings, Bofur," Gandalf nodded, smiling when the dwarf stopped at his side.
The furred hat immediately flopped to the side, the dwarf below soon following as he craned his neck, peering at the girl still afloat on the riverside. Bofur glanced from girl to wizard, wizard to girl, then to the Peatfingers twins who were gawking wide-eyed and opened mouthed (with maybe just a little bit of drool involved) at the dwarf, then back once more at Gandalf.
Before anything lacking tact could be said, Gandalf thrust his wooden staff to Bofur, bending to remove the girl from the shoreline. He was very careful with her, tucking an arm beneath her knees and supporting her back with the other. Her head rolled back, her saturated hair dripping steadily from each tendril and swaying as the wizard began to move. Her lips began to part from the turbulence of being carried by a wizard.
Bofur had yet to peal his eyes away from her.
"Well, sew my britches together and call me Borghild, you've gone and found yourself a little slip of a girlie, Gandalf," he said, then looked forward once his comrades had congregated along the thoroughfare, all smiling in greeting to Gandalf. He hollered to them, "Oi, fellas! Gandalf's got himself a girl!"
Gandalf muttered, "Honestly, Bofur."
"She looks as though she had a drunken tumble into the river. Know I've had plenty myself back home. Wotcha going to do with her?"
"I think it's prudent we at least bring her to Bilbo's and tend what needs to be tended. I'm quite curious as to the reason why a bruised and bloodied woman washes ashore in the Shire, of all places," Gandalf answered, more to himself than anything. "Yes, quite curious."
Bofur raised his brows. "She coming with us?"
Gandalf held a breath as they neared the pathway leading towards Bag End and the start of their adventure, glimpsing down at the girl. "Like many things," he said, "that remains to be seen."
Chapter 2: Rude Awakening
Chapter Text
Gandalf's eyes twinkled with amusement.
Something else entirely filled the eyes of the young dwarf at his side. Ever since sidling up to him upon turning onto Bagshot Row, the dwarf had been trying desperately hard to appear nonchalant, but was surreptitiously leaning forward and peering around the wizard every other moment to gain an unobstructed view of the girl. He would then catch Gandalf's knowing gaze, jerk his attention forward, then repeat the process by casting another tentative sidewise glance.
His fingers twitched.
The girl had been deposited onto Nori's pony after he had courteously offered to lighten the wizard's load, who then commenced to stroll in the front of the company by Óin. Camaraderie ensued, as is the traditional way of travelers, and they bantered with ruthless vigor amongst themselves, as is the way of dwarves. But curiosity hung almost palpably in the fragrant Shire air, and Gandalf found himself rather surprised that their naturally frank inquisitiveness hadn't gone completely unchecked.
Still, he had detected every questioning glance cast his way—or, rather, to the unconscious girl draped across the shaggy pony. As the distance to Bilbo's smial lessened, the spherical green door appearing like an emerald moon in the evening light, the more Gandalf could feel the curiosity around him augment.
Even Bofur had been uncharacteristically silent as he stared at her, riding behind Nori's pony with narrowed eyes, each puff to his pipe more pensive than the last.
Now, the group of dwarves were assembling outside the picturesque landscape of Bag End, ponies stamping their feet and kicking up dirt from the manicured lawn. Eyes darted in the girl's direction, artfully done between cloak adjustments and weapon checks and sidestepping out of another dwarf's way. But then, abruptly, Gandalf saw frenzied movement in his periphery.
Ori was seizing the moment for another look.
Both still astride their mounts, the young dwarf had decided upon a different approach as he stretched himself for an unimpeded angle, peering over the very long point of the wizard's grey hat. The effect had him looking like some strange fledgling with a bowl-cut—neck stretched, mouth hung open, eyes widening with every passing second. But when failing in his endeavor, he settled back into his saddle with a huff and a puckered brow, looking disgruntled and somewhat petulant. He sighed morosely.
"Ori," Gandalf chuckled, unfolding himself from his horse. "What is on your mind, dear boy?"
