#dwarf!reader

Gold had always been the apple of a dwarf’s eye, such an appealing little speckle of color and ore that, much like a crow to shiny rubies, drew them near. That is what had caused the rise of Erebor, and much in its own succession, its fall. Much is not needed for it to be understood the dangers of dwarven greed, as it had been told many times before-instead, this tale will recount a deeper part of the dwarves and the time I had spent with them. 

Many know the story of Thorin Oakenshield, the King beneath the Mountain. Yet I have found part of this story neglected within even my own writings, though there were many great battles within my own tales and recountings, this one speaks less of wounds to flesh–more to the wounds of the heart, and how centuries of disregard cannot heal the slashes beneath the skin. 

My dear Frodo, I wish to tell you of the dwarrodam within Thorin Oakenshield’s party–his niece, and a faithful lover of Thranduil.

“I am unsure of this burglar, Kíli.” You moaned out as your boots remained heavy against the pebbles and dirt roads of the shire, furs weighing heavy upon your feet. The layers you wore seemed to add an extra thirty kilos to your form, if not more with the way Kíli had forced you to carry his own few layers when he grew tired of them–claiming you were ‘such a kind sister’ and that he would ‘surely give you extra morsels while traveling’. The dwarf was always chivalrous with dwarrodams until it came to his own twin sister. 

“Gandalf would not lead us astray, surely he would not.” Fíli tried to quell your worries as he walked beside you, swaying slightly as he grew distracted by a firefly that floated by his head–the golden light radiating his matching yellow hair. 

“Just as Fíli said, I trust this fellow.” Kíli hummed in agreement, sending a glance your way–though you did not notice it as you were rather distracted by the beauty of the Shire. It was grassy, the air holding a breeze that was not quite cold yet it was not hot either. There were flowers–real and vibrant flowers that did not incite a horrid reaction if your fingertips brushed against them, the people were slightly judgemental though it was quite easy to ignore when your eyes caught the horizon and the deep magenta and indigo hues that coated the sky above. In short, the Shire was everything that your homeland was not. Your uncle had tried to provide little beauties to you and your brothers whenever he could, yet he seemed blisteringly aware of the luxuries your lives lacked after the abandonment of Erebor.

Which has led you to here, adorned in thick furs and leather–treading uphill toward a hobbit hole that Gandalf had told you little of, yet you trusted Thorin’s judgement just enough to follow the wise man’s words nonetheless. 

One hand rested within the pocket of your trousers, thumb tracing along the talisman your mother had provided you before your departure–a promise carved into amethyst. Kíli had been provided an identical one—a set, if you will. Two twins deserved two stones, two promises that each would return safe from their travels. 

Fíli’s hand was first to ring the bell of the unfamiliar door, wood colored a gemstone green that complimented the natural tones of the environment around it. The wood creaked as, whom you could assume to be, Bilbo Baggins opened the door–obviously dressed in leisurely attire that contrasted the dirtiness of your own. Fíli and Kíli were first to introduce themselves–and you did not miss the distraught look that overcame the hobbit’s face at the sight of more dwarves entering his home. You were last to introduce yourself, standing just between the two before you all bowed in unison, speaking so in sync that it seemed to even mildly perturb Bilbo. “At your service.”

“You must be Mr. Boggins!” Your boot came into quick contact with the back of Kíli’s as you sent him a quick glare, receiving a look of cluelessness in response from him. 

“It’s Baggins, Kíli…” You hissed out as Bilbo began to reject your presence rather quickly, the door beginning to swing shut and almost successfully closing if it were not for Kíli’s gloved fingers grasping around its rim and preventing it. 

“What? Has it been cancelled?” 

“No one told us.” Fíli tilted his head toward you both as Bilbo began to answer–brows fusing into one from how tightly they were drawn across his forehead. 

“No,” He tilted his head–gazing around his own home as if he were lost. “Nothing’s been cancelled.”

“That’s a relief!” Kíli exclaimed as he pushed past the threshold of the doorway, Fíli and you quickly followed after.

The innards of the hobbit home were warm–daresay, even cozy, copper lighting coating the rooms and the faint smell of jam and tea floating through the air. You kept more to yourself compared to Balin, Dwalin and your brothers, placing your bearings in the corner as your feet carried you throughout the halls of Bilbo’s homely abode. 

The bell rang for the door once more and soon a loud thudding noise followed by the groans of many dwarves rang throughout the hobbit hole, an obvious sign of the arrival of more company. Oin, Gloin, Nori, Dori, Ori, Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur had piled through the door–each of them greeting you and the others were a certain chipper familiarity that warmed your heart more than the candlelight could. It has been far too long since you’d last spent time in the company of dwarves that were not your infuriating brothers–even if you did love them to death. 

Everyone busied themselves with forming a feast from the remnants of Bilbo’s pantry–an assortment of cheese wheels, wine, vegetables, and sliced meats placed upon a long wooden table as the hobbit seemed to boil and toil within his robe. 

