Chapter Text
Gandalf really needed to learn how to elaborate.
“An adventure” he had said. An adventure could mean a whole lot of things. Getting lost in the woods or sailing the high seas was an adventure, more of a journey than a destination. A quest on the other hand? A quest always had a destination, usually set by somebody with a dangerous goal and a lack of self-preservation.
When the wizard had found Mor months ago, he had simply offered a new direction across the horizon. And now, after she had travelled the entire distance from Belfalas to the inn in this odd, tiny, quiet place they called the Shire, there was suddenly not only a quest, but a dragon on the table?
Not that this was going to change her decision, as reckless as it was. This business of reclaiming a lost kingdom was bound to bring some excitement along the way, and interesting enough companions too, if Gandalf could be trusted. So here she sat, staring out of the window at the darkening sky as the time to go grew closer, pondering, for the second time in her life, on the ways one could kill a dragon.
As she waited for the Moon to rise in the sky, Mor reached for the leather bag thrown over the back of her chair. It wouldn’t hurt to look the contents over one more time, just in case. Not that there were many of them - her packed possessions consisted of one spare pair of clothes, a balled up blanket and the stone she used to sharpen her knives. What else she had - mostly the likes of sewing needles, flint and a pouch now way too light with coin - was stuffed in her pockets, along with her gloves and a water flask. How her poor coat was still holding together with all that in it was a mystery, but the black fabric had stood the test of time up to now.
The carefully curated arsenal on her belt she did not count towards luggage. The weight of the blades, all gathered throughout the years of her travels, was at this point so familiar that they felt more like a second skin. Each one had its own story and purpose - from her small carving knife to the two curved scimitars that sang when you pulled them out of their sheaths, the crowning jewels of her collection. But stories were for late nights around a fire - now Mor had other things on her mind.
“More ale?” The sudden voice made her flinch, sending her hand to the handle of a knife before she realized it was just the barmaid.
Mor sighed quietly. Being in a new place had put her slightly on edge already, and those hobbits were an awfully quiet lot - this was the second time the curly-haired woman had managed to approach her without a single sound.
“Not tonight, no. I need to get going soon.” She dug through her pockets and placed a couple of silver coins next to the empty ale tankard. The barmaid gave her a grateful nod, taking the coins and the empty cup without meeting her gaze, the same way she had done since Mor had stepped into the inn two days ago.
Mor didn’t blame her. The yellowish hue of her eyes and the way candlelight reflected off of them at the right angle was more than enough to unsettle most people. It was something instinctive, she guessed, that had long protected them from the things that crawled out once the Sun went down - and while she found it terribly amusing most of the time, it was not her goal to terrify the locals, even less so the ones serving proper ale.
At least she remembered not to smile with her teeth as she wished the barmaid a nice evening. If her eyes were that unsettling, Mor did not want to think of the reaction to be caused by her pair of fangs.
……
The walk to the Shire was pleasantly uneventful, safe for one confused rabbit that almost tripped on her boots as it ran across her path. Mor bit back the urge to give chase. This was a civilized place, and she doubted whoever owned the little field the rabbit had run into would appreciate the scuffle. There would be plenty of need to hunt once on the road, but for now, the creatures around were to be left to their nightly affairs.
Slowly, the farmlands gave way to a small town, filled to the brim with strangest homes Mor had ever seen. Brick walls protruded from the sides of grassy hills, each adorned by perfectly round windows and just as perfectly round doors in every colour under the Sun. The wind carried the smell of something baking, mixed with the faint scent of tobacco and fresh flowers from little, colourful gardens. As hard as she tried, Mor couldn’t keep herself from wandering off a couple of times, mostly to gawk at things and earn strange looks from the couple of hobbits still outside at this hour.
By the time she reached the door marked by Gandalf, the moon was already high up in the sky, and by the cacophony coming from inside she could guess she was perhaps a tad late to the party. She just hoped they’d hear the doorbell over whatever was being sung under the mysterious clanking accompaniment.
The doorbell rang out twice before the door was pulled open by their presumed host - a hobbit a tad shorter than Mor was, wearing the most miserable expression she had ever seen. They stared at each other in silence for a moment, before she remembered that a bit of an explanation was perhaps needed.
“I’m here for the, uh - a plate flew across the hallway behind the hobbit’s shoulder, followed by a couple of cups that did not look like they’d survive a fall - whatever is going on in there, I suppose.”
He let out a long, heavy sigh as he stepped aside and let her into the hallway.
“Bilbo Baggins, at your service.” - the mumbled greeting seemed almost subconscious, as if he’d been repeating it all evening - "Please, don’t put your swords in my umbrella holder.”