Now that the wizard's lengthy form and impossibly tall hat was no longer hampering his line of sight, Ori snapped to attention and openly gawked at the girl. The forlorn expression vanished from his face, eyes rounder than a hobbit door with unabashed wonder. Gandalf found himself once more than amused as the young dwarf's mouth began to suspend and slowly form a perfectly spherical 'o'. He even expected a glimmer of drool to appear.
Ori glanced at him, whispering conspiratorially, as though he feared the girl would awaken from the sound of his voice. "Gandalf," he said. "Where is her beard?"
For a moment the wizard had to compose himself, pressing his lips together to keep another chuckle at bay. He coughed once, cleared his throat, trying to look past the complete look of pure, unwavering awe on the dwarf's face.
"I don't believe she's a dwarf, Ori," he responded.
Ori froze atop his pony. A moment later saw him making a mad scramble for his pack, hands clumsy with urgency. He managed to pull out a small leather-bound book and looked between Gandalf and the girl with breathless expectance.
His fingers twitched.
"Really?" he asked, jotting something down without looking away from the grey wizard. "Her feet are not at all large. I do wonder if they're hairy. Can we take off her booties?"
Gandalf shook his head, suppressing another smile. "Nor is she a hobbit of the Shire."
"Oh."
Ori looked momentarily bemused, mouth once more agape as he stared with fixation at the girl. His brows furrowed, but then spiked and disappeared above his bangs in epiphany.
"Why, she's a Man!" he crowed gleefully, then slapped his palms over her mouth (dropping his book and nearly spooking his pony, who pranced nervously) and eyed the girl to see if his outburst had awoken her. When she remained inert, he sighed with relief, then blinked at Gandalf. "But isn't she awfully small for one?"
"They tend to come in various sizes, Ori. Much like every other race."
"Oh."
"However," Gandalf amended. "I must say that her ears are rather pointed."
Ori's eyes widened almost comically, and he seized his book once more and began scribbling with furious zeal inside. Gandalf hummed with amusement as he watched the young dwarf's tongue begin to beetle past his lips, smiling at whatever notes he was making.
He opened his mouth to reply when, for the second time that afternoon, a large and furred hat sprouted from out of nowhere, flaps quivering like insect wings from the abrupt movement. Bofur appeared at Ori's side and reached up to grab the young dwarf by the shoulders.
"Come on now, youngling," he said in his brand of jovial forthrightness, winking at Gandalf as he tore Ori off his saddle and settled him onto the front lawn of Bag End. "Stop harassing poor Mr. Gandalf here, and stop staring at the wee lass. Not polite, yah know."
"But–"
"Now, now, laddie. Let's get inside and find some vittles before my stomach thinks I don't love it anymore."
Bofur prodded Ori forward, who had been standing tip-toed to gain another glance at the girl. In the end, the young dwarf sighed with dejection, clutching his book to his chest as he was ushered away to towards the flowered doorway of Hobbiton's largest smial.
Gandalf chuckled. But then he allowed himself a moment of peace, inhaling a lungful of air to prioritize the infinite churning of his thoughts. He cast his gaze to the grasslands surrounding him, eyes lingering on the evening haze of the Shire. By now the sun had descended, leaving just a sliver of auric light in the distance to soften the purple-blue sky.
It always amazed him how the Shire remained untouched from the world of Men, how its simple living could produce such surprising and steadfast beings.
Silhouettes of other smials dotted the hillsides, which looked like shadowed waves in the dark, and various lanterns glimmered like constellations imbedded into the earth. Warmth perpetuated the Shire, even during twilight, darkness never seeming to pervade the land's mantle of serene, rustic safety. It was a comfort to the grey wizard how evil had never truly scarred the fertile lands or tainted the provincial inhabitants, but then mused how most of the hobbits he had encountered during his long life had been quite suspicious of wandering folk in general.
How their large, hairy feet made for good kicking.