“It is greatly appreciated for what you are providing us, Mr. Baggins.” You quickly spoke as Ori rushed beside you with another barrel of cheese–almost knocking the tea that was held upon the tray within your hands. Bilbo, panicked at the thought of the broken tea set, rushed forward–hands stabilizing your own as he groaned. 

“I do not know where your lot came from, but I must make it known that I had not planned for your company.” 

Your brows furrowed in confusion at the revelation–considering that Gandalf had told you that this would be your burglar, a hobbit that was apparently unaware of his deemed role to begin with. Reluctantly, Bilbo allowed you to take the tea set toward the table where the other dwarves had begun to gather–shoving food down their gullets. Kíli and Fíli both laughed loudly as Bombur caught a flying egg within his mouth, and Bifur poured mead down his drinking horn. It was an array of movement and sound–each heartier and fuller than the last. It was messy and free. It was like home. 

And Bilbo hated every moment of it.

Kíli had spoken something that had irked you, a silent jab toward you hidden within his words–and soon a piece of pork was sent flying across the tables and landing flat upon his face. Fíli’s laughter was rich–matching your own as you watched Kíli peel the slice from his face before eating it, your boots rapting against the ground in unison. 

When the feast was over, your voices no longer covered the other, but instead rose into a lively melody as each played their part in cleaning the mess left within Bilbo Baggins’ home. You busied yourself with wiping the table down, humming along just as happily as the other dwarves sang. “That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!” 

A thudding knock was heard–not the ringing of the bell, nor the call of a voice. Just an ominous thud, followed by anticipation of the arrival of the infamous dwarf. 

When Thorin Oakenshield entered the home of Bilbo Baggins, it was not to celebrate a reunion or to enjoy mead and food. No, it was to discuss a plan that’s pendulum had already been set in motion–to acquaint Bilbo with the dwarves he would spend a total of fourteen months beside. Nonetheless, the contents of those fourteen months will be discussed later.

Bilbo’s rejection of the plan was quite imminent, for he had a home–somewhere that was comfortable, cushy, and provided stability that would not be found on the trek to Erebor. You could not fault the hobbit, for you yourself had yearned for such a thing. Though Bilbo had rejected the joining of Thorin’s company, he was kind enough to provide a place for you to stay just for a night–to rest before dawn and mildew coated Middle-Earth. 

Peeling off your furs and coat, you tossed them messily upon the wooden chair beside the small bundle of blankets Bilbo had provided you.

“It is no surprise the hobbit would not wish to join us.” You began, earning a curious look from Fíli–leading you to quickly elaborate. “Think of it, truly, think of it. A home so cozy, a life so simple… I would not wish to leave either.”

You bundled a knitted blanket within the palm of your hands, bringing it to your face as you inhaled the scent of chamomile and firewood through your nostrils. 

“I assume you’re right, even if it is hard to accept.” Kíli matched the whispered nature of your voice with his own–grasping another blanket as he himself had inhaled the scent as well. 

“Rest now, you will need it.” Thorin mumbled out from beside the fireplace, a pipe within his hand as each of the dwarves began to bundle themselves–cocooning into the floor until they were each cozied within wool and knitted blankets. The night's rest was comfortable–far more so than sleeping upon soiled forest grounds and stoney pathways, yet it did not remove the sense of dread that had begun to form within the pit of your stomach.

We must away, ‘ere break of day, to find our long forgotten home.

And so you did, saddled upon ponies as you began your trek through the forest–a yawn from Bombur causing a chain of wide mouthed sleepiness to consume you all. The sun had begun to pierce the canopy of trees, illuminating the path ahead in a soft dewy mist. 

“Please, Kíli, stop talking. I do not think I can bear to hear you whine about your beard once more–” You began, only to be rudely interrupted by Kíli in all his whining glory.

“But you simply do not understand! What an embarrassment it would be if my own sister were to outgrow me with a beard!” Kíli exclaimed dramatically, and in turn, you gave him a playful shove–smirking at him as your boots tapped comfortably against the midnight black coat of your pony. 

“Then I will be ever-more charming and appealing to dwarrodams than the likes of you!” The jab drew a laugh from Gandalf, a victory in itself to make the old man laugh so heartily. 

Just as Kíli opened his mouth to retort, a shouting voice interrupted him–light footfalls slowly growing louder in the crunching of grass beneath bare feet. 

“Wait!”

It had been your burglar–a bright smile upon his face and the contract held tightly within his raised fist.

Oh, Fíli was going to owe you a large sack of gold.

Trolls were pesky little creatures–if little is what you could call them. Your company had been quite lucky that they were particularly weak against sunlight, and that your burglar had a smart mouth–even if it was not fully appreciated at first due to the dubious nature of his comments. 

