Chapter Text
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The newly-rebuilt Ravenhill aviary was proving itself more than a restoration of the old. Messages poured in and out at all hours, as they had in the mountain’s heyday, but now they were signed by the lords and bureaucrats of the distant cities of Men, Hobbits, and even Elves. The Longbeards’ years spent in exile and the devastation that their previous isolation had wrought spurred overtures that were already reaping benefits for all involved. The roosts even hosted a few tiny thrushes and the gentle carrier pigeons that the Elves favored.
One particular bird that came fluttering in at autumn’s end, tired from a long journey but still alert, was no stranger to the keepers. She was small and glossy as a black pearl, with rare white feathers tipping her wings, and an odd tangle of bright blue yarn knotted around one leg. She glided through the high-arched aviary, lighting on a perch to restore herself with food and water. But rather than allow the raven keepers to retrieve her burden, she nipped at their fingers and scolded them with rough squawks.
Out she flew, winging around the peak of Ravenhill and reveling in the stretch of tired wings in the weak autumn sunlight as she climbed higher and higher in the face of the Lonely Mountain. She rose until the stone figures carved on either side of the great gate appeared as little mice that she could pounce upon, then she dropped into a steep dive, hurtling through the chill air, zipping past surprised guards on the ramparts, in through a conveniently open door and startling a group of apprentices walking back from the library, as she swooped directly into the halls proper. She cawed and croaked, hopping along the halls and pecking at grasping hands with a keen intelligence. By the time she reached the lower audience chamber, a knot of onlookers had gathered to see if the bold little raven would attempt to breach the throne room itself.
She did not. Instead, the cheeky messenger glided through the antechamber and into an office, coming to a halt atop the heavy ledger at which Balin, son of Fundin, Seneschal of Erebor and First Councillor to the King, was busy demonstrating the reconciliation of trade balances for a junior scribe. The bird dropped her head, looking at him sidelong in the manner of a most-satisfied creature enjoying a fine joke. Balin, who prided himself on being unflappable, set down his quill and regarded the messenger with a serious mien.
"If you mean to peck holes in my arithmetic," he said, "I’ll set you to copying the figures yourself." She fluffed her feathers as if giggling, holding politely still as he reached for her harness and unfastened the tube that was snugly bound to her breast there. "Ahkminizu, Narg'âz'abanith,"(Thank you, little black pearl) he murmured.
Relief had him sighing gustily when he saw that the letter inside was addressed in Bilbo Baggins’ fine hand. Their party had been expected to be halfway to Erebor by now, not still exchanging post from the Shire. He closed his eyes for a moment, breathing while he counted to six for luck, then, with a twinge of trepidation, popped open the glossy green seal on Bilbo's typically-sized correspondence—a thick roll of several pages:
To my most esteemed friend Balin, son of Fundin,
I trust this finds you well, or at the very least, less harried than you were in your last letter. By the time your good self reads this, we will have finally departed the Shire. Re-packing took far longer than I had originally estimated. (You will not be surprised to hear that my relatives and neighbors have all had an opinion on the matter, and have made quite free with their advice, as if the lot of them had ever packed for more than a summer holiday in Buckland!)
My main purpose in writing (and in risking the good health of the darling and shameless Narg, for which Kili is entirely to blame in training) is to alert you and the King that I expect we will not be arriving in Erebor until the tail-end of Blotmath, my delay owing chiefly to my cousin Drogo’s coming-of-age feast, which proved, in true Hobbit fashion, to be both a delight and a trial: three days of eating, dancing, and storytelling, all of which I survived only by keeping well clear of the cider after the second day, and avoiding my grasping cousins at all costs.
Kili and Tauriel have been a boon, proving to be most adept at both shooing away unwanted packing advice-givers as well as keeping apace with Holman Greenhand at the cider tap (at least on the first night). They have plotted a route for us, consulting with a Man who claimed to be from Dunland and gave a most credible account of the fine state of the Middle Pass. And so we shall unfortunately avoid the High Pass—Kili is adamant on this point, much as I desire to meet Lord Elrond under more auspicious circumstances—and will instead make for the Old South Road to Tharbad and then along an old dwarf-road to the Middle Pass, well north of Moria. I imagine you are familiar with it. We have been assured that it’s quite deserted now but we will be on our guard. We are bringing a wagon with my belongings, and a fine pony named Bill to pull it.