Taking a final deep breath of air, heeding the aroma of the rose bush nearby, Gandalf felt the thrum of anticipation in his fingertips. He was old. Very old. But no matter how many decades or centuries one roams the earth, no matter ones amassing of wisdom, the thrill of adventure and the unknown never lost its verve.
And not for the first time since the Quest to Erebor was conceived, Gandalf the Grey wondered just how his burglar of choice would fare.
How the unexpected discovery of the unconscious, bloodied girl would come into play.
At the thought, the wizard straightened underneath his grey robes and pivoted on his feet, turning his attention to the last remaining pony bearing a rider, then thrust his wooden staff at Bifur (who had been tromping by and grunted something in surprised Khuzdûl) as he made to unload the girl from Nori's mount. He acknowledged how the thrum in his fingertips nearly began to prickle, but overlooked it until later rumination, fixing onto the task at hand.
He was very careful with her, noting that she remained as unresponsive and motionless as ever, but also that the short ride to Bag End in the Shire's summer warmth had dried her clothing just a little bit, that strands of dark hair framing her face were sun-fluffed.
That her eyelashes were beginning to flicker.
Gandalf adjusted his hold on her, hitching his breath, detecting the rapid movement as her eyes rolled beneath their lids, knowing that she was struggling to open them. He felt her muscles contract within his grasp, fingers curling. A moment later, however, the girl's body sagged languorously, head rolling to his chest in complete unconsciousness once more.
The grey wizard remained still under the rising moonlight, eyes missing little.
"Curiosity is a strange thing," he then muttered to himself. "It has the power to end a life, and the power to satisfy it. What knowledge will we gain from you, I wonder, or what will be lost because of it. What has been fated for you by the powers in the West?"
"Mr. Gandalf, sir!" Dori's voice rang out, whose head popped over the band of dwarves loitering outside Bag End's threshold. "May we knock without you? I daresay Bofur here is becoming quite rowdy from being unable to fill his belly."
"Oi! Who are you callin' rowdy, fancy-pants?"
Pandemonium broke out. Dwarven tussles involved nothing more than shoving, clouting, cursing, and a tangling of limbs. From Gandalf's perspective, their silhouettes merged as one, appearing like the contours of two trolls fighting over a booger, and therefore couldn't help but chuckle at the sight.
"Stop shoving, Ori!"
"I didn't shove. Someone stepped on my foot!"
"Bofur!"
"Bifur!"
"Birashagimi!"
Gandalf the Grey left behind his meditations, the girl tucked into his arms, the moisture still saturating her attire beginning to dampen his robes. She felt nearly weightless to him, because wizards—much like hobbits—were much stronger than initial impressions suggested.
He was upon the dwarves within a moment, raising an unimpressed brow as his wizened, albeit looming appearance caused the tussle to immediately halt. Dori looked particularly scandalized, red-faced and grimacing. Bifur wielded the wizard's staff like a lance at Bofur, whose ridiculous hat was askew.
Ori blinked owlishly up at him.
"Are we to look forward to this impressive display of maturity throughout the quest?"
Bofur raised a hand. "Probabl–" Nori shoved him. "–y not."
"Dwarves," Gandalf sighed wearily, then felt a wisp of cool nighttime wind pass through. He looked at the girl, whose breathing he could barely detect. "Bifur, would you do the honors of knocking?"
The dwarf obliged, using the tip of his wooden staff to knock upon the green hobbit door. They waited, the moonlight reflecting off of the round brass knob like it was a star itself. Two small windows on each side of the door looked like tiny, golden-lit sentinels of the smial, but gave no indication of the activities inside due to the abundance of potted flowers on their sills. The grass of Bilbo's hobbit-hole looked like crushed velvet.
And then Gandalf heard the hobbit in question inside, ignoring how Dori and Bofur were quietly elbowing each other. The crashing of dinnerware resounded from within the smial.
"–very poor taste!"