You, Kíli, and Fíli had chosen to remain behind as a few of dwarves and Gandalf had explored the troll cave and the assets that may reside in its cobweb-covered depths. You stood beside Kíli, examining the stoney trolls in their terror-stricken faces, gaze cast upon the horizon. 

“Must be such a sad lot.” Kíli scoffed out at your almost sympathetic words–drawing an annoyed huff from your lips. “What?”

“You sound like you feel remorse over them not eating us.” Kíli crossed his arms, planting one foot onto the ground as he leaned forward–gloved hand swiping across the rough stone patches that had once been even rougher troll skin.

“I didn’t say that, I simply meant it must be a miserable life to live. To never see the sun on the horizon, or feel it on your skin.” There was a pause in between your words. “Though, I think that is for the best. They almost squashed you into jelly, even if you would have been the tiniest morsel of jelly to ever touch their vile mouths.”

“I’ll have you know I would have been delicious!--” There was a sudden grumbling noise that caught the two of you off-guard, jolting within your skin as your gazes met.

“For Durin’s sake, Kíli, silence that stomach.” You hissed out in an annoyed grumble, assuming it was just Kíli’s insatiable appetite. Yet, the noise came again–louder, closer than before.

Kíli’s voice lowered into a whisper of his own as he slowly retrieved his switchblade–readying himself for the threat at hand. “That sound did not come from me.”

Bristles coated your skin as paranoia creeped into your mind swiftly, coating your nerves in a sudden need to defend yourself. Neither of you nor Kíli had your bows, and your axe had been left at the encampment–much to your chagrin. 

The sound grew and rose in intensity, drawing nearer and nearer until it practically breathed down your neck and suffocated the two. Then, it stopped–silence consumed the forest with the exception of chirping birds in the distance. 

You had not realized that you were holding your breath until a shaky exhale left your lungs, body hunched low to the ground. Gazing up at Kíli, it seemed he had been as well–his gaze matching your own, wary of his surroundings even in the absence of sound. 

Suddenly, a loud bellowing noise was heard from behind you, frightening you as your heart leapt within your lungs. Fíli jumped from the troll’s back, blaring a horn loudly–something he’d seemingly obtained from the outskirts of the troll’s cave, the very thing that had been producing such horrid noises.

“Mahal!” You cursed out as you fell upon your bum–the dwarf landing right before you with this cocky grin that you wished to wipe from his features. Kíli was no better as he flinched away from the spot, holding out his switchblade quite defensively until he realized there was no threat but his brother’s shenanigans within the forest. 

“You think yourself so clever.” You huffed out as Fíli doubled over in laughter, a large grin upon his lips. Though you were annoyed, there was still a hint of laughter and a smile beneath the irritated expression you bore.

“Yes, I do.” He spoke triumphantly as he barely managed to dodge the petty swipe of your boots toward his own. Tossing the horn to the earth, Fíli approached you both in a suave manner, obviously taking pride in his work of distressing the both of you.

Kíli quickly stored away his switchblade as a small grin pulled at his own features. “You’d given us a fright.” 

“How could I possibly resist when you both were standing over here looking so clueless?” Fíli laughed out so eagerly, taking your arm as he did not ask before hauling you up from the ground–his hand coming to pat your shoulder quickly in  reassurance. 

You smoothed your hands along the underside of your pants, brushing away dirt and leaves that clung to you generously like second skin. “You are such a pain in my arse, I hope you know!”

Fíli only chuckled as he made his way toward Thorin, whom had now left the cave along with Gloin, Bofur, and Nori. 

There was a pause of silence between you and Kíli as you watched the blonde dwarf walk away with radiating confidence, as if he hadn’t just frightened his own siblings to the death for the sake of being a pest.

“Shall we put twigs in his boots tonight?” Kíli leaned over to you, whispering his devious plan of revenge.

 There was no hesitation as you silently, and quite eagerly nodded in agreement.

“Something’s coming!” Thorin called out at the sound of sudden movement in the shrubbery and bush, and Galndalf quickly gave word to the company to arm themselves. 

You and Kíli moved as a pair–rushing forward as you retrieved your bows and quivers, each of them identical with the exception of your initials carved into place. Twins deserved twin-like weaponry, your mother had said.

“Thieves! Fire! Murder!” A voice had shouted–soon to be closer until finally a sleigh pulled by a peculiar breed of rabbits emerged from the green symphony. The person that emerged was rather odd in stature, composed of an earthy scent and color palette to match. Radagast, you soon discovered, was his name and he was a rather jittery creature. His words were quick, floaty like a squirrel and rabbit combined.

He spoke to Gandalf of things you could not quite comprehend–words and places mentioned that you did not know, nor did not care to know. Yet what they were speaking of did not last long, for the conversation was interrupted by howling–frightfully piercing in sound and vibration. 