“Why would I-” there were indeed swords in the umbrella holder. There were swords all around the umbrella holder too, along with all manners of axes, daggers, arrows and even a slingshot. Before Mor could find a more suitable place for her own swordbelt, Gandalf poked his head out of a door on the side of the hallway.
“Mor! I’m glad you have decided to come along, after all.” The wizard’s smile was warm enough to deceivingly assure a person that he would not bring a horde of dwarves into their home. Mor raised an eyebrow.
“I have not quite decided anything yet” Maybe she had already made up her mind, but the wizard didn’t need to know that.
“Well then, it might do some good for me to introduce - “ Before Gandalf could finish his sentence, Mor found herself distracted by a sudden issue - one in the form of a stray plate flying directly towards her face.
Under any other circumstances, she would have caught it with a quick swing of her arm and nothing more. But with her swordbelt left hanging in just one hand as she reached for the plate with the other, Mor found herself needing to take a step backwards for counter balance - only to promptly trip on an axe left by the umbrella holder.
It was perhaps the least graceful fall she had had in years, and Mor could only brace herself for a nasty impact with the floor. Except that such never came - instead she felt somebody grab her waist, pulling her back upright in one swift, stable movement. And then she was staring into eyes in the most beautiful shade of blue she had ever seen.
Years ago, after a particularly bad sea storm, Mor had stood on the deck of a ship and stared far ahead, waiting for the Sun to rise above the horizon. In the morning dusk she had lost the border between the sea and the sky, all of it merging together into that exact blue and hypnotizing her the very same way it did now. And she might have stood there forever, stupidly holding the plate and looking into those eyes, if she hadn’t felt a sudden sharp sting on the back of her scalp that pulled her back into reality.
“The - Ow! The braid! Watch the braid -” Her unexpected saviour stepped away, freeing Mor’s hair from where he had accidentally pinned it against her back as he had pulled her upright. She shook her head to get rid of the pins and needles, the black braid falling back into place as she looked up at him properly.
He didn’t seem much older than her (albeit who could say with dwarves), hair falling down his broad shoulders in golden waves almost as mesmerizing as his eyes were. Mor felt the heat of blush trying to creep its way onto her face despite her best efforts to stop it. She had met quite a few dwarves in her life - but by the Valar, none of them had looked like that.
“My apologies, miss -”
“Morrigan.” - Damn it all, even his voice was mesmerizing. - “But you can just call me Mor. No need for pleasantries.”
“As you wish.” - He gave her a friendly smile, followed by a practiced bow - Fili, son of Dis, at your service. I assume you’re that mysterious sixteenth member that Gandalf mentioned once and never again?”
So that was where Master Baggins had picked up his greeting from. Mor felt an amused smile creep onto her face at the comment.
“Not a member quite yet, and I’m seriously debating it after that merciless plate attack. Shall I assume that flying cutlery is a usual part of your service, or was that a one time occurrence?”
“We were just helping Master Baggins clean up after dinner - ”
Bilbo appeared in the hallway as if summoned, his eyes landing on the plate still in Mor’s hand with the type of unbridled horror she had only seen in men after particularly brutal battles. She finally tossed her swordbelt on a nearby dresser and walked over to hand it to him.
“Family heirloom?” With how carefully he took it, it couldn’t be anything else.
“It was my mother’s.” The corners of Bilbo’s mouth curved slightly upwards, and Mor was suddenly very glad she had caught that plate.
She turned back towards the living room that it was taking her surprisingly long to enter, and was delayed from this task yet again by Fili inspecting the collection of blades on her belt. He was joined by a dark-haired dwarf who presented himself as Kili, his younger brother.
“Fi also collects blades - he told Mor before his brother could say anything - but not with that variation. I’m not quite sure what half of those are even called, even less where you got them.”
Mor shrugged in response.
“We’ll be here all night if I start telling you. They’re from all over the coast, from the Bay of Belfalas all the way up to Eryn Vorn. Bought, traded, found, stolen. Only the long ones, the scimitars were…a gift.”
Luckily for her, the dwarves seemed far more interested in the possible stories of her travels than in the tone she had said that last sentence with. Despite her warning, the questions began pouring out, Fili’s smile turning downright giddy in a stupidly charming way as he stared at the pair of swords. But as much as Mor wished she could sit down and spend a few hours talking about blades with the pretty dwarf, there were more pressing matters at hand.
“Okay, how about this -” she raised her arms to stop the tirade of questions for a moment “ - I’ll tell you what you want to know, but for every answer I give you, I get to ask a question of my own. Otherwise dawn will crack before I manage to meet the other eleven members of that Company of yours.”