The band of dwarves straightened to attention, but it was at that moment that the strange girl within Gandalf's arms parted her lips and groaned the lightest of groans. Each pair of ears caught the sound, eyes locking onto her and missing the moment when the large circular door before them swung open with a resounding sigh—each dwarf effectively tumbling onto the threshold and upon one another.
The girl's struggle ceased, falling once again into unconsciousness.
Bilbo Baggins stood before Gandalf the Grey, looking harried and dejected and positively put off.
The hobbit sighed, "Gandalf."
Under the wide brim of his hat, the wizard nodded in greeting, eyes twinkling immediately with amusement. The dwarves laying upon the floor of the smial began to pick each other up, dusting themselves off and burgeoning the overwhelmed hobbit with their traditional form of greetings. They dispersed within in instant thereafter into the uncountable rooms in the search of food, Bofur leading the pack.
Gandalf watched his hat bounce around a corner before fixing his eyes onto Bilbo, about to offering his own greeting.
"What," Bilbo rasped before the wizard could open his mouth, pointing dramatically at Gandalf. "What is that?"
Gandalf stepped into Bag End, encased immediately with its warmth. Everything about the smial was comforting, and made to comfort every sense and every body that entered into it. Lanterns lit the walls in sconces and in iron-wrought chandeliers, enveloping the interior with a homely yellow glow. The walls were the color of cream and the floors were furnished with chestnut wood, every room amassed with decorations and personal knickknacks and generations of keepsakes. Books, in particular, were piled in various corners.
The scent of artfully crafted food bombarded the wizard, and even he could understand the dwarves' insatiable lust for it. Nothing with two hands in Middle Earth could prepare a meal quite like a hobbit.
"This, my dear hobbit, is a girl."
Bilbo looked like his head had been unscrewed, each comprehensive thought spilling out onto the ornate rug beneath their feet. His tiny fists squeezed together and his nostrils flared.
"Yes, thank you for that. But what are you doing with her?" His arms flapped around him in a frantic gesture. "My poor home is already being bombarded by these ruffians, and now I have some comatose girl atop of everything else!"
Gandalf tittered, shutting the door with his elbow. "Really, Bilbo. Clearly you can see that she is in dire need of aid. Would you truly turn her aside? I'm disappointed in you."
Bilbo set his hands on his hips, fingers clutching into the fabric of his trousers. "Gandalf, they are disturbing my peace. You as well! And her! I'm going to faint. I just know it. I'm going to faint and they'll just trod all over my unconscious body in the endeavor to empty my larder. Yep, going to faint."
Gandalf patted Bilbo's shoulder, stepping further into the smial. "Calm yourself, Bilbo. Maybe sip some wine to settle your nerves."
"I don't have any left!"
The wizard left Bilbo Baggins to collect himself, venturing down the central hallway, through one circular archway after another, hearing snippets of the dwarves' conversations echo from the vaulted ceilings. It was clear by the clang of cutlery and deep guffaws that they were in the beginning stages of merrymaking as they set up for supper.
The girl did not stir. But within the comforting yellow light of the smial she appeared to be merely slumbering, rather than mysteriously knocked out—fallen into The Water in a drunk stupor rather than having been discovered drifting ashore.
The shadows of her face looked less severe, the numerous lesions across her cheekbones and chin and freckled nose looking like swathes of dirt rather than coagulated blood. Her hair was nearly dry, dark and unbrushed and unruly, bangs split to the sides of her head as it swayed with the wizard's movement. Her lashes were long, leaving fingers of shadows on her eyelids.
Her left arm was pressed against his chest, and he eyed it with the utmost of wariness; it had not lessened from the first time he set eyes on the strange white bandages wrapping the length of her arm. Not for the first time that day, his fingertips prickled with equal parts uneasiness and curiosity.
And then Gandalf the Grey found himself entering Bilbo Baggin's dining hall, the colossal stone fireplace lighting the room aglow with warmth, found himself falling in love even more with the Shire; Bag End possessed a magic of its own, which momentarily squelched his uneasiness of the girl's bandaged arm.