Bilbo was first to panic–his head turning as his heart seemed to beat out of his chest and his anxieties spiked. “Was that a wolf? Are there wolves out here?”

“Wolves? No, that is not a wolf.” Bofur mumbled out to Bilbo as he gazed around the forest skeptically, the largeness of his hat blocking your view for a moment before you ultimately pushed past–holding your bow tight within your grasps.

“Wolf or not, there is something near.” You slowly began to turn around, the noise of snarling became evermore apparent. Just above the rocks, a warg began to creep above the mossy path–its gaze intense and hostile as it snarled out at the company.

When it had pounced, Thorin was first to slew it–the company moving into their own defensive stances, including you as you stood opposite of Kíli with your bow drawn, muscles tight, and eyes vigilant. Another warg came pouncing through the shrubbery, and Kíli made quick work of attacking as his arrow found its way to the creature’s neck. Dwalin finished it off as Kíli retrieved his arrow, his gaze flitting to you.

“Warg scouts–which means an orc pack is not far behind.” Thorin grunted out as he withdrew his blade from the bloody creature’s body.

Gandalf began to question Thorin regarding whom he had previously told about his quest and goal to obtain Erebor–of whom could the responsibility be placed upon. There was a silent realization hidden within the wise wizard’s questions–a grimmer reality setting into place.

Kíli’s gloved fist was balled around the shaft of the arrow–the golden string tied upon the crest gleaming in the sunlight, a silent reminder of the home you had left in pursuit of a future beyond its borders–a future in Erebor. A future that could easily be compromised by the notion that Gandalf spoke: “You are being hunted.” 

Radagast, the strange fellow he was, was rather brave for his stature–quickly offsetting the path of the orcs as he rode past with his rhosgobel rabbits, his wooden sleigh clattering klunkily against forest path and stone. For his age, Gandalf was quick in his movements as he led the company astray from their original course–weaving through shrubbery with weapons raised in pursuit of shelter. 

Your boots rushed across mossy flooring and stony passages, knees bent low as you crept through the forest like a haunting rather than a dwarf. Silence had become the virtue of all, and dwarves were not exactly known for their ability to stay quiet. Kíli walked ahead of you, while Fíli was incredibly insistent on moving behind you–much to your protest. 

You were aware of his purpose to remain behind–because even if Fíli was adamant on the fact that he believed you and Kíli capable enough to defend yourselves, there was some sort of duty he felt sworn to protect the both of you more than he would ever defend himself. Each and every few steps, you cast your gaze back upon him, if not for his own protection, then for the quelling of your beating heart.

Radagast rushed past a cluster of boulders and sharply edged rocks, his sleigh clattering as the wargs chased after him and directly past the location of the company. The group moved as one being–one prey being hunted by a larger predator. Just as you had ducked beneath stone once more, a warg and its master had strayed from its pack–creeping above hills and boulders, nose sharp and teeth even more so. Thorin’s gaze flickered to both you and Kíli, expectant as you both held your bows at a ready stance–tension soon overcoming your forms as you both moved in unison, the twin archers finally in motion as both took aim. 

The arrow sliced across your glove, floating through the air in a graceful manner that contrasted intent rather beautifully. Kíli’s arrow took root within the warg’s upper chest and leg, while yours had found home in the center of its sternum. The thing collapsed in a whimpering heap, throwing its master from its furry back–and soon, its master was slain by the weapons of Bifur and Bofur. 

The pained sounds of the orc were harsh upon your ears, the squealing vibration that echoed throughout the hills being far from comforting–yet there was no place for comfort when being hunted by an orc pack. Kíli’s boots brushed against bloodied grass and dirt as he moved to retrieve the arrows, and just as he had moved to place both within his quiver, your voice whispered out harshly in disbelief.

“Kíli! That is my arrow.” His hand still remained wrapped around the golden strung, firm and unyielding as he moved. Kíli’s face dropped at the accusation–as if he were being accused of some sinister falsehood that he may never recover from.

“No, it is not. Look!”

“It is! It has my name carved into the shaft–do not tell lies!” You whispered out just a bit louder as your boots pounded against the ground, grasping the other end of the arrow–to which Kíli objected most physically, attempting to pull it away pettily.

“Well, we can share arrows!” He whispered back, yet you knew he was simply trying to take the arrow from you–even if it meant receiving a mouthful about it.

“No! Last time we did that you–”

Your voice was cut off by the sound of Gandalf’s booming one, the sound of wargs growing closer and you had not even realized it because of some petty squabble. “For Durin’s sake, stop bickering and run!”

“Oh.” You both seemed to have the realization in unison as Kíli released the arrow, breaking into a sprint along with the rest of the company. Before you slipped the arrow into your quiver, you had taken a quick glance to the shaft–just for safe measure because in truth, you were not entirely sure that the arrow actually belonged to you, you simply knew of Kíli’s squandering tactics. Clear as day within the wood was a carving of your initials, and you silently celebrated as you followed quickly behind Kíli and the company. 