Once in Rhovannion, Tauriel is confident in her countrymen’s escort along the South Trade Road through Mirkwood that will take us from the Anduin all the way to the southern fork of the River Running, well south of the Elfking’s Halls (thankfully). I ask that you arrange some assistance to meet us at that point, a sled or perhaps, if we must, a barge, to make the last leg of the journey north to the Mountain. If needs must and Bard is unable to spare a few Men, the Elves will surely assist, but some compensation may be required.
I hope that you all are well, and that Thorin’s wounds are not paining him overly. You are ensuring that he continues the exercises for his foot that the elf healer gave him? He can be stubborn, but he deserves to have the full use of it again. I look forward with a glad heart to seeing you and all the Company again, and to resuming our debates on the dubious merits of boots.
With all the affection and anticipation a Baggins can muster,
B.B.
Below Bilbo’s neat lines, a cramped postscript in slanted runes read:
Balin - Nê ai-khashuma irak'adadê. Zabadulugmâ bi Buzrâburmubizar, azafr mazatakmâ. Zud mâti ablârul d'algul tur id-Kitin-Ligal ra akdum mi katar zud tâti galikh. Zamanakhi ni 'Urdêk ni ûf nu'.(Do not let my Uncle worry. We will stay away from Rivendell, as tasked. We should be able to take the Middle Pass and travel by wagon should be good. We will arrive in the Halls of Erebor in two months.) - Kili
Balin looked up to find his young apprentice craning for a glimpse, but he just raised an amused brow and the boy looked properly chagrined. "Off with you, lad," he said. "And take this one with you." He nodded to the cheeky little corvid attempting to pick up his second best quill.
"Well, see if I have anything for you if you make off with that," he huffed.
The clever bird abandoned her mischief and hopped hopefully forward with a charming little trill for the old dwarf, who chuckled and drew a strip of jerky from a pot in his top drawer. Perhaps that was why she kept bypassing the raven keepers and tormenting the guards to get to his office.
The little bird regarded him in return, then snatched up her prize and darted up to the young dwarf's shoulder, her full beak tilted with an air of impudence that would have done her trainer proud. Thankfully, her beak was too full of jerky to peck at the poor boy’s beard, as she normally would. Bobbing gratefully to his mentor, the boy set off for the rookery.
Balin scanned the letter again. He did not know whether to laugh or sigh. He rolled the pages with great care and tucked them back into the tube.
He had never gotten the hang of converting into the Shire Reckoning without a chart, so he pulled out the reference he kept on hand in his desk and slid his finger along the months, pausing on âfdohyar. His fingers drummed the desk in the rhythm for "danger" without his conscious thought.
By his count, Bilbo and his party would pass beneath the highest teeth of the Misty Mountains just as winter’s grip began to close. Kili was a seasoned traveler, Tauriel was skilled and had the light feet of an elf, and Bilbo…well, Bilbo had a knack for survival that no divining could explain. But Balin had crossed those mountains himself more times than most, and he’d seen too many expeditions founder on those treacherous passes, too many travelers lost to ice or wind or worse.
Before he could take this missive to the King though, he needed to see Oin. Not for his knowledge of the body, but for the deeper wisdom that he’d honed over his long life. He needed Oin to read the stones.
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He found the healer in the depths of the lower halls, briskly tending to a broken wrist while carrying a running monologue of complaints about the state of Dwarven nutrition. The patient—a stonemason’s apprentice with the ruddy flush of both pain and embarrassment under his sparse beard—bore the scolding with equanimity.
"…and that’s what comes of forgoing salt pork for those disgusting greens you keep eating, lad," Oin concluded in his typical over-loud tone, tying off the wrap around his splinted hand with a stern glare. "Next time eat what your 'amad(mother) makes, and you’ll keep both your appetite and your fingers intact."
He dismissed the patient, then waved Balin further inside as he retrieved his golden ear trumpet. "Come to settle the betting pool, have you? I told Nori it’d be a clear win, but he insisted on a draw. Owes me two bottles now."
Balin shook his head. "Not a wager, this time. I need you to read the stones, Oin."
The healer’s bushy brows rose. "Fell omens, then?"
Balin shrugged, discarding pretense with the Company’s healer. "Bilbo’s coming, with Kili and Tauriel. Through the Middle Pass, in the teeth of winter. I want to know if we need to send a party, or…" He let the words trail off.