Dwarves were bustling around, moving furniture and walloping each other on the backs in reunion. They moved in chaotic unison, jamming the room with an eclectic blend of chairs and folksy-patterned dinnerware and taste-testing a platter of food if it was within arm's reach. The hobbit—nor its hole—had probably never catered such a ruckus, and for a moment Gandalf wondered if Bilbo had truly passed out at his entryway.
But then his eyes lit when settling upon two dwarves in particular, ones in the midst of hauling a large barrel of ale.
"Ah, you two. Set that down," his deep voice rumbled, walking forward. "Fili and Kili, here."
The brothers produced their wide, easy trademark smiles upon seeing the wizard, eyes perpetually glittering with mirth and magnetism and a lifetime of shared mischief. There was very little that the carefree charm of Thorin's nephews couldn't affect.
Still, their smiles immediately dropped away when noticing there was something within the wizard's arms. They peered over, brows furrowing with a more intense curiosity than even Ori displayed, which only shot up when they looked down to see that it was, of all things, an unconscious girl.
Gandalf could almost tangibly feel the questions arising in their minds, knowing that the brothers shared the same mystification when sharing a fleeting, weighted glance at the other. Where Fili raised a brow, Kili's furrowed.
It was when Kili began to open his mouth, however, that Gandalf carefully deposited her into his arms.
The young dwarf tensed. He adjusted his grip, setting his boot-clad feet firmly apart. He frowned up at Gandalf with uncertainty. "What is this?"
"Truly?" Fili's answering smile was sly. "You don't know a girl when you see one? I'm surprised, brother."
"I know it's a girl," Kili replied, giving Fili a withering glance. "But what in Mahal's name is she doing here?"
"Why, I don't see her doing a thing," Gandalf said, eyes twinkling with the same brand of jest that the brothers perpetuated.
"Nonsense," Fili grinned, pointing. "She's breathing. See, her chest is rising and falling."
Kili smirked. "Stop staring at her chest, brother. Have you no honor? What would dear ol' khagan say?"
The brothers snickered in tandem, eyes crinkling with amusement, and even Gandalf gave an appreciating hum. But then, for yet another time that day, Bofur's floppy hat materialized into sight. Fili and Kili grinned openly at the sight of him, yet Gandalf groaned to himself, recognizing what the cockeyed grin on the dwarf's face meant.
Bofur moved from behind the brothers, clapping them heartily on the backs while wagging his eyebrows in the wizard's direction.
"I see Gandalf's making the rounds 'n introducing his girlie. Never thought I'd see the day. But she is a quiet one, if I do say so meself," he said, then frowned at Kili in mock confusion. "What're you doing holding her? Is Gandalf sharing?"
Knowing better than to provoke a wizard and stay for the aftermath, Bofur bounded off towards the cellar, grinning cheekily all the while.
"Bofur," the wizard sighed. "Honestly."
Fili burst into laughter, shoulders shaking, before he caught the wizard's icy, unimpressed stare. He snorted, shielding his face behind a hand before coughing into it. Kili, however, was silent. His face was ducked down, cloaking his expression behind a dark mane of hair. His brother had to bend and peer through to read his expression.
Fili nearly choked on his breath, clapping his brother's shoulder. Kili stumbled under the gusto of it, having to readjust his hold on the girl, face still burrowed within the cave his bangs formed.
"Come now, brother," Fili smiled. "If that blood-blush gets any redder Mr. Glóin will have to mine you for rubies."
This caused the younger brother to bristle. He shook away his hair and leveled Fili with a glower, the confident, somewhat reckless air that his arched eyebrows gave him was gone, and they were lowered with the aggravation of wounded pride. His nostrils began to flare, cheeks still red.
Gandalf noted, with a little amusement, that Kili puffed out his chest just a little bit, causing the girl's head to press further against the front of his embroidered tunic.
Before a sibling skirmish could ensue, Gandalf stepped forward. He straightened, knowing that the effect never failed to instantaneously capture the attention of whomever was within the radius of the wizard's otherworldly aura. The brothers peered up at him, one still with an amused glimmer in his eyes, the other looking goaded and uncomfortable, but showing no signs of unsteadiness with the load in his arms.
