#britishisms inside

Note: So this is one of those urban magical realism fics. Bilbo is a magical busker and Thorin is a hard boiled detective who’s gonna find out magic is real and then try to arrest it!!!! Amazing!!

There’s elements of Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, King Arthur, Rumpelstiltskin (and like so many more, holy shit) in this story. It’s basically an extravaganza of fairytale tropes. It was also really fun to write my dudes, so I hope it’s fun to read! ♡

A nervous sweat ran down the side of his face as he watched Smaug idly tap his fingers on the metal table. He wasn’t even listening to their questions, and he certainly wasn’t falling for Ori’s innocent act or Dwalin’s (usually effective) bad cop routine. All the bastard did was give the two detectives a slimy smirk, and remain stubbornly and infuriatingly silent.

“…fact that you were found in the back of the club, Mr. Smaug, and no one can say where you were at the time of the murder…” Ori was saying, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

The door to the interrogation room burst open.

“My client has nothing to say to you,” Thranduil announced, looking as haughty as ever. “And seeing as you’re not charging him with anything, I think we’ll be leaving now.”

Thorin cursed viciously. “Thorin!” Balin called out, but he was already tearing out of the surveillance room and barging through the door.

“You want to explain the blood we found all over him when we brought him in, Oropher?” he growled, ignoring Dwalin’s warning glance. “Or how about the fucking head we found in the car boot – ”

“Which you found without my client’s permission to search!” Thranduil snapped.

“And really, Thorin, it’s time to let the severed head go,” Smaug said, looking from his lawyer to Thorin, and then leaning back and crossing one leg over the other – like he owned the place. “I haven’t the faintest idea how it got there, nor whom it belonged to. Perhaps I never will…one of life’s mysteries, I suppose.”

Smaug was laughing at him, and Thorin was having to count to ten in his head. Calm, he thought, remain calm.  

Thranduil scoffed. “What’s not a mystery is the gross injustice the Met continues to inflict upon my client. In fact, we’ve decided to file a harassment suit – ”

“Now, Mr. Oropher,” Balin objected, standing behind Thorin with a grim expression on his face. “We’re just trying to do our jobs. Someone has died – ”

“I can’t see how it concerns me,” Smaug said flippantly. “I can’t be blamed for every murder that comes across your desk, Chief Inspector, which is something your Detective doesn’t seem to understand. But then again, loss makes us do the craziest things….”

Fuck it.

Thorin threw himself at Smaug and in one fell swoop he ruined their investigation, gave Thranduil ample evidence for his lawsuit, and demoted himself back to sergeant. Balin later said he was lucky he wasn’t fired.

“Take this time to reconsider things,” Balin told him. His old friend may have given him a cup of tea and a sympathetic shoulder, but he was still Thorin’s boss, and Thorin’s behavior had been a problem for a while now. “Work the beat for a couple of months. Try and remember why you wanted to be a cop in the first place.”

Thorin licked his lips, gazing down at his now cold tea. “I know why,” he said, after a moment of silence.

He looked up and met Balin’s eyes. “I wanted to get scum like Smaug off the streets. And I can’t. I can’t, Balin. Something is wrong here. There’s evidence just disappearing…no one ever sees anything…and let’s not forget that his fingerprints were on the murder weapon! He killed one of our own for god’s sake!”

“Thorin….”

“He killed my father.” He was breathing hard; desperately trying to hold back the angry tears collecting at the corner of his eyes. “He killed him. And no one will help me prove it.”

“Roads go ever ever on, over rock and under tree, by caves where never sun has shone, by streams that never find the sea…." 

He plucked the often played melody and sang the next verse with a passion. This was his favorite song, after all, and his very last one of the day. He’d made nearly fifteen pound off it once.

"Over snow by winter sown, and through the merry flowers of June, over grass and over stone, and under mountains in the moon….”

Bilbo glanced up at the crowd as he sang, checking for yawns or frowns, but all he saw was smiling tourists and a few rambunctious children running about. It was a cold day in Trafalgar Square, and it looked as though it was about to get even colder and wetter. He watched the dark clouds swirl ominously for a moment, before he turned his gaze back to his audience. It was then that he saw the eyes.

Stunned, he messed up the next chord and quickly forgot his lyrics. He gaped for a moment, fear rising and threatening to paralyze him, but somehow he managed to press on – this time with more urgency.

“Under cloud and under star, yet feet that wandering have gone, turn at last to home afar.”

Obediently, one by one, the crowd began to leave. They floated away as if in a dream; forgetting the music, and forgetting Bilbo.

All but one.

“Eyes that fire and sword have seen, and horror in the halls of stone,” he sang desperately. “Look at last on meadows green, and trees and hills they long have known.” 1

Everyone was looking away now, paying Bilbo no mind as the music focused their attention elsewhere. But still those eyes were watching, and he nearly tripped over the last verse as he hurriedly added:

Think you’ll find me no you won’t! Now you see me, now you don’t.

And then he disappeared.

The huntsman looked around for him frantically, pushing through the oblivious crowd, but Bilbo had already gathered up his guitar and money-filled cap and was sprinting out of the square. The nearest tube station was Charing Cross, and he would make it if he ran like the dickens, but when he looked back he saw that the huntsman had caught on and was heading in Bilbo’s direction with frankly supernatural speed.

Goblin.

Bilbo panted as he reached the stairwell and hopped down the steps two at a time. He heard a sudden shout as his pursuer violently shoved bystanders out of the way, but he didn’t dare stop to help. He crashed into the ticket gates and hurriedly reached into his pocket for his Oyster card. Then he realized what he was doing and jumped over it, cursing himself all the while.