Oin considered, then nodded once. "Well. No harm in asking. And if the answer’s ugly, better we know it now." He cleaned his hands on a cloth and moved to the rear, through his quarters to a room where a series of shelves held rows of gilded boxes, each labeled in angular runes.
Balin followed, noting again the impressive array: smooth river-stones, shards of ancient slate, polished orbs of granite with veins of quartz, glimmering hematite, and even a box of precious gemstones. Now that they’d returned to the mountain, their Seers had reclaimed a wealth of resources and knowledge in their art. The stones Oin reached for now were different, held in a black-lacquered box. He drew out a thick felt pouch the color of onyx.
Oin tipped the pouch out into his hand gingerly and placed a small wrapped package on the table. He turned suddenly, pulling his door closed sharply, the room becoming quiet and close. He motioned for Balin to sit at the little table, then reached for a small red candle and lit it with a practiced flick of his fingers. The air grew thick with the scent of beeswax.
"Right, then. Let’s see what Mahal has to say for himself," Oin muttered, unwrapping the fragile stones. He laid out the cloth embroidered with a complex grid of lines and circles, surrounded by runes for protection and guidance picked out in golden thread. There were fifteen crystals, precious fragile things expertly mined from a single cavern deep in the mountain, their only source. Mahal’s Tears, they were called. Candlelight seemed to dance in their naturally faceted depths and make their many colors glow.
The ritual was not complicated, but it had weight. Oin’s voice dropped, and he muttered a prayer under his breath. "Mi rathâkh Mahalul sullu birakhusugôn.(By Mahal’s hands all has been shaped)
"Ni rathâkh Mahalul mamarakhmâ,"(In Mahal’s hands we have been shielded) Balin reflexively offered the traditional response, to which Oin nodded decisively.
The Seer closed his eyes, scooping up the crystals and gently scattering them over the cloth, letting the hand of their Maker dictate their final arrangement.
The candle guttered. Though the room was still, the flame flickered once, twice, then steady. Oin leaned in, eyes narrowed.
"Tell me what you see," Balin said expectantly. He always found the patterns mystifying.
"Trouble," Oin answered, unhesitating. "More than the usual. Look here: the path is clear until the middle here, but then—see the cluster here? It’s a snarl, a heap of conflict." He tapped the table six times in a pattern of threes. He looked at the stones again, then his eyes widened. He pointed to a greenish crystal that had fallen almost off the cloth. "A crack! They had no flaw before, and the placement…an outsider—that’s our burglar’s luck turning, and not for the better."
Runes for : abhâr (wisdom), ashmâr (protection), ajbâl (vision), and abkât (truth),
and the four cardinal directions (with East (nud) on top, as it is on a Dwarrow map!)
The old healer sat back and ran his gnarled hands along the curve of the braid in his beard. "I've seen the stones change, by the will of the Maker. Pure blue can turn with shades of red or green as a way for Mahal to get his point across, but I'd have to consult the old tablets to see if he's ever made his will so clear before."
Balin frowned, his blunt finger hovering over the line but not daring to touch. "How do you know it’s Bilbo?" he asked unthinkingly. Oin just gave him a hard stare and the advisor coughed a bit and nodded. "Can you tell if it’s weather, or something else?"
Oin grunted. "Could be either. Could be both. Could be a cave-in, or a beast. But the portents for this winter are already bad." He shook his head, pulling the grid closer. "The temperature’s dropping too fast, the winds are wilder than usual, and the mountain itself feels uneasy." He looked up, his gaze clear. "I’d send a party, Balin. Not just a messenger, but a company, and quick. Better to risk a wasted journey than an empty homecoming."
Balin exhaled, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "The king won’t take it well."
Oin snorted. "He’ll be happy to know that he must be the one to go." He tapped the pure blue-tinged crystal that sat a finger-width apart from the others but the only one pointing unerringly to the cracked outsider. "Whether he gets there in time, I cannot say, but you know as well as I—the King will not be kept from our hobbit, if he’s in danger. And there’s no force on earth that will keep that hobbit from trying to get here, not after he’s made up his mind."
Balin smiled despite himself. "He does have grit, for one so small."
