Chapter Text
Thorin was unimpressed.
Granted, he was usually unimpressed with something or other.
This time, though, he was unimpressed by the staff-man, Tharkûn, or Gandalf as he was called in these lands. The exiled King Under the Mountain was definitely unimpressed with the wizard's cowardly burglar who had ghosted the travel-weary dwarven party without so much as a note.
Gandalf was adamant that this 'Boggins' character would do no such thing without good reason. He had gone so far as to insist that they wait a little longer before continuing their journey.
"Considering the dirty dishes, food still waiting to be prepared, and a half-read book in the kitchen," the wizard reasoned, "our burglar must be planning on coming back."
"Perhaps he saw Dwalin's ugly mug and ran for the hills," Filli teased.
He received a solid thwack to the back of his head from the grizzled guard for that.
"I have no use for cowards on this quest," Thorin dismissed. "The twelve bravest souls in Middle Earth have heeded my call, and I could not ask for better. We leave at dawn. That is final."
Dwalin turned to look at the most infamous member of the brothers' Ri, "Looks like the time has come for you to be a thief once more, Nori."
Nori was not pleased by that.
Gandalf looked like he had a few choice words he would like to share, but instead retired to a different part of the surprisingly homely hobbit hole with a mutter that sounded suspiciously like, "confound the stubbornness of dwarves."
And so, at dawn, they continued their trek without a burglar.
After a full day of travel and being gawked at by hobbits, they made camp off the Great East Road, near a mountainous region called The Barrow Downs. Their rest stop was well out of sight of the traffic. Sheltered by gnarled trees, scraggly bushes, and large rock outcroppings. The Brandywine River could be heard as a distant white noise. In a couple more days, they would be entirely out of view of the Shire, with its gently rolling hills, and in the more familiar, treacherous world of men and kings.
Correction: everyone in the party besides Gandalf was setting up camp. The grey wizard had reached his limit once more in the company of thirteen stubborn dwarves, one kingly dwarf in particular, and had excused himself with a harumph to do whatever it was wizards did.
Probably drinking mushroom tea or communing with rocks, Thorin thought to himself as he set down his saddle bags. Honestly, how hard was it to find an expert burglar in this sordid world? At least one that won't run at the first hint of danger.
But deep in his guarded heart, the dark dwarf didn't begrudge Master Boggins for running away from this cursed quest. After all, did not Thorin, as a young prince, also run when the fire drake of the North, Smaug, had come to destroy their lives and desolate the great kingdom of Erebor?
The other dwarven kingdoms knew this was a fool's errand as well. Not even Thorin's cousin, Dain of the Ironhills, had bothered to send support beyond a terse note that ended with, "write me back when ya've come to yer senses."
Thorin may or may not have sent a letter back correcting all the Khuzdul grammar and spelling mistakes he found in his dear cousin's missive. Truthfully, some of the corrections were entirely made up and obscure.
"I'd be careful about what order ya leave the pot by, boys," Glóin said, accepting a bowl of soup from Bombur, breaking Thorin's train of thought, "When thirteen dine together, the first to rise will be the first to die."
"Then it would be you, wouldn't it?" Dori sniffed, passing by with a great armload of wood, "Seeing as you were the first to rise from the table last night."
Dwalin also passed by with a smaller load of wood and a roll of his eyes.
"What? No, I didn't!" Glóin protested, quickly making a warding sign with his free hand.
"I think we'll all get a chance to be 'the first to die' on this trip," Killi piped in with the naiveté of youth.
The thought of his two sister's sons dying made Thorin's hands clench hard around his pony's tackle.
"Don't speak lightly of death, Killi," the dark dwarf rebuked.
"Sorry, uncle."
"Wait, wasn't it Ori who rose first last night?" Bofur asked with a grin.
"N-no!" Ori protested, nearly dropping his bowl.
"Yes, yes, I think it was you, lad! Swearing, ya weren't afraid of a flying furnace with meat hooks for claws," the miner wiggled his fingers for emphasis.
The youngest Ri flushed as red as the fire he stood by. 'So what?' I'm not!"
"I think I can hear Smaug now. Crackin' trees like toothpicks," Bofur crept closer to Ori, bearing down on his victim.
Thorin winced where he stood on the edge of camp. The cries of that wretched night lanced through his mind. He closed his eyes to see phantom flames dancing along the slick of the lake.
Either Bofur was a masterful storyteller or the dark dwarf was lost in memory, because he thought he really did hear the cracks of trees breaking.
"And that roar! O' like thunder above yer head. Shaking the very earth," the miner continued.
"BOOM!" Nori cried, clapping his hands together, startling Bofur's captivated audience.
Ori dropped his soup with a squeak before roughly shoving his laughing brother.
"Nori!" Dori swore.
Gritting his teeth, Thorin tried to steady his breathing before he released the full brunt of his temper on these fools.