Down the tunnel he ran, breathing hard and then gasping with relief when he saw the crowds waiting for the train. He slipped in among them, glancing at the clock and then behind him. He saw the huntsman walking slowly down the platform, peering at people closely. Bilbo tried to catch his breath, staying quiet and still between a man in a suit and an old woman holding her shopping. He kept his head down.

Then a whisper:

So sworn does the oathkeeper, forever pursue the oathbreaker. Show me. 2

Bilbo gasped as his spell broke and the man beside him startled at his sudden appearance. Now visible, the huntsman had no problem spotting him, and he lunged for Bilbo without concern for the people around him. The old woman fell to the ground as Bilbo was tackled, the momentum pushing them both toward the edge of the platform.

“Oi! Break it up, there!”

Bilbo scrabbled at his attacker’s clawing hands, trying to buck the man off of him. He straddled Bilbo and lifted his head up by his clothes, before slamming Bilbo’s skull into the ground forcefully. His vision blurred for a moment.

“Hey, stop!” someone yelled, moving to grab at the huntsman, but he paid the hands no mind and instead drew his fist back for a punch. Bilbo’s eyes widened. He knew that that punch could kill him. If the goblin used his full strength….

No, he thought, gathering his power. He squeezed his eyes shut and quickly murmured,

Goodbye, goodbye I’ve had enough, Shifting, lifting, off and up!

The huntsman flew straight up into the air, hovered for a moment – and then dropped like a stone. Bilbo rolled away and the man hit the edge of the platform, before flipping onto the tracks with sickening crunch. Then Bilbo heard the train.

He pulled back from the edge just in time, saving himself from decapitation, and gazed in shock at where the huntsman had once been. For a moment he heard nothing, saw nothing – the shock was too great. Then he was suddenly forced onto his belly, and the world abruptly came back into focus.

People were screaming, some were pointing accusingly at Bilbo. “He pushed him! I saw it!”

The one time I wish they’d seen, he groaned internally, but he didn’t have time to sulk. Someone was digging their knee into his back and twisting his arms behind him. Ah. He was being arrested. Bother, Bilbo thought, and sighed as he was dragged away.

“Name?”

“….Underhill. Bill Underhill.”

“Okay, Mr. Underhill,” said Thorin, not believing him for a second. “Date of birth?”

“September 22nd, 1989.”

“Right,” he muttered, bored of this already. “Address?”

The man said nothing. Thorin raised his eyebrows pointedly.

“Well,” he mumbled, fidgeting. “I haven’t…got one.”

Thorin took him in properly then, for a moment setting aside the ‘suspected murderer’ part of his first impression. The man looked a bit ragged, true, though he was loads cleaner than the other drifters Thorin had met on the beat.

His hair was full of riotous auburn curls, which were covered by a maroon knit cap that had seen better days. His mustard yellow cardigan and white shirt seemed clean enough, but his blue jeans and boots were rather well-worn. He was short and a little bit plumper than most homeless people, and his dark blue eyes were bright and clear (so no drugs then).

His little nose was turned up, and he bit at his chapped lips nervously while Thorin rudely stared. He was quite lovely, really…which sort of just made the incident even more suspicious.

“You don’t look hard up,” he pointed out, gazing into Bilbo’s eyes and giving him the 'I will find out what you’ve done eventually, so make it easier on yourself and start talking’ look.

“Well, um, I’m more of an…adventurer, of sorts.”

Thorin made face. “You what?”

The man struggled to find words for what he meant, and Thorin checked his eyes again but really didn’t think there was drugs involved. Strange.

“What I mean is, I’m a bit like a nomad. I, um, don’t like being in one place for too long.” He shrugged one shoulder and smiled nervously.

“Right.” Thorin rolled his eyes.

Sensing his disdain (smart lad), he raised his chin defensively.

“Not all who wander are lost,” he said.

Thorin scowled. “What are you some modern day hippie?”

“What? No…” he muttered, frowning. “It’s meant to be philosophical.”

Thorin gave him a look and shook his head, before doggedly moving on. The station bustled around him, and occasionally the man would rattle his cuffs as he answered Thorin’s questions (though for all his chattiness he never said much of anything). Thorin finally finished the standard paperwork and focused all of his attention on Bilbo with a sigh.

“Right. What was all that, then?”

The man blinked. “You mean…at the station?”

Thorin didn’t have to say anything, his expression was answer enough.

“Oh, ok, that’s a yes then,” he mumbled, picking at his cardigan. Then he took a breath. “What happened was…I was waiting for the train, and, um, this man, he, um – for some reason he thought, well, uh, I don’t know what he thought. But he attacked me! It was like he just went mad. Um. I didn’t push him in front of the train, I swear! He just sort of…fell…that…way? Um.”

Everything in him said that this man was not a murderer. He wasn’t sure what exactly the man was, but a killer? He’d be very surprised.

Thorin was tired of this case already. He wished he had been looking when the victim had been pushed; wished he’d witnessed the murder (or possible accident) so that talking extensively with this woeful creature wouldn’t be necessary.

“I’ve got four witnesses that say you pushed him.”

“I didn’t!” the man denied loudly. “Please, you’ve got to believe me! I didn’t push him. He just fell over the side. It must have been some sort of freak accident.”

Thorin stared at him a moment more and then set his report aside. He scrubbed a hand over his face. 

“Alright,” he said, getting to his feet and taking the man with him. "Let’s go.”

“Can I leave then?” the man asked hopefully.

Instead of answering Thorin took him over to the custody sergeant. “Aww, who’s this then?” said Bofur, smiling at their detainee.

“One for the suite, Bof.”