His voice was low and serious.
"You two care for her until I return. Take heed if she begins to wake, and let me know the moment she does," the wizard glanced into a nearby hallway, watching Bilbo trailing one dwarf after another in a fevered endeavor to safeguard his food. "I'm afraid our hobbit host is going to put himself into an early grave if I don't lend some support. And to think that I have yet to tell him the truth of why we've congregated here. Goodness, he may just faint then."
— — —
It took all of a moment for Gandalf the Grey to venture into the labyrinthine fray of dwarven activity and vanish, leaving behind the two young princes and the unconscious girl in their care. They shared a look, just a brief meeting of the eyes, but one that never failed to convey their unspoken thoughts. Kili's mouth quirked, and Fili nodded.
"Fireplace is as good as any," Kili said with a shrug.
"Aye."
Much like the wizard before, the brothers moved amongst their comrades with ease, all carefree smiles and nodding in greeting as they journeyed towards the ambient stone fireplace in the kitchen. They pivoted, twisting and turning, Kili having to take more care than Fili of the bustle around them so that no errant stack of plates or wooden chair would clock the girl in the head.
He held her closer, compacting her when Dwalin charged by, and was surprised by how nearly weightless she was.
Once standing beside the fireplace that bore rustic masonry, the crackling heat of the hearth pressing against their exposed skin, the brothers knelt before it. Kili began to settle the girl carefully on the foundation of the fireplace when Fili grabbed his arm, holding up a finger.
He grabbed an embroidered shawl from the back of a nearby armchair and laid it across the cobbled edge, then seized another to form a makeshift pillow. Bilbo happened to by skittering by, on the heels of Balin, and saw this. His eyes bugged.
"Those were my grandmother's!" he protested. "Put them back. Put—them—back."
Thankfully, Bombour happened to be passing through with yet another stack of wheeled cheeses, garnering the hobbit's immediate attention, and went chasing after the large dwarf as he trundled towards the dining hall. The brothers shared an amused look, eyes glinting like black jewels in the firelight.
They were careful with girl, resting her down onto the shawls and double-checking that she wasn't too close to the flames. Tiny wisps of steam arose from her damp clothing, and Kili even folded her hands atop her stomach in a gesture of comfort.
For a moment, the distant din of dwarven merriment was quiet, stoppered until nothing more than mere background noise as the brothers peered down at the girl.
Much like Gandalf and Ori and the rest of the company, questions, wonderment, and pure mystification abounded in the brothers as they looked at her, eyes roaming and settling on various oddities about of the girl. She was small, but not hobbit sized. Beardless, therefore not a dwarf. She was too bird-boned to be wholly Man, nor her features possessing the unnatural sylvan symmetry of elves.
Fili and Kili sat crossed-legged before her, the former raising a brow, the later's furrowing with each passing second.
There was nothing outstanding about her attire. It was simple and unrefined and a bit threadbare, a grey tunic that hung off of her body, draping at her sides, making it clear that it had once fit her frame much more amply. Her boots, however, had ornate scrolling along the sides in knotwork patterns that they had only seen in history tomes in their youth, something that was Rohirric in design; something from a kingdom they had only ever heard of. Not unlike Erebor.
Fili's eyes locked onto the bandage wrapped around the entirety of her left arm, but when Kili elbowed him, he followed his brother's gaze down to her fingertips.
"Fili," Kili said in a hushed tone. "Look at this."
Fili peered closer. "What is that?"
Kili held her right hand in both his own, and the first impression was the stark differences in size between his dwarven hand and her much smaller one. His grasp was light, fingers splaying hers apart like a deck of cards.
Round callouses matted the tips of her three inner fingers, rough and familiar to Kili. He looked at his brother.