You would think yourself to have preferred being torn apart by wargs if it meant not being indebted to the elves of Rivendell, with their disgustingly pristine buildings and eloquent ways of life. In spite of the mutual distaste that had long been shared by dwarves and elves for one another, the elves provided refuge for your company–and what bountiful refuge it was. 

A feast provided beneath the setting horizon, music strumming lightly in the air as each of you ate to your heart’s content and your bellies were fuller than the rising moon. 

Beside you, Kíli sat–his gaze cast across the wood and marbled table as he sent a wink toward an elf strumming the harp, and he believed himself to be so sly until he’d seen the unamused expression upon both yours and Dwalin’s face. 

His once self-assured smirk melted away as he cleared his throat, gazing around toward the food-filled table for a moment before speaking: “I can’t say I fancy Elf maids myself, too thin.”

Dwalin’s slight twitch of brow seemed to egg Kíli on in his deconstruction of elven appearances and his lack of interest within them–as if history between dwarves and elves was not enough to dissuade him alone. “They’re all high cheekbones… and creamy skin. Not enough facial hair for me.”

That comment irked you for just a moment, your jaw tightening at his comment–yet you could not truly blame him. It was not his fault that neither you, nor him were considered very dwarven in features. Memories of being teased for your more-so elven features began to flood within your brain, yet as Kíli’s last few words muttered from his mouth, you could barely focus upon soured reminiscence as Dwalin informed him so dutifully.

“Although, that one there is not bad.”

Dwalin leaned forward as he spoke, attempting to give Kíli some resemblance of grace when the opportunity had already passed long ago. “That’s not an elf maid.”

And so it was not, as the elf turned around and masculine features came into view.

The wooden chalice you drank from was soon slammed upon the table as hearty laughter resounded from not only you, but Bofur, and from Dwalin–who rarely partook in the joys of laughter so audibly. Kíli’s expression was nothing short of betrayed by the realization, his face falling into one of morbid shock. 

“What was that about elf maids, Kíli?” You questioned with a mixture of mock and tease, giggling within your seat as your brother cast you a look that spoke of revenge yet to come. 

“That’s funny.” Kíli spoke begrudgingly.

When the sun had set and the moon had risen high within the cavernous expanse of starlight, many of the dwarves had retired to sleep within Rivendell–all except Bilbo, Thorin, Balin, and Gandalf had taken comfort beneath the starlight. 

You had laid upon the cot–basking within the night above, watching as stars twinkled down in their own hidden form of communication, whispering words of promise and past. In your heart, something began to tighten–twisting and yearning for understanding beneath such starlight, to understand them and in turn, be understood. Yet that was a simple fantasy, such a sentimentality that would only serve to distract you from your slumber.

And so, you rolled over–blocking the stars from your gaze and in turn, from your mind. Slumber took you like sand upon the shore, overshadowing your senses and consuming you whole–yet your dreams had more so been your foe even when you were a wee lass. 

You stirred in a sweat, fists balled tightly within white woolen blankets–heart thrumming intensely within your chest as your eyes grew wet with emotion. Hands came to clench at your tunic, feeling the fabric weigh just a bit heavier upon your skin than it had before–unwilling tears rimming your eyes. Your breathing was uneven bursts of air past chapped lips, hair falling upon your face in a pattern that was somehow too much and too little.

You had always despised this aspect of yourself–the helplessness that felt unfitting for a descendent of Durin. If your physical differences did not feed into the creeping shadow of insecurity, the mental difference seemed just enough to quell the hunger of that imaginary beast and force the tears that had welled past their pooling crevices.

Gazing around, everyone else seemed deep within their own peaceful slumber–basking in the comfort of a warm blanket and the hidden tales told by the stars, all except you–as it had always been, as it shall always be. 

“Did you have another dream?” A voice called in Khuzdûl.

Your head quickly swiveled to gaze behind, your hand bracing against silken fabric. Your uncle stood in the moonlight, that small familiar smile poking past his normally solemn expression. There were no words that needed to be spoken, a simple nod of your head as the torchlight caught the wetness that rimmed your eyes was just enough to answer. 

With the quietest of steps he could muster, Thorin crept through the crowd of sleep drunken dwarves–helping you from your cot before wordlessly guiding you toward the marble pillar where he had seemingly set up his own resting spot. The material was cool against the contrasting warmth of your arms, body sliding along the pillar as your uncle gathered a bundle of blankets that the company had been just barely conscious enough to leave behind for their leader.

There was a warmth within Thorin’s gaze, a fondness that he kept reserved for only his closest of kin–a fondness you hadn’t quite seen since your days back in the Blue Mountains. This, was your uncle–not Thorin Oakenshield, the dwarven warrior whom so many told courageous tales of, or the son of Thror, the son of the King under the Mountain. 