"There’s stone in him, ins Mahal taglibi luknu(As Mahal would speak (it is the truth))," Oin replied, with the air of one stating a medical fact. He swept the crystals back onto the center of the cloth and carefully wrapped them, tutting over the crack. He paused, then set the stone aside in front of Balin. "Have him give this to Bilbo, when they reach him. Tell him it’s for luck." Balin took it up reverently.
"I’ll do that," Balin said, closing his hand around the token. "Mukhuh Mahal tadnanthi izdnu."(May Mahal guide them.)
Oin dismissed the sentiment with a wave. "Ra mukhuh bekhazu Mahalul tamrakhîn izdnu."(And may Mahal's hammer shield them.) If you need me, I’ll be updating the king’s supplies for the rescue party. Mahal save us if Kili’s been teaching the hobbit to use an axe."
Balin barked out a laugh despite the foreboding hanging over him. He made his way out of the healing halls, heading for the King’s office, the crystal held warm in his palm.
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As he reached the hall before the king’s office he found a messenger just leaving, a stocky dwarf in the livery of the gate-watch bearing an empty scroll case marked with the badge of urgent delivery. The runner bowed as he passed, and Balin stepped a little faster through the door, signaling his brother Dwalin to follow.
Thorin was standing in front of the fireplace, grim-faced and clutching a missive, staring at the huge mosaic map of Arda that took up one wall. He could have been carved from stone, he was so rigid. As Balin approached, the king thrust the report into his hands, gaze intent on the middle of the map before him.
Balin quickly scanned the short but incredulous report of a missive they’d received the day before, the outpost being on the far side of Mirkwood before the forest path, so it took the ravens a day or two to reach the mountain. The soldier reported that at dawn a note had been delivered to them in the jaws of a sleek gray hound, its brown eyes unnaturally intelligent, that had darted back into the grasses of the plains as soon as the note was secured.
Balin’s already grim mood took a dip. Behind the report was a scrap of paper, written in Beorn’s cramped but legible hand, unmistakable from the time they’d sheltered in his lodge.
To the folk of Erebor,
Send warning to your kin. The High Pass has closed early. The Middle Pass will soon follow. Heavy snow and rockfall. Do not attempt the crossing until Spring unless dire. Will watch for travelers from the west and guide them, until the snows make it impossible.
Beorn
Balin stared at the letter, teeth gritted. The Maker did not lack for irony—Oin’s omens had been almost too right, and the worst of it was that the path was already set. The letter had come too late to reroute their party. They’d be nearly in the foothills by now, and into the Pass before a raven could reach them, if it even could.
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A few moments earlier…
Thorin had stared at the parchment after the messenger had departed, its hastily scrawled warning burning into his mind like a brand. The middle pass was unsafe—precisely where Bilbo and his nephew would be traveling, and there’d been no word from them in weeks. His fingers curled around the edge of his desk until his knuckles whitened, the wood creaking in protest. More than six months since the hobbit had left with Kili and Tauriel, and not a day had passed without Thorin finding some reason to regret not accompanying him, somehow.
"Mahal's hammer," Thorin muttered, pushing away from his desk and pacing the confines of his study. The crown sat heavy today, its weight a physical reminder of the duties that had kept him from Bilbo's side. Duties that suddenly seemed hollow compared to the knot of dread tightening in his chest.
He paused before the great map that covered one wall, a masterwork in precious and semi-precious stone, his eyes tracing the winding path from the Shire to Erebor. His finger hovered over the sharp mountains, where somewhere maybe even now, his hobbit traveled, unaware of the coming danger. The same hobbit who had faced down Azog to save him. The same hobbit who had left Erebor not knowing that Thorin's heart traveled with him.
The sound of boots in the corridor pulled him from his thoughts. Balin entered without knocking, followed closely by the massive bulk of his brother, both with grim faces. Balin’s shrewd eyes took in Thorin's tense posture and the map he had been studying. When he drew near, Thorin simply thrust the note into his hands and watched from the corner of his eye as his friend’s expression grew darker yet.
Thorin squared his shoulders, already marshaling arguments against the protest he knew would be coming. "I'm riding out to meet Bilbo's party."
A heavy silence fell. Thorin turned, eyes darted between the brothers, landing finally on Dwalin. "You will accompany me, of course."
"Aye," Dwalin said simply, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "I'll gather supplies, form a company."