"I'd know these marks anywhere. Bowstring callouses, and they're not new," he said, then peered down at the girl, brows furrowing, deep into a thought that not even his brother could read. A moment passed, and he muttered, "What have you gotten yourself into, I wonder."
Silence returned. Both brothers were lost into their own veins of thought, eyes intently watching the girl's slow, even breathing. She did not move. Her eyelids did not flicker. There was no tremble to her fingertips. The heat of the fire breathed a rosy hue to her face, curling the tendrils of hair.
Kili lowered her hand back onto the other.
The firelight shadowed the cuts on her face, masking the dried blood, the spattering of freckles across her nose, but it highlighted her cheekbones. She had a small, heart-shaped face with lips to match—the lower was almost spare, offset by a full upper one. Feathery shadows flickered beneath her eyebrows, cast by unmoving lashes.
For the briefest of moments, Kili wondered what color eyes she had.
But then Fili tensed at his side, eyes tapered onto her neck. Within an instant he was reaching forward and pulling out a thin leather cord from beneath her undershirt. A small, triangular pendant fell onto on the palm of Fili's hand.
They stared at it, not knowing what to think, before glancing at each other.
"Gandalf!" Fili hollered, causing Kili to immediately look at the girl to see if he'd woken her. When she didn't move, Fili looked behind to see that the wizard had been in close proximity and was already in the midst of hastening their way. "Come see this."
It never failed to astonish just how fluidly the wizard could move when motivated to do so, despite his grizzled grey hair and the beginning stoop of his back. Sometimes it felt like he only appeared ancient, but even the newest wrinkle lining Gandalf's face was older than the brothers combined. The grey wizard's robes billowed out behind him, long beard swaying when he halted before the girl.
"Has she awoken?" he asked, blue eyes alert, shining with arcane light. Then he hummed. "Ah. I see. She has not."
"No," Fili agreed, but nodded towards the pendant in hand. "But look at this."
Gandalf kneeled between the brothers, overgrown eyebrows lowering as he analyzed the pendant. He hummed again, carefully taking it from Fili's palm and turning it over between his long fingers. The wizard said nothing, clearly ruminating over the strange item with eyes that missed little. He pressed his lips together.
The brothers shifted uncomfortably, for it was not a pleasant sensation to any onlooker when one of the order of Istari is rendered speechless.
"A pendant?" Gandalf eventually breathed, voice so quiet it reverberated in his chest. "How did I miss this?"
It was barely larger than the fingernail of Kili's thumb, which was naturally large being a dwarf, but it seemed minimized in size when laying the wizard's palm. It was metal, clearly precious, a glimmering white-silver that shown like starlight in the shadowy kitchen, but held a surprising heft to it. The edges were serrated, the ridges lacquered with a strange black paint that scintillated in a blue-green sheen in the firelight, like the armor of nighttime beetles buzzing around lanterns.
Gandalf hummed again.
Kili shifted.
"It was stuffed beneath her shirt," he said, looking momentarily abashed when the wizard lifted a bushy eyebrow at him. He cleared his throat after looking pointedly at his brother, voice deep, both certain and uncertain. "It's an arrowhead."
Fili pointed towards the pendant. "There are strange etchings on the back."
Gandalf was once more very quiet.
Then: "No, not strange," he said. "Sindarin."
There was a collective hitching of breath inside the hobbit's kitchen, and the three peered down at the strange, unconscious girl with an amassing of puzzlement and perplexity. Fili's raised eyebrow lowered and lowered until his face was contorted into an uncharacteristic scowl. Gandalf was motionless, staring at the faint markings of elvish with an expression that read his thoughts were worlds away.
Kili clenched his teeth, causing tendons to pop along his jawline.
Very, very little that correlated with the Fair Folk was particularly good.
He was the first to speak. "What does it say?"
Gandalf exhaled heavily through his nostrils. "I can only translate two words—ú amarth."
Fili turned to the wizard. "What does that mean?"
"Without fate."
Slowly, Gandalf lowered the pendant onto her chest, all three watching it rise and fall with her breathing, the etched words catching each tendril of flame. Silence reigned once more.