He followed Bofur into custody as Mr. Underhill suddenly seemed to realize he was in loads of trouble.

“Oh, but I can’t stay!” he protested, as if they’d asked him to stay for dinner. “Please! I have to leave!”

Bofur tsked. “Sorry, mate,” he said as he lead him into the cell. He slid it shut and glanced at Thorin. “What’s he in for?”

Thorin rubbed his temples. “Murder.”

“I didn’t kill anyone! Okay, well…not really,” the man denied, distractedly following Bofur’s directions to put his hands out to be uncuffed. “But you don’t understand! I can’t stay here! They’ll find me. They’ll find me and kill me and then they’ll kill you too. Please, you have to let me out!”

“Cute but bonkers,” Bofur said, shaking his head mournfully. He and Thorin made their way out of custody and left the cell behind.

“Please come back! I can’t stay here! Please!” the man begged, but soon there was no one there to hear him.

Thorin rolled his neck, using one hand to massage his aching shoulders. It was just past eleven, and he and a few unlucky newbies were the only people on duty. He blew out a long breath and looked down at his paperwork despondently.

“Work the beat, he says,” Thorin muttered under his breath, reluctantly taking up his pen again. “Remember your past, blah blah blah….”

There was a sudden loud crash.

Thorin’s head popped up, and he looked around for the source of the noise. Nothing. And nobody had reacted to the sound at all. He couldn’t be that tired, could he?

Thump.

No, that was definitely real. He got to his feet. “Ori,” he said. “You hear that?”

Ori didn’t even look away from his computer. “Yeah, sorry,” he mumbled. “That chinese I had for lunch was a bit suspect.”

“No, I meant – ”

Bang! Thwap!

“That!” Thorin shouted. He pointed in the direction it came from. “You take the front! I’ll check the back.”

He grabbed his seldom used gun and ran off before Ori could respond, creeping down the hallway and listening intently. Thorin stopped when he saw a pile of broken glass, and looked up to where the small, barred window pane had shattered, letting in the rainwater. Bewildered, Thorin moved into the next hall, gun first, eyes swinging from side to side. That’s when he noticed it; the door that lead to the custody suites was wide open.

Clang! A roar, loud and long and completely hair-raising, echoed down the hall.

Thorin burst into the room, pointing his gun toward the noise, and saw just about the largest man he’d ever seen lurking in front of the cells.

“Christ,” he breathed, before shaking off his shock. “On your knees!” he yelled. “Hands up!”

But the large man only roared…and then charged at him. Thorin panicked, his finger somehow unable to pull the trigger, but thankfully a voice cried out before he was bowled over by the mad giant.

If you can’t be nice make like ice!

It was suddenly freezing. Thorin gasped as the giant man stopped as if put on pause, and ice – thick white chunks of it – crawled up his legs almost too fast to see.

He was frozen solid in seconds.

“Oh bother,” said a voice from inside the cell. Thorin gaped at the man in the yellow cardigan. “Of course you saw that.”

“Bit hard to miss,” he squeaked.

The man sighed. “You’d be surprised,” he said, before tapping the lock on his cell pointedly. “Bolg will have brought his pack with him. We need to go.”

Thorin blinked, looking from the frozen man to his prisoner, who was calmly peering out at him from behind the bars.

“You’re mental,” he decided, and then wondered if he was mental too. Everyone. Everyone was mental.

The man sighed again. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said to Thorin. “I hate breaking the law normally, but needs must.”

Inside outside woe is me I’ve done no wrong now set me free!

“Pardon?” Thorin asked, but was shocked into silence when the bars to the cell slid open. The man stepped out and hurriedly made his way over, and Thorin didn’t even think to point his gun at him he was so flummoxed.

The man peered up at him for a second, a bit concerned. “Are you alright?” he inquired, but when Thorin said nothing he huffed and shook his head. “Never mind. Of course you’re not. We need to go. Do you know where my guitar is?”

“I….y-yes?” he stuttered.

He grabbed Thorin’s hand and moved quickly out of the holding cell. “Where to, then?” he asked.

But Thorin had regained his senses. Once he was away from the giant frozen man things seemed much clearer. Go figure.

“Wait, no,” he said, waving a hand sternly. “We’re not going anywhere. You – you are going to tell me what is happening. Like what – what…that was, and how…how.”

“We haven’t the time!” the man insisted. “We have to go – ”

Crash! Thud! Another roar, but this time when one ended, another began. There were multiple attackers now.

“Ok, we really have to go,” the man groaned. He grabbed Thorin’s arm in a surprisingly strong grip and tugged him down the hall. “First my guitar, though!”

Thorin muttered a few refusals at first but obediently stopped them when they passed booking. At the man’s prodding he swung the door open, and there the guitar sat beside Bofur’s empty desk chair, unharmed.

The man snatched it up as growls (growls!) echoed through the station, rumbling like thunder and causing all of Thorin’s hairs to stand up. They hurried out of the room and down the hall, making their way to the exit. They had to cross the bullpen to get out, and Thorin couldn’t help but pause as he saw an oblivious Ori still toiling away at his desk.

“What is he – ?”

“No time!”

He heard the growl again and saw a figure standing across the room, its eyes glowing red and fixed upon them. Ori didn’t even look up.

“Why can’t he see – ?”

“Go! Now!”

The man lunged toward them, crashing into one of the desks as they raced out of the doors and into the soaked street, taking off at full speed in no direction in particular. As they ran, Thorin saw his companion click open his guitar case and fumble with the straps on his instrument.  

“Are you mad?!” Thorin shouted, but there was no time for explanations. The man in the yellow cardigan grabbed his hand and lead him to an empty side street before stopping entirely.