“A child of Durin who cannot control her own dreams–who cries at her own dreams… it is such an embarrassment.” You muttered out in a croaky sound, gazing flitting up toward the stars for a moment before it trailed down to Kíli and Fíli who seemed so deep in slumber that they may never wake again. 

Your uncle sat beside you, side pressed against side as blankets were draped over both of your legs–his arm sneaking around your shoulders until you felt just a bit more secure–a bit more home amongst the cold marble. Memories from the Blue Mountains began to stir within your mind–nostalgic and childish, just as you were then–a wee lass beside her brothers and mother. 

Thorin had once held you the same way when you’d stirred from the most horrible of nightmares, tears pooling within your eyes and streaming along your tiny rose-filled cheeks. You sniffled into the darkness, the fire crackling of the hearth being the only comfort you could find as Kíli lay clung to your mother’s lap, fingers bundled within the thick fabric of her gown. Fíli had been laid to bed within his own bedchambers, the faintness of his own snoring being heard from down the hall. 

You were alone–alone with dreams of vicious creatures and tearful frights. 

You were alone, as you had always truly been–as you shall always be, or so you had believed. Bundled beneath the yarn-woven blankets, you hid your tearful face from all of Middle-Earth’s sights as you had attempted and failed to force yourself back into that pitious dreamland. With one too many failures, you had embarked upon a new mission–to distract yourself until morning came, through any means necessary.

Little legs carried you through big great halls, even littler fists holding upon stony walls as you moved beneath torch to torch–ignoring the way shadows seemed to twist within the crackling fire. A rough, deep voice spoke from within a room down the grand hall–commanding in presence, and all too familiar.

Reaching the room, your hands pried against the stone doors–as if you could possibly move them on your own, yet you were lucky to find a small dwarf-sized crack just big enough for you to wedge between.

Thorin stood beside a large hearth, his gaze cast upon a large stone table–thick brows furrowed in thought, he spoke words in Khuzdûl that you were not quite able to understand at such a young age. Though you wished to believe yourself full of stealth, the pattering of your tiny boots upon the stone floors was enough to alert your uncle of another presence–his gaze catching your own as you stood just beyond the gap of the door.

His voice called to you–not your common name, but your name spoken only in Khuzdûl–only for those whom knew it and whom believed it to be true. Gloved hands bundled up scrolls and maps, Thorin quickly having dismissed himself from whatever important meeting was occurring–dismissing himself from being a ruler to tend to his niece. 

Strong arms scooped you up into the air–making you somehow feel smaller than you already were, carrying past twisting shadows and heathen whispers in the darkness–shielding you, protecting you. With much quieter steps than you had walked with, Thorin pushed the door of your bedchambers open–placing you upon the comically large expanse of your bed. He spoke in your native tongue–in Khuzdûl. “Was it another bad dream?”

You nodded, pulling the blankets tightly around your form–bundling yourself within imaginary armour as your uncle sat upon the foot of the wooden structure. 

“What do you dream of?” 

“Monsters from the East–horrible things that come and scream in my ear, and they hurt Kíli.” Your little voice trembled in answer, fists wrenching just a bit tighter within the woven armour. “Kíli and Fíli never wake in the night as I do, they never cry when in our home.”

“Fíli is older, more wise than you and Kíli.” He bespoke, the hearth crackling from behind as your mother shifted within her sleep slightly–the tiny Kíli within her lap bundling just a bit tighter into her gown, so snuggly asleep.

“But… but Kíli never fears these monsters. He is brave, and strong… and a warrior. Just as you are, Uncle.” There was a sniffle in your voice, a break in the symphony as you could not help but fall into the pit of endless comparison. Kíli had never been fearful of such fantasies as you had–such fallacies created by a dwarven child’s mind. 

Thorin murmured your name in Khuzdûl, his gaze flitting toward your brother–slowly shaking his head as a sigh pushed past his lips, gaze slowly becoming less sympathetic and more empathetic as he seemed to realize a deeper plight that your child-like mind could not. “Kíli has feared many things before… I have feared many things before. Your fears, they do not make you less of a child of Durin–or a warrior.”

Your uncle shifted along the bed–scooting upward with a grunt before settling beside you, arm snaking around tiny shoulders and holding you firm within the cavernous darkness. His voice was soft, a gentle rasping whisper mixed with the crackling of the hearth. “Your fears for your family–for Kíli–will drive you to be a great warrior, even when you believe it to be a hindrance. Courage…”

There was a pause in Thorin’s voice as his gaze cast down upon your form–face smooshed against his side as tiny vibrations left your mouth in the form of snores. A rumbling laughter left his chest, low and murmuring as his grip remained steadfast.

“True courage is about not knowing when to take a life, but when to spare one.” His words were whispered, not wishing to wake you from your peaceful slumber.