Gandalf sighed, brows puckered with the expression of troubled thoughts, eyes clasped onto the white bandages of her left arm. Fili began to gnaw on the inside of his cheek, a habit of his when needing to do something but not knowing exactly what. Kili, on the other hand, watched the girl with rapt attention, fingers slowly curling into tight, bloodless fists—he felt uncomfortably anxious, and felt more uncomfortable not knowing entirely why.
His fingers prickled.
And then he caught it—the tremor in her fingertips.
He tensed, watching without moving a muscle when it occurred again, this time extending towards her entire hand. His breaths skidded to a halt, and moved forward with the silent speed only trained warrior possessed. Kili detected his brother and the wizard observing him in his periphery, but ignored their stares when she moved further.
Her chest lightly shuddered.
Kili was at her side within a moment, eyes lingering on her face and the shadows that thinly veiled her cuts. Her lashes began to quiver, lips pressing together as she fought to regain consciousness. For a moment, as she shifted, he caught the muzzy scent of leather and something both familiar and unknown; his brows quirked at the strange aroma, and almost identified it when she moved again.
Her eyes snapped open.
They were a smear of greens and blues, combining into a shade that reminded him instantly of a rare, smooth gemstone mined by the dwarves near the Blue Mountains. They were both cold and warm, edged with long black lashes, edged with the sheer, abrupt glimmering of pain.
Of panic.
The girl gasped, chest shuddering like a tiny earthquake raged within her ribcage, before her eyes latched onto him. Something flashed within them, something that was more than pain or panic or reminiscent of the colorful stone buried deep within mountains. It was something harrowing, something that was not completely of this world.
But before Kili could move or speak, the girl's teeth clenched, her bare fist sailing towards his face.
The punch packed an unexpected force, rendering the dwarf stunned in a moment of white-hot pain. The impact sent him scuttling backwards, blinking the haze from his eyes and clutching the side of his jaw, tasting blood. He turned towards Fili and Gandalf, eyes wide and affronted and stinging.
"Thee hidt me inda faze!"
Fili looked unrepentant, and grinned. "No worries. You were always the ugly one."
Kili glowered at his brother, and was about to unleash his own heated riposte when the girl moved again. She struggled upright, hands trying to gain purchase on the stone foundation of the fireplace. Fili and Kili both moved immediately to aid her, but hesitated when she openly glared at them, eyes ablaze. Her face screwed up into an expression of agony, a hand pressing against her ribcage. Her breathing was visibly labored, and she seethed through clenched teeth.
When she finally stood, legs trembling, Kili noted how the girl very faintly favored her right foot. She held out her bandaged hand towards them, a warning for them to keep their distance. Her nostrils were flared like some cornered, wild beast—one that was just a small, feral thing, thin from losing too much weight in too short a time, but a creature that demanded to be dealt with cautiously. Her arm quivered.
And then she spoke.
It was more of a sequence of snarls than anything else, eyes fierce and defensive as she stood her ground, inching herself step by step away from them. Shaggy bangs hung in her face, which she brushed aside as she continued to speak in a strange, foreign tongue.
There was a moment of silence after she stopped, waiting with rigid shoulders for their reply.
Gandalf was immovable. Fili was blinking rapidly. Kili looked up at the wizard, ignoring the prickling in his fingertips, the pain thrumming along his jaw, or how the bustle of the dwarves preparing their feast had abruptly silenced. His own breath shuddered.
"Gandalf," he said quietly. "What is she speaking?"
"Rohirric," the wizard replied, not once looking away from the girl. "And none of it friendly."
seeing_blue on Chapter 2 Wed 11 Sep 2019 02:33AM UTC
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Wandrian on Chapter 2 Wed 11 Sep 2019 11:57PM UTC
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Itscassiberry on Chapter 2 Fri 11 Oct 2019 12:33PM UTC
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Wandrian on Chapter 2 Fri 11 Oct 2019 02:37PM UTC
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