“This is not good,” Thorin found himself babbling. “Strategically, this is complete bollocks. Oh god, what are you doing now?!”

The man dropped his guitar case onto the ground, fixing the instrument around his shoulders. He held a pick in his teeth as he adjusted his cap, then took it out of his mouth and started to play.

It was then that the growls caught up with them. Thorin gaped as three hulking figures skulked down the alleyway, sounding absurdly enough like a pack of wolves. His heart beat out of control as they prowled closer, and then it nearly beat out of his chest entirely as he caught a glimpse of their faces under the streetlight. They were growing…fur?

“Wh–what, why…dogs?”

The man shook his head grimly. “Wargs,” he corrected, as if that made any sense at all. “Get behind me.”

Thorin blindly obeyed. He had no clue what was happening. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

The music got a bit louder, and the intricate fingering began to slow. Then suddenly, the man took a breath and started to sing:

“Down the swift dark stream you go Back to lands you once did know! Leave the halls and caverns deep, Leave the northern mountains steep, Where the forest wide and dim Stoops in shadow grey and grim!" 

Thorin watched as the three men halted slowly, as if frightened of coming closer.

"Float beyond the world of trees Out into the whispering breeze, Past the rushes, past the reeds, Past the marsh’s waving weeds, Through the mist that riseth white Up from mere and pool at night!”

There was something strange happening, something…unnatural. Thorin looked down at the surface drains, gaping when he saw the water bubbling up far too quickly. The big men seemed to notice it too, and they growled and began to sprint forward. Thorin raised his gun.

“Down the swift dark stream you go!”

The water now spilled out at an impossible rate – rushing around his feet. It was moving by some invisible hand away from Thorin and toward their attackers in a roaring black wave. The music suddenly peaked, and the man in the yellow cardigan shouted rather than sang:

“Back to lands you once did know!” 3

The sky thundered as the wall of water loomed above them. It came from nowhere, everywhere, somewhere – and crashed into the pack of men. For a moment Thorin could see nothing, but as the flood gradually dissipated, Thorin stared open mouthed at where their attackers used to be.

“How…?” he whispered, unable to form a coherent thought.

The man hummed, looking at the mouth of the alley thoughtfully. Then he turned and peered up at Thorin, seeming quite unruffled.

“Hungry?” he asked companionably.

Thorin stared.

“….you could be a spotter, but I’m honestly not so sure. There’s something odd about you. Hmm. I don’t know. I’ll have to consult someone. Are you sure you’ve never Seen before? You’re a bit old to have only just noticed us now.”

Bilbo, and this was the real name of the man in the yellow cardigan, smiled at him in what he probably thought was a comforting manner and then licked a bit of vinegar off of his thumb.

“You should eat,” Bilbo told him. “I’m always starved after singing, especially when I’m wordsmithing, and greasy food is always the best, isn’t it?” He waved a piece of fried fish in the air. “Good for magic and hangovers.”

“Magic,” Thorin said weakly. He swallowed and looked down at his untouched food. “This can’t be real.”

Bilbo frowned at him, his eyes bright with concern. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news…but it’s real.”

He took a steadying breath and counted down from ten, and when he reached one he managed to look at Bilbo properly. “So, what? You’re from…Narnia? Hogwarts?”

Bilbo gave him a confused look. “I’m from Dorset,” he said.

“Right.” Another deep breath. “Right.

"Look.” Bilbo put his fish down and wiped his fingers on his napkin. “I’m not the best person to explain all of this to you. I don’t even know if I can.”

Thorin glared at him. “Can’t you try?”

Bilbo scratched his forehead. “Yeah, alright, fine…uh, I guess we’ll start with what I am, and what I think you are.”

Suddenly conscious of the people around them, even in the relative anonymity of a crowded pub, Thorin leaned across the table and whispered, “you mean I’m like you?”

Bilbo leaned back a bit. “Good lord, no,” he laughed. “And you don’t have to worry about anyone overhearing us. They can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they’re normal they won’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary,” he explained with a shrug. “No one really knows why. Maybe it’s because they don’t want to see. Maybe they just can’t. Only two types of people can see magic. People like me, who are magic, and people like you, who are called spotters.”

Thorin rolled the term around in his head for a moment. “Spotters?”

“Means you can spot magic,” said Bilbo, pointing a chip at him before eating it in one bite. “Sometimes even better than magicals. Spotters are dead useful.”

“Okay. Fine. Spotter.” He shook his head a little. “And what about you?”

Bilbo grinned. “I’m a minstrel! And a good one, if you couldn’t tell.”

He thought back on the frozen man, the unlocked cell, and the wall of water. “Ha,” he said, voice a bit high. “Right.”

“It was strange, actually. My mother was an apothecary, that means she was like a herbalist, you know. She could make all sorts of medicines and treat loads of diseases. She was pretty amazing. Then there was my father, who was bloomer, and they grow plants and things and that, and it was no wonder they got married, because apothecaries and bloomers are obviously well-matched, but their offspring should have taken after either of them, but instead they got me!”

Thorin blinked, trying hard to keep up.

“I was a surprise, that’s for sure. There’s not many minstrels about, only two in England, actually. There’s more of the others though, like speakeasies – they can speak any language and talk to animals! My friend Beorn is one – and tricksters, who aren’t that bad, really. Shameless opportunists, sure, but not evil or anything.”

“What about the men that were chasing us?” he cut Bilbo off. “They looked like….”

He didn’t want to say dogs. Dogs weren’t scary like that. Dogs didn’t make him feel like dinner.