Thorin turned to Balin, bracing himself. His old advisor had always been the voice of caution and protocol. "Before you object—"
"You’ll need to be ready to leave at first light," Balin interrupted, his white beard twitching with what appeared to be satisfaction at Thorin’s surprise. "Oin is preparing supplies."
Thorin blinked. "You... approve?"
"More than approve." Balin reached into his pocket and withdrew something in his closed fist. "I insist upon it."
Thorin's brow furrowed as he reached out and Balin dropped something into his palm. The grassy green crystalline structure caught the light, its facets gleaming with an inner fire that seemed too bright for the dim chamber.
"Mahal's Tears," Thorin breathed, recognizing the divination stone that Oin so prized.
Balin nodded, "Oin consulted the stones regarding our burglar's journey. The moment his name was spoken in the ritual, this happened."
Thorin's finger trembled slightly as it hovered over the fine crack that ran through its previously pristine structure. The flaw was hairline-thin but unmistakable.
"What does it mean?" Thorin asked, though something in him already knew.
"Oin says it means peril," Balin said, his voice low and gentle. "But there were signs that they might be reached in time. The message was clear. He believes Mahal himself is speaking, ins Mahal taglibi luknu (As Mahal would speak (it is the truth))."
Thorin closed his fingers gently around the crystal, feeling its warmth as a balm to his turmoil. "And you believe this means I should go? What about Kili and the elf?"
"I believe," Balin said carefully, "that our Maker rarely makes his will so clear. A tangle of stone included one that shifted purple-blue, and another green to red. They seemed secure with the others. There was another crystal apart from the rest, pure Durin blue, that was pointing directly to this one, that had fallen outside the grid," he nodded to the stone now clutched in Thorin’s fist. "That it should crack now, at the mere mention of Bilbo's name and so clearly linked with yours…" He trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.
Thorin turned the crystal over in his palm, watching how the crack seemed to shift in the light, sometimes disappearing entirely only to reappear when he moved his hand. Just as his regard for the hobbit had seemed to shift and transform, hidden and then suddenly, blindingly clear.
"Most wouldn’t know it, but we’ve seen how you've been like a ghost since he left." Dwalin rumbled from where he stood by the door.
Thorin shot him a sharp look, but couldn't deny his shield-brother’s charge. Sleep had been elusive, food tasteless, the endless meetings of state more and more interminable since Bilbo's departure.
"How many riders?" Thorin asked, his mind already shifting to the practicalities of the journey.
"A small company travels faster," Balin advised. "Six would be auspicious. You, Dwalin, perhaps Bofur and Bifur to help read the mountain paths. Oin, maybe, though his hip’s been acting up and Bifur’s likely just to dote on him." Balin hummed thoughtfully. "Perhaps Alma, Oin’s second. I’ll check with them."
"And Nori." Dwalin added gruffly. Thorin raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment.
"His particular skills do prove useful in close fighting and tight spots," Balin explained for his brother with a delicate cough.
"Six, then," Thorin nodded. "Prepare rams. We leave at first light. Have them notified."
Balin inclined his head in acknowledgment but lingered. "There is one more thing, Thorin. About the crystal..."
Thorin looked down at the precious object in his palm. "Yes?"
"Oin believes it is meant for Bilbo. That you are to give it to him when you find him, for good luck, not as if our burglar is ever short on that," he added with a chuckle.
Something flickered in Thorin's chest—hope, perhaps. He carefully slid the crystal into a secure pocket inside his surcoat, close to his heart.
"I will see it done," he said quietly.
Dwalin stood to attention with a bow of his head, then briskly turned to see to his tasks. Balin nodded to his King and friend with comfort in his eyes and turned to follow his brother.
As his two oldest friends departed, Thorin turned back to the great map, his eyes tracing the journey ahead. For months he had denied himself the right to pursue what his heart wanted most, convinced that duty and kingship demanded such sacrifice. Now, with the weight of the crystal against his chest and Mahal's apparent blessing, he allowed himself to acknowledge the truth he had been avoiding.
He loved Bilbo Baggins. And he would not lose him to goblin blades or mountain perils—not when he had yet to speak that truth aloud.
Thorin reached for his sword, already envisioning the path ahead and the hobbit at its end. If the Maker himself had cracked open a crystal to set him on this path, then perhaps some wounds—like the chasm he had created between himself and Bilbo—were meant to be mended after all.
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