His bones, as dense and strong as his mountain home, still shook from the tremors caused by stone colliding with that sickly gleaming pile of riches. Still felt the fortified stronghold that had held for generations shake under the full weight of the red calamity. Forever cursed to experience the foundation of his world trembling.
The Brandywine seemed to roar louder in the night than it did during the day.
"Alright, that's enough," Dwalin commanded, glancing over to Thorin's lone form.
"That's not all," Balin broke in unexpectedly. The white haired dwarf turned to gaze through his companions at a scene happening far away, "O' if only that was it."
"Not you too, Balin," his brother groaned.
"No, the worst is to see that great beast bearing down on you, wreathed in hellfire. Knowing that you had no one to blame but yourself as he rakes ya across the coals!" The old dwarf leapt forward and grasped Ori's arm, making the young dwarf yelp and tumble backwards to the dirt.
All of the older dwarves, sans Dori, Bifur, Óin, and Dwalin, laughed at the sight.
"Silence!" Thorin snapped, instantly extinguishing the mirth from the camp, "You think this is a game?!"
"Thorin," Dwalin began, eyes wide.
"That we're on holiday?!" Thorin continued, deafened by the blood rushing in his ears.
"Thorin! Get out of the way!" His trusted friend ran towards him, hand stretched out.
The other dwarves also cried out, "Move!"
It was too late.
The exiled king only had time to turn his head and register a screaming oaken log hurtling down the hill at him before he was forcefully swept off his feet and carried away by it.
Gandalf was very concerned for the fate of Bilbo Baggins and more than a little annoyed with certain dwarves.
The wise grey pilgrim sat on a rock, smoking on his pipe as he contemplated weighty matters. His great white brows furrowed into a deep notch.
The sun had set a few hours ago, and now the night's stars were slowly blinking into view.
A wiser being in his order wouldn't be concerned over such a small thing. But Gandalf couldn't help it. He owed it to his old friend, Bilbo's maternal grandfather.
He had just seen the little hobbit the morning prior. Yes, the grey wizard had a spot of fun at the hobbit's expense, but it shouldn't have been enough to run the kind but resilient Baggins off. Not Bilbo, son of Belladonna Baggins neé Took. Who, as a young fauntling, was always looking for elves in the woods, begging for stories about pirates, and running off to the next hill over. Perhaps age and respectability had reigned him in a bit, but it couldn't have robbed him entirely of his Took heritage.
The sudden disappearance of such a peaceful being troubled him even greater when Gandalf considered the growing darkness in Middle Earth. Whispers of orcs marshaling en masse, reports of a necromancer in Dol Guldur, near the elven kingdom of Greenwood. Now called Mirkwood for the unsettling shadows that had taken root in the area.
Yes, troubling thoughts indeed. Oh, so many things to do and so little time. Gandalf was only one wizard. If he were to preserve an ember of light in this world, he, regrettably, wouldn't be able to accompany the company for the entire journey. Considering the number of times they have aggravated him that week, it may be a welcome break instead.
He chuckled quietly to himself.
What was the worst that could happen to the company while he was away? They knew how to take care of themselves. As brash, stubborn, and prideful as they could be, he still had faith in the dwarves.
A deep rumble of the earth, accompanied by crackling cacophonic echoes, diverted Gandalf's attention back to the world around him.
Quickly, he leapt atop a rock with an agility that belied his elderly appearance. He cast his gaze around and nearly fell off the rock at what he saw:
Racing straight to the spot he had just been was Thorin, the prideful dwarven king, birling atop a hollow oaken log. It was impressive to see the stoic dwarf keep careful time with the rotation of the tree. But it didn't last long until the dark dwarf misstepped and was sucked under and around, but not released. The continuing inertia flattened him repeatedly in a comedic fashion as the log continued forward.
And, if Gandalf's ears could be believed, a shrill scream was coming from the felled tree itself.
The odd sight barreled below the grey wizard and out of sight, kicking up a cloud of dust.
Before Gandalf could regain his wits, three great pale mountain trolls burst out of the woods in hot pursuit. Swearing up and down that they were going to catch that mongrel! They soon disappeared in a cloud of dust as well.
Mountain trolls? Here? In the Shire?!
A lesser man would have fainted from the shock, but Gandalf was no mortal man.
Curious though, if Thorin was down there, getting repeatedly thrown around by a tree and chased by stone trolls, where were the rest of his loyal companions?
As though summoned, Filli and Killi crashed on the scene, crying out, "Uncle Thorin! Uncle Thorin!"
Following them was the rest of the company, armed with weapons. Gandalf counted them off as they stormed down the hill.
“Óin, Glóin…Bifur, Bofur, Bombur… Dwalin, Balin…Nori, Ori, Dori…Yes, that's everyone," the wizard confirmed with a smile, "Even our dear burglar."
Instead of following the rest of the pack to rescue the runaway king, Gandalf went the opposite way. After all, wizards rarely followed convention.