“Wolves?” Bilbo provided helpfully. “They’re called Wargs, and I suppose for normals the equivalent would be werewolves.”

“Werewolves,” he repeated numbly.

Bilbo looked sympathetic. “Yeah, sorry.” He reached for his untouched pint and glanced from his glass to Thorin’s blank face. Then he slid it over to Thorin, who took it gratefully.

Bilbo went back to his chips. “We actually call Wargs and these things called goblins 'huntsmen’, because that’s all they do – they just hunt. And everyone, magic or normal, is their prey.”

Thorin drank his beer and then blew out an angry breath. “They can’t go around murdering people!” he said through gritted teeth.

Bilbo shrugged. “No one can really control them.”

“You don’t have…I don’t know, a government? Magic police?”

Bilbo stared at him a bit uncertainly, as if thinking about how much he should say.

“Detective,” he began, eventually. “I don’t think you understand. There’s only something like three hundred of us in the UK. Even less in other places. See, I’m what they call a fourth generation, because I’m the fourth generation of magicals in a family. Our kind have only been around for a few hundred years.”

“What?” Thorin shook his head. “How is that possible? Did you all fall into a vat of radioactive chemicals or something?”

Bilbo cracked a smile. “Afraid not,” he said, and then he turned serious again. “Something happened…a long time ago, that…wiped us all out, I guess. No one knows what it was. There’s no literature about it, no recorded history – nothing. We were just gone. But then one day we all started coming back – and we’re still in the process of coming back. And while we’re still so new, I’m afraid we’ve been making things up as we go along. We honestly haven’t had time to form a government or police.”

“Yes, but surely you must have some sort of interim leader?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Nope.”

He digested that for a moment, finishing off his pint and picking at his chips a bit. He saw Bilbo eye them longingly and slid the basket over, sitting back and watching the man eat.

There was no way he could pass this all off as the ramblings of a madman. For one, Bilbo seemed intelligent and sensible, if a bit eccentric. For another, Thorin had pinched the hell out of his arm and still hadn’t woken up. This was no dream, and he had definitely seen something that looked a lot like magic.

He suddenly frowned. “The huntsmen,” he said, watching as Bilbo stiffened. “Why were they hunting you?”

The man fidgeted a bit, twisting his napkin until it broken apart. “Well, there’s this calamity – ”

“Sorry, a what?”

Bilbo made an apologetic face. “Oh, right, um, a calamity,” he repeated. “They’re like the…evil overlords of all us magicals.”

Thorin raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said you didn’t have a leader.”

“They’re not our leaders, they’re our enemies,” Bilbo scoffed, before narrowing his eyes at Thorin. “They can be mutually exclusive, you know.”

Thorin agreed with a nod, waving Bilbo on.

“So, there’s this calamity, a dragon, to be exact, who thinks I stole something from him, which I did not, but will he listen to reason? No. All I know is that he got into a row with my mum one day, and then we had to leave and basically wander around so he couldn’t find us again. And then a couple months ago I came back to England, and all of the sudden I’m being hounded, no pun intended, day and night by huntsman working for Smaug!”

Thorin froze. “What did you say?” he whispered.

Bilbo scowled. “Well I’m not going to repeat everything I just said! It was a lot – ”

“No, no…Smaug. You said Smaug.”

“Yes, the dragon. Smaug. You know him?” Bilbo leaned across the table and put his hand on Thorin’s arm. His eyes were wide and worried. “Detective, do you know him? You shouldn’t know him.”

“I shouldn’t?”

Bilbo gave a wry, humorless smile. “No one should,” he said. “Can I ask how?”

Thorin stared at this man who seemed so sincerely concerned for him. “He killed my father,” he revealed in an undertone, his chest hurting. “He killed him.”

Bilbo didn’t look skeptical, or like he thought Thorin was crazy…nor did he look surprised.

“Yes,” he murmured instead. “That I can believe.”

“I’ll get you some extra blankets,” said Thorin, moving over to the cupboard and rummaging around. He handed them off to Bilbo somewhat awkwardly, watching as the man took off his boots and cardigan, yawning widely.

He looked at Thorin with one eye, his mouth turned up. “You alright?” he inquired, something mischievous flashing in his expression.

Thorin blushed. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t…normally have guests.”

“Well, I’m not your guest, am I?” Bilbo pointed out, laying down on Thorin’s couch and snuggling into a pillow. “I’m your new partner!”

Unamused, Thorin shook his head and turned the living room light off. “I already have a partner.”

“But I’m your magical one,” Bilbo insisted, yawning again. “And we’re going to take down Smaug together.”

In the dim light of the hallway, Thorin watched from the open door as Bilbo’s eyes grew heavier and heavier, until he gently fell fast asleep.

This had to have been the strangest day of his life.

And yet….

Something like hope was stirring in his chest. It had taken a while for him to recognize the feeling for what it was, because it had simply been too long since he’d felt anything but dark despair.

He didn’t know if he believed him – this weirdo in a yellow cardigan that had turned his whole world upside down; that had ripped apart Thorin’s carefully constructed reality and had thrown him headlong into this dangerous new world.

But he wanted to, because no matter how dangerous or crazy it all seemed…Thorin had never felt better.

Bilbo was waiting for Thorin to catch up, his keen eyes watchful as they lingered at the bus stop. Thorin finished buying their coffees and they moved on, both a bit paranoid but at least for good reason.

“You’re sure this guy can help us? You sounded hesitant about him before.”

Bilbo side-eyed him as they trotted down the street. “You picked up on that?”

Thorin smirked. “Detective, remember?”