Your name was called in Khuzdûl, hands grasping along your arms–shaking you gently at first, then just a bit rougher as tired eyes fought to peel open against the rather desirable proposition of sleep. The voice spoke just a bit firmer–louder even as gloved hands tightened upon your sleeves, stirring you finally from your sleep drunken state.

You first began to respond in Khuzdûl, yet quickly caught yourself in the mixture of languages before speaking in English. “What is it?”

Stray strands of hair protected your eyes from the dawning sun as you ascended the mountain, the company ahead all wandering in a singular line–sacks placed high upon your shoulders, rocking with each step upon stone and gravel. None left this formation, none questioned its purpose even when pushed beyond the borders of the mountainside and upon hills–traveling upon rocky and grassy terrain alike. 

Soon, the company had found itself caught between wind and stone on another mountainside–rain pouring down upon one’s skin and slashing across eyes unforgivingly. You remained close to Kíli, even as the wind seemed to push you further away from your kin. Thorin’s shouts were the only sound that could be heard beyond the whooshing of wind and the clapping of thunder upon Middle-Earth. Soaked to the bone and shivering as you were, there was no rest for a dwarven company like you–muchless in an area such as this, where the elements were as unforgiving as the creatures that dwelled here. 

Giants, carved of stone and something far crueler, began to duel against their own kind. The company was quickly separated, each fleeing for their own good as the rock beneath their very feet began to shift and move in its own rhythm. Boulders flew overhead, never truly missing their mark as they crashed into the stone giant above–sending its own head toppling down. 

You had shouted out to your brothers, gaze flickering around you only to realize you had been separated from the two–remaining with the other half as something nervous and uneven began to fester within your stomach. Your breath came in quickened and huffed puffs of air, searching for Kíli and Fíli–and soon enough, recognizing that familiar blonde rain-soaked tuft upon the moving stone across from you. A wave of relief overcame you–yet it did not last, not as the mountainsides came colliding together–smashing to bits as the giant finally accepted its pitiful defeat and crumbled into a valley of nothingness. 

Fear, genuine and unforgiving fear coursed through your veins as you rushed toward the edge of the stony cliff before you, the only thing stopping you from possibly falling being Thorin’s grip upon you as you screamed. “Kíli! Fíli!”

You continued to scream, the panic and cruelty of the situation becoming ever-more apparent as you felt a wetness form within your eyes that was not due to the rain. Your limbs shook and rattled in ways you had never experienced, breath quickening and never quite filling your lungs as you continued to shout their names with no response in return.

Thorin’s own voice boomed beside you, and just beyond the haze of rain and mist, there was a shift upon the mountainside–a peaking of familiar cloaks and sacks, and there they were. Alive and breathing.

Thorin’s grasp upon your arm was nonexistent as you pushed past him, the rain ceasing a bit as you turned the corner of the edge–Kíli and Fíli’s forms resting upon stone as they panted out harshly for breath. Your arms wrapped around their necks far before you could think to scold them for not staying with you, and their own arms reciprocated the gesture–holding you firmly. Fíli let out a laugh that sounded akin to a sigh, while Kíli just held onto you–unmoving, firm, and forever there even as you parted. “Do not ever leave me again–I felt my heart drop to my arse!”

Faintly beneath the thunder and rain, you could hear Thorin’s voice and his gruff disregard for Bilbo–words spoken harshly from his tongue, something regarding his lack of belonging–yet it all seemed so distant now that your heartbeat was even and your brothers were safe.

The company had found a small divot in the mountain–the perfect size for a company of dwarves. The place was nothing comfortable, far less cozy than the home of Bilbo Baggins and your own residing within the Blue Mountains–yet you made it work, it seemed. No fire was lit, only sacks filled with blankets and spare supplies–still, there was a certain cozy nature about the snug fit between you, Kíli, and Fíli, reminiscent of nights long-spent near the fireside as your mother told stories of the heroism of your grandfather. Yet those memories were all so distant now, a dream of a past life sacrificed for a noble future.

Sleep had never come easy to you, so when you had finally managed to find some semblance of peaceful slumber only to have it cruelly ripped away from you by vile, putrid smelling goblins–rage was the only word to describe what you had felt in a polite manner, otherwise there were many in Khuzdûl. There was only one thing you had learned to hate more than a pestering goblin, and that was a pack of orcs with their hideous wargs–sharp teeth nipping at your boots and snarling froth from its mouth. 

Azog’s own decrepit voice called from the darkness, speaking ill words upon your uncle–upon your kin. Thorin’s jaw tightened at the recognition of his foe–the remembrance of what was stolen from him, and what shall never be returned. 

Wargs jumped higher into the trees, their teeth grazing along your boot just as you had managed to pull the fabric from its jaws–breath hitching as you began to climb higher, yet the effort was in vain as your weight suddenly shifted and all around you seemed to topple. Trees, one by one, began to tumble and twirl–knocking against one another until one final tree stood and all the dwarves clambered toward it. 