Her offer was enthusiastically accepted, and Mor found herself getting whisked to meet the remainder of the Company before she had time to rethink her life choices. And then there was Balin, the oldest dwarf she had ever met, with his white as snow beard and kind eyes, and his brother Dwalin, who looked at her with more suspicion than it was healthy for a singular person to hold. Dori, who had known her for five minutes and was already asking if she had eaten since coming inside, Nori, with that glint in his eyes that Mor knew way too well made shiny things disappear as if they had never been there, and the youngest of the three of them, a sweet lad named Ori, who could not look her in the eyes for longer than five seconds. The other trio of siblings were Bifur (was that an axe embedded in his head???)Bofur, whose hat rivaled those of most pirates Mor had met, and Bombur, whose love for cheese she could easily get behind. The roster ended with Oin, to whom she had to repeat her name thrice before he heard it properly, and Gloin, who grumbled something about another youngling joining into the quest and yet still gave a reassuring smile.
They were a cheery bunch (and an incredibly loud one at that), and Mor quickly decided she would not have too much trouble finding her place amongst them. Even if she had to play staring contests with Dwalin anytime she glanced in the direction of his indefinite frown.
Suspicious dwarves aside, half of the Company seemed genuinely curious about Mor, and she had to admit they had quite sparked her own interest too. So she decided to let them in on the game of questions she had been playing with Fili and Kili.
Soon enough, the dwarves had managed to pry that she was in her ninety-seventh year (they appeared to age quite similarly), that she fought best with dual blades (at which Fili had immediately offered a sparring match), and that she had four brothers, even if she refused to elaborate further on family matters. In return she learned, amongst other things, that Gloin had a wife, and a son that was his pride and joy, that Ori could knit a scarf in record times, and that Fili and Kili were in fact princes, which had nearly made her spit her ale out. No wonder Dwalin was staring daggers at her for sitting so close to the two of them.
“So the thirteenth dwarf I am not seeing here is not only the King of Erebor, but also your uncle? What, should I switch to “my lords” when I address you?”
Kili had made a disgusted face at that suggestion while Fili had shaken his head in utter disapproval.
“By Mahal, please do not. Unless you want me to switch back to calling you “miss”.”
Her expression must have been answer enough, as no official titles were used in the rest of the conversation.
Even Master Baggins joined in with a question at one point, seemingly calmed down a bit by all his dishes being safely back in the cupboards. His voice was still a tad shaky, but it was perhaps more from general annoyance than anything else now.
“All of this is lovely, and I am glad you enjoyed the dinner-” the tone there was a tad bitey, courtesy of his emptied out pantry “- however nobody has yet explained to me what, exactly, you are doing in my house?”
“We’re going on a quest, laddie.” - Balin was the first to answer, shaking his head in disbelief - “Gandalf didn’t tell you as much?”
Every head in the room turned towards the wizard, who seemed to shrink slightly despite his impressive height.
“I considered it’d be quite better if all of us were gathered before these matters were discussed. We’re still waiting for -”
Three loud thumps sounded from the hallway, as if somebody was purposefully ignoring the doorbell and instead trying their best to knock the entire door down. Gandalf took a deep inhale of his pipe.
“He’s here.”
……
Thorin Oakenshield was every bit the royal, majestic figure that one would expect the king of Erebor to be. And Mor was considering staging a coup exactly five minutes after meeting him.
She did not like the way he had prodded at Bilbo the second he had walked through the door of what, mind you, was the hobbit’s own home. She liked the way he had called him a grocer even less. So when he finally moved his gaze from Master Baggins to the other peculiar thing in the room - which was nothing other than herself - Mor was already staring at him with the same look she usually saved for city guards and high-nosed, arrogant nobles.
To her surprise, the scrutiny in his eyes actually seemed to dissipate instead of get worse, replaced by something more like…concern? Was that right? It was strange enough for Mor to actually stop glaring at him for a moment.
“So you are that…adventurer, that Gandalf chose as the last member of this quest.”
“Adventurer is one way to put it.” Trust the wizard to explain things in the most vague way possible. “But I do hope to join your quest, yes. My name is Mor - Morrigan if we’re keeping it official.”
“I trust you have enough experience with long travels?” His tone did not seem trusting.
“Forty years or so. I’ve been through most of the South and the West, dealt with plenty of difficult situations. Your quest might not even be the worst I’ve seen, depending on how the whole business with the dragon goes.”
It took her a moment to realize her mistake as she saw Gandalf’s face, the wizard blowing out another smoke circle from his pipe before speaking.
“And even if it goes badly, if Smaug the Terrible is alive, you shall have better chances with Mor than on your own -” Oh no. “- given that, all things considered…she’s already slain a dragon once.”