“Right.” Bilbo took a long sip of his coffee. “I’m not…hesitant, exactly,” he said. “Gandalf is an old friend of my mother’s. He actually helped us escape Smaug when I was a child, so he’s been a good friend and ally to us.” He shook his head. “I just don’t want him to be disappointed in me, is all. I only just returned to England a few months ago, and I’ve already been causing trouble.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “If he knows you that well then he should already be prepared for it,” he commented idly, ignoring the dirty look Bilbo sent him. “Is he like you? Is he, uh, a musician magician?”

Bilbo snorted. “Musician magician?” he mocked in good humor, before shaking his head. “No, he’s not like me. He’s…well. He’s just…uh, Gandalf.”

“Just A Gandalf?”

“No, um.” He scratched his head. “I suppose if I had to give it a name I’d say he’s a bit like a wizard.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t you ever asked him?”

“Yes,” Bilbo replied, somewhat defensively. “And he told me to mind my own business and threatened to turn me into a frog.”

Thorin’s expression was a bit alarmed. “Can he do that?”

“No idea, but I wasn’t about to try asking again. I mean who just goes around kissing frogs? Not someone I’d want to marry….”

Though Bilbo’s description of Gandalf the (supposed) wizard left much to be desired, Thorin still followed the man down High Street; trusting in Bilbo’s judge of character for reasons unknown.

Which…was honestly rather alarming, if he really thought about it. Thorin had even skived off work that morning and had hopped onto a bus to Peckham without thinking about what he was doing or just whom he was trusting. He didn’t even know Bilbo. What on earth was he doing here? Generally, even?

But there wasn’t time for an existential crisis, because they had arrived at their destination.

“Curiosities and Antiques,” he read out loud, looking up at the sign above the little shop. “The wizard lives here? You’re joking.”

“No,” Bilbo frowned, pushing the door open which set off a little bell. “Why?”

“It’s just so obvious,” he muttered. “Though at least it’s not a pub. Or a phone booth.”

His companion only rolled his eyes and waved him inside. Books and old artifacts were stacked haphazardly on the floor and sitting atop dusty shelves. Grubby furniture was piled everywhere, all gorgeously vintage, though most of it was broken. Thorin spied a collection of clocks ticking away in the corner, and a very strange looking plant that he was pretty sure was gnawing on something. Possibly gingerbread, judging by the crumbs scattered around its pot.

Bilbo marched up to the counter and looked around, moving papers and things aside. Suddenly a tiny snout emerged from underneath an ancient textbook, and Thorin startled.

“Hello, Sebastian,” Bilbo greeted the hedgehog. And…of course there was a hedgehog. Of course Bilbo was talking to it. Because why the hell not? “Is Gandalf here?”

There was a sudden crash and Bilbo and Thorin looked up at the ceiling.

“…mushrooms! Last time you ended up in a volcano!” someone was shouting.

“Now, now,” said another, calmer, voice, but the rest of what he replied was too soft to make out.

“Oh good,” Bilbo said cheerfully. He patted Sebastian on the head. “GANDALF!” he suddenly bellowed at the ceiling. “GAND–oh! Radagast!”

A very strange looking man was eyeing them from the stairwell. He looked not in the least bit sane or reliable, and Thorin really hoped this wasn’t Gandalf.

“He’ll be down in a moment,” said the man, and his head disappeared.

“Thanks, Gasty!”

Barely a minute later an old fellow in a large grey robe came clattering down the stairs, his very tall hat hitting the ceiling but somehow managing to stay on his head. He had a long silver beard, sharp blue eyes, and a big stick with some sort of stone on the end.

“What the hell,” Thorin mumbled.

“Bilbo, my boy!” Gandalf greeted, opening his arms so that Bilbo could fly into them for a hug. “It’s very good to see you. Though perhaps not under these circumstances. You’re in a spot of trouble, I see.”

Bilbo moved back, staring up at Gandalf sheepishly. “Just a bit,” he lied. “We were hoping we could hide out here for a little while. Maybe ask your advice.”

“We? Oh.” The old man peered at Thorin curiously. “Who’s this?”

“That’s Detective Inspector Durin,” Bilbo explained, waving a hand in Thorin’s direction. “He arrested me!”

“Durin, you say?”

Thorin frowned in confusion as Gandalf narrowed his eyes, his jaw working as if he were tasting the name on his tongue. “Hmm.”

Bilbo looked from Thorin to Gandalf. “He’s weird, isn’t he? I thought he was weird.”

Gandalf finally stopped examining him and smiled down at Bilbo, patting his shoulder.

“I imagine we have many things to talk about,” he said. “Come upstairs, Radagast has made tea. It might even be palatable, but who knows? Best feed it to the plants.”

They sat around a small table covered with old parchment paper, some of which seemed permanently stuck there by spilled…something. Thorin refrained from putting his hands anywhere, and instead folded them in his lap as Bilbo looked into his teacup curiously.

“Well, now,” said the old man, putting down the kettle. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Smaug,” Bilbo told him succinctly, setting his cup down with a clank. “He’s killed Thorin’s father!”

Thorin jolted, feeling strange at hearing it said aloud and with such certainty. No one had truly believed him before, and he was just now realizing that Bilbo had been the first.

Gandalf, however, looked shocked. “Thrain is dead?” he said.

And just like that, Thorin’s world was upended again. How did….?

“You knew my father?” he asked, leaning over the table to stare into Gandalf’s eyes.

The old man nodded solemnly. “I did, yes. A good man he was too.”

“How did you know him?”

Gandalf sighed a little, his expression reserved but sympathetic. “Most of our kind know of him. Or of your ancestors, I should say. Have you not heard of Durin the Deathless?”