The final tree rocked and swayed, yet managed to remain rooted in the stone cliff. Your legs wrapped tightly around the bark, gaze locked below at the wargs whose jaws beckoned you closer–attempting to lure each of you to your doom. Your focus did not remain on such creatures for long as a blaze of flaming light flew by your head, one, then another–until Kíli had delivered you a pinecone of your very own.

Flames consumed the bundle of nature, the flooring of the trees becoming engrossed in fire and ash–the wargs being forced back from the flames. You all began to celebrate at their retreat, shouting and bolstering–your own fist colliding with Kíli’s as you released the tree for a moment of joy to be shared. 

The final tree, once standing tall and prosperous, began to tilt upon its axis–colliding with the flat of the cliff as each of you had been flung and dangled from branches and leaves. Unable to reach the nearest branch, you watched as you began to descend down the cliff–breath leaving your form as moonlight was all you could see. 

Weightlessness, lighter than wind itself, and utterly weightless was the sensation–the shouts of your brother’s being so distant compared to the feeling of falling so far, of breathless death approaching so quickly. Your eyes met the moon one last time, the stars around it somehow managing to shine brighter the further you were from them–and soon, you collided.

Death oddly felt rather warm and fuzzy–far too fuzzy. You had not realized your eyes had been shut from fear or worse, acceptance–yet it mattered little as for when you did open them, you were not lifeless, bloodied upon stone and bark, but resting comfortably upon the back of a creature so marvelous: an eagle. 

You soared high above mountaintops, floating through the air as feathers tickled your nose and caused you to smile far too sweetly for such circumstances. In fact, you had barely noticed your own company trailing just a ways behind–their hearts heavy with grief and destruction.

The eagle was gentle as it rested upon the cliff, generously bowing as you descended its feathered back and whispered words of appreciation in Khuzdûl. There was this odd sense of recognition within the eagle’s gaze, dissecting as its brown eyes met yours–staring deep beyond the boundaries of flesh and bone. 

Spreading its wings, it ascended into the air once more–turning away from you as it moved with its fellow eagles in departure to better lands.

There was a sniffle that came behind you–one that sounded far too familiar and far too dwarven. You bobbed upon your heel, slowly turning to see whom could produce such a pitiful sound–only to be met with the even more pitiful sight of Kíli, tears welling within his gaze as he rushed toward you.

The hug given to your bones was nothing short of crushing, squeezing each ounce of you as if to break–yet you did not complain, not as he nor Fíli began to fret over you so clearly.

“Are you mad? We believed you dead–don’t you ever–”

“Be quiet, Kíli! She just fell off a cliff's length!”

“But Fíli!”

“Kíli! Fíli!” Your voice was sharp as Fíli’s hands grasped your face, accessing for wounds while Kíli scolded you. “...I am well, truly.”

Something shifted within Fíli’s expression as his eyes traced along your face, his hands remaining steadfast there but still careful. An emotion flickered within the deep crevices of those blue eyes, an emotion you had never quite been on the receiving end of, and that fact alone had made you curious–yet there was little time to dissect such a thing as Thorin’s voice was booming upon the edge of the cliff.

“Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild? That you had no place amongst us?” The silence that followed was intense–suffocating the breeze that pushed high upon the crest. Your brothers had parted from you, weaving around as Thorin slowly approached Bilbo with a harsh tone and even harsher expression. “...I have never been so wrong in all my life.”

Thorin’s arms had wrapped around Bilbo’s, pulling the hobbit into a hug that was nothing short of tender as his tone softened in a way that was rather rare–something you had only seen in the depths of the Blue Mountains when none was watching, shown so beautifully to this hobbit. You knew, deep down, Bilbo Baggins had to be quite special to receive such earnest treatment from your uncle.

When Thorin and Bilbo parted, your uncle’s head lifted from the hobbit to something far off in the distance–something none had seen in quite a long time, and few within the company had never had the grace of seeing before. You followed behind your uncle, Gandalf’s voice mimicking the gentle breeze as he spoke.

“Erebor… The Lonely Mountain,”

A small peak, just barely visible amongst lilac sky and mist–its presence so subtle amongst the greenery of Middle-Earth below. It was your destination–your home.

“The last of the Great Dwarf Kingdoms of Middle-Earth.”

Birds floated and chirped through the air, flight carrying them toward the mountain so peacefully as dawn caught upon their blackened wings and silvered beaks. Their chirps were music to your ears, an accompaniment to the mountain itself in the distance–the very thing you had longed for.

Gazing out longingly toward the mountain, the company stood–tall and full of newfound courage. There was a mutual deep exhale at the sight alone, a sense of being beckoned toward its beauty–drawn in by its promise of future and fortune. 

Sighing out, Bilbo spoke. “I do believe the worst is behind us.”