Bilbo suddenly gasped, sitting up in his chair excitedly. “Oh!” he exclaimed, looking at Thorin. “You’re one of those Durins! That’s what I was sensing!”

He shook his head, confused. “I’m a what?”

“A Durin, or of Durin’s folk. You are a descendent of an old clan of warriors that were charged with the protection of our kind,” Gandalf explained. “Long ago a King, then called Deathless, watched over all magical peoples, while also specializing in the extermination and removal of calamities.”

“Apparently your ancestors defeated a great beast, but Durin the first died in battle,” continued Bilbo, his eyes bright. “They buried him in a secret place, hidden from all their enemies, until 'an heir so like to his Forefather that he received the name of Durin’ returned. Or at least, that’s what the legend says.” 4

“Yes, the resurrected king.” Gandalf folded his hands on the table, looking at Thorin intently. “The tale of Durin the Deathless is one of our only surviving histories, though many do not believe that it is true. Thrain sought to prove that his family’s legacy was no fairy story. The last I spoke with him, he was intent on finding the axe to serve as evidence.”

“The axe?”

“Durin’s axe,” said Bilbo. “It’s said to be lodged in stone, and only Durin’s heir can draw it out, and that the one who wields its power would then become king.”

Thorin blinked. “But that’s ridiculous.”

“Most things are,” Gandalf agreed. “But that does not mean they are not important. And this, Thorin Durin, is very important…if defeating Smaug is truly your aim.”

He sat back, mulling over Gandalf’s frankly insane tale. His father was…magical? And alright, he could accept that. But did that mean Thorin had magic? What about Dís? His little nephews? What danger would they be in, if Thorin were to pursue this?

“Smaug killed my father,” he said, thinking hard. “Why?”

“Because he’s evil,” Bilbo piped up, and then turned to Gandalf and became very serious. “He wants the axe, doesn’t he?”

Gandalf nodded. “It’s very likely. Smaug’s one desire is power; he hoards it, and will do anything to attain it. Our kind is not governed by anyone, nor have we chosen a leader. Smaug intends to take control of our people, and he’s unlikely to stop there….”

“World domination,” Bilbo extrapolated. “Very unoriginal, if you ask me.”

Thorin ran a hand down his face, a bit overwhelmed. “How can we stop him?” he asked, looking from Bilbo to Gandalf.

“You’ll have to finish what your father started,” the old man replied solemnly. “We will need to find the axe, and should you accept your birthright, you may use its power to defeat him once and for all.”

“But I don’t know where it is!” Thorin cried.

“Perhaps your father’s possessions will shed some light on the matter,” Gandalf theorized. “Do you have them still?”

Thorin calmed and nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, they’re at my family’s old house. His things haven’t been touched. We didn’t know if we were going to sell it or not….”

Gandalf smiled widely, before rising to his feet. “Splendid! Let’s go.”

“What?” Thorin frowned. “Now?”

“Of course!” The wizard grabbed up his staff and adjusted his hat. “We haven’t much time to waste, I’m afraid. Bilbo’s return to England has quite literally awoken the beast. Smaug will be looking to make his move any day now, and we must stop him before that happens.”

This all sounded very vague to Thorin, and he was smart enough to realize that the wizard was omitting quite a lot of information, but he agreed that time was running out for taking action. Something anxious and afraid was bubbling in the pit of his stomach, warning him that things were about to come to a head – and Thorin didn’t feel anywhere near ready. That would change, though, with their first step toward winning this battle, which was looking into the legacy of Thorin’s ancestors – a legacy that he’d known nothing about.

The house Thorin had grown up in was neither too big nor too small, but just right for a family of five. Thorin opened the door and let Gandalf and Bilbo in, quickly shoving a few boxes out of the way as he lead them to the kitchen.

“I don’t know where to look,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a bit of a mess, and well…father wasn’t the most organized person.”

“I knew Thrain well enough. Perhaps you have an attic? Or a cellar?”

He frowned. “We have a cellar, yes, it’s over here.” He went to the door beside the refrigerator and opened it, and then quickly moved out of the way as Gandalf bustled past him and down the stairs – Bilbo trotting after him.

Rolling his eyes at their strangeness, Thorin entered the cellar and immediately sneezed. It was dark and dusty, and nobody (or so he thought) had been down there in years. He went to flick on the light but Bilbo waved a hand at him.

“No light!” he said. “Come see this.”

Thorin walked over and looked at what they were examining so intently. “It’s my grandfather’s puzzle box,” he explained. “We could never open it, or solve his stupid riddle.”

“Riddle?” Bilbo pressed curiously. “I like riddles! Go on, then.”

Thorin smiled a little at his enthusiasm. “Alright. A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid,” he recited.

But Bilbo looked disappointed. “But that’s an easy one,” he sulked. “It’s an egg.”

Well it wasn’t easy to me, he thought grumpily. “Maybe that’s the secret password,” he suggested.

“Egg?” said Bilbo. “No, see? It didn’t open. But I bet I could rustle something up.”

Gandalf hummed with approval and set the box down, waving for Bilbo to get on with it. Bilbo took a breath and said:

Eggs in a box, o’ riddle king. Unlock your locks quit riddling!

Nothing happened.

“But…but…!” Bilbo looked at them both, his mouth slack with shock. “My words always work!”

“Hmm,” said Gandalf, staring at the puzzle box thoughtfully. “Curious. Perhaps Thorin is the key – ”

“What could I do?” Thorin blurted, frowning at the old man. “I’m not magical! Cast a spell at it! Aren’t you a wizard?”

Bilbo turned and sliced a hand across his neck, mouthing 'bad idea!’ at him.

Gandalf narrowed his eyes at Thorin and straightened up to his full height. “I am Gandalf,” he intoned haughtily. “And Gandalf means – ”

A loud crash sounded from upstairs, and all of three of them froze.

“Expecting visitors?” asked Bilbo in an undertone.

Thorin kept his eyes on the entrance to the cellar. “Nope.”

Bilbo made a long-suffering noise in the back of his throat and swung his guitar around, pick at the ready. “Sorry about your house,” he said, ignoring the panicked look Thorin threw at him. “But needs must.”

Then he began to strum.

The night had grown cold.

“Gasty,” called Bilbo, clasping his hands together pleadingly. “Please let us in!”

The strange man, Radagast, opened the door a smidgen. “What’s all over your clothes?”

“Um.” Bilbo carefully did not look at Thorin. “A house?”

Radagast frowned suspiciously. “Where’s Gandalf?”

“On his way. Can we come in? Please please please?”

The door swung open and the bell went off, and he and Bilbo pushed their way inside. They immediately locked the door behind them.

“We’ll be safe here,” Bilbo said with a sigh.

Thorin didn’t reply, and instead focused on brushing the plaster off of his clothes. When he saw that Bilbo was about to say something to him, Thorin asked where the bathroom was and retreated before he could try and apologize for the mess they’d made of Thorin’s home (and his life, in general).

He turned the light on in the loo and closed the door, before leaning against it tiredly. He pressed his fingers to his eyes and took a deep breath.

Thorin wasn’t really mad at Bilbo, or Gandalf for that matter. His house would need repairs (a lot of repairs) of course, but they had escaped with their lives and unscathed to boot. Thorin had seen too many unlucky sods, dead or worse, in his line of work to be angry about the loss of material things. But that man….

“Durin,” growled the giant creature. He was pale and scarred, and his teeth were sharpened to little points. His clear eyes gazed down at Thorin with amusement. “After you get me what I want, I will kill you slowly.”

Thorin raised his gun.

“Like I did your father.”

He shot, and shot and shot and shot, but his chamber was soon empty and the man was still unmarked. It was like he didn’t bleed.

The next thing he knew, Bilbo was standing in front of him, shouting, and the giant man was thrown through the wall. They turned to run….

He wasn’t sure what happened after that. His head was too full of questions. Thorin had thought that Smaug had killed his father, but what if that wasn’t true? What if Thorin had another, unseen enemy? And someone just as dangerous as Smaug?

“Thorin,” Bilbo called through the door, knocking thrice. “Gandalf’s back.”

He inhaled again, deep as he could, and turned to wash his hands and face. Bilbo was waiting anxiously outside the loo when he emerged.

“Alright, let’s see what this box is about,” said Thorin, again cutting off Bilbo’s string of apologies.

“It looks like it’s supposed to twist open, but it’s jammed,” Radagast was saying. He was wiggling his finger into a little ridge on the side of the box.

“Hey, that wasn’t there before!” Bilbo exclaimed.

“Perhaps it was your egg spell,” Thorin joked, as sort of a peace offering.

Bilbo rolled his eyes and nudged Thorin in the side, but he looked pleased.

“Hmm.” Gandalf rubbed his chin as he inspected the box. “Did your grandfather give you more than one riddle?”

Thorin frowned. “No – wait, maybe…. It’s not much of one, but he used to say it often. ’Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the key-hole.’ Whatever that means.”

“Hmm,” said Gandalf.

“Interesting,” Bilbo nodded.

“Ugh,” Radagast said with an eye roll. He grabbed the box and put it in the window. “Conveniently enough, it’s sunset,” he explained as if they were all exceptionally stupid.

It took a moment, but then the box began to glow.

“There!” Bilbo cried out, pointing at the hole that had suddenly appeared.

“Can we unlock it?” Thorin asked excitedly.

“We haven’t got a key!” Bilbo reminded him.

“But we do have a burglar of sorts,” Gandalf suggested, his eyes bright with amusement. They all turned to look at Bilbo.

“What? I’m not a burglar!” Bilbo protested. “I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!”

“Escape artist then,” Thorin said, dragging Bilbo over to the window. “Right. Go on. Open sesame.”

Bilbo scowled at him, but turned his attention to the box. He gazed at the key-hole thoughtfully for a moment, before saying:

Inside outside, won’t you be free? Silly box of riddles open sesame!

He sent Thorin a cheeky grin just as they all heard the lock click. Thorin reached out and lifted the lid.

“That’s…it?” said Bilbo, peering down at what was definitely a folded up map.

Thorin blinked at it before lifting it out of the box. He unfolded it carefully, for the paper was very old and delicate, and laid it out on Radagast’s messy counter.

“How strange!” Bilbo exclaimed. “None of these places exist. Gondor…Mordor? Suppose they’re ancient countries or something?”

“Or they’re just fictional,” Thorin grumbled. “This could be a bloody map of Westeros for all we know.”

Radagast tutted at them and Gandalf shoed Thorin’s hands off the map. “Your father used this map to find the ancient weapon of his ancestors. Of your ancestors.”

“But how do you know that he found it?” asked Bilbo.

“Because of this.” Gandalf held up a small white square. It was a business card. “It was also in the box. And I should say that it was not Thrain that found the axe in the end…rather Smaug did.”

The address on the card was for some warehouse in Millwall, which meant absolutely nothing to Thorin. Until he remembered.

“He owns property in Canary Wharf,” Thorin murmured. “We searched one of his warehouses once. We didn’t find anything.”

Gandalf raised his eyebrows knowingly. “That’s because you didn’t know what you were looking for,” he said.

End Part I