It had been just over a week since the elleth had joined the company of 13 dwarves, a halfling and a wizard. A very strange company she found herself in, indeed, for the Dwarves were very secretive at first. The hobbit, she realised - the supposedly more secretive and shy race - had taken to her with ease, and chatted where he could, for any friend of Gandalf’s was a friend of his, in his eyes.

Despite Bilbo’s quick acceptance, all 13 dwarves were still wary of her gaze, albeit they still looked upon her with eyes wide, full of wonder when’re she was not looking. She traveled with her hood up, and to ease their scrutiny, she only spoke when spoken to.

It did not take more than a few days for them all to open up, and soon they began to ask her all manner of questions, ones she answered as vaguely as she could. Yet ever and anon she deflected questions back to them. She preferred that and they minded not, for her answers seemed to satisfy them regardless, and they took joy and pride in easing her curious mind.

Thorin, however, had still kept his distance as she had expected. Even Dwalin seemed to stay at a Warg’s length away, yet always lingered and listened when’re Balin caught her ear. Questions and attempts at conversation with Thorin were met with gruff yet sharp responses. If he had a maw akin to Lorne, he would have bitten her hand at each attempt.

She oft felt his eyes upon her when’re her back was turned, the hair upon the back of her neck prickled and her spine would tingle with warmth. For all her years upon this land, she understood not the observations from Thorin Oakenshield, hostility or wonder, she did not know him as the others did. Even still, she knew her days of secrecy were numbered, and she knew he would not be light about such things.

At the start she had aimed to work her way up the food chain, as it were, conversing with each dwarf in turn. Listening and learning. More so out of curiosity and her gentle nature, a lust for connection, care and knowledge, than for Thorin’s benefit, but she thought it wise to try, at least to outwardly prove that she was not of the elven ilk he despised. So she lent aid where she could.

Foraging, skinning game, securing the ponies and horses, even advising the dwarves which plants and fungi they could and could not eat. The elf oft caught Ori foraging white skirted toadstools, and more often than not would have to be nursed by Oín for an upset stomach. She managed to sway him the last time, presenting him with a more palatable variety. Dori was ever grateful for her in that regard, for Ori from then on brought her mushrooms to identify and examine.

For trinkets they would show her from their lives before the Blue Mountains, stories of old they would tell her of Erebor and Dale, it’s like you’d would never see again, they’d say. A locket Glóin had shown her carved ever so intricately with his wife and son, Gimli, hidden away inside, and Fíli’s beard charms that his mother, Dís, had gotten him for his 20th birthday.

Even Dwalin had told her about his twin axes, Grasper and Keeper, he called them, and their names were carved into their cheek. One grasps your soul, and the other keeps it, he said, his face as hard as stone, swivelling them around in strong hands. She quelled a small laugh, and felt it sweet he would name his weapons, even more so that he would break his silence and tell her over the fire. The power in his swings made her hair dance awry and her hood slip, and she realised she did not want to be on the receiving end of such blows.

Their personalities had unfolded akin to the moons shimmering rays upon night blooming flowers, more so than she ever thought they would, and they in turn had grown fond of her in the short time they had been in each others company, and even she felt warm in their presence. It was Bofur who spoke to her the most on the road she noted. He enjoyed another ear, and so she found herself most in his company as their equine companions followed after each other, up and over hills and below low boughs. He always slowed his pony down to match her horse and cast her a cheeky grin. Bilbo too, would end up on her other side, and then they would chat the day away, the others occasionally chipping in.

Gandalf was most pleased in how the dwarves had grown a slight fondness for his elleth friend. How their eyes seemed to glow at her wonderment and eagerness, and her own laugh became soft and bright, yet he too was concerned, for he watched Thorin with pursed lips, and he noted his patience for his elf friend was wearing thin.

Thorin’s lip oft curled to a sneer each time his companions had spoken to her for a mite too long, his eyes darkening at the sound of her voice. When’re she would try and talk to him, he would shut her own with a gruff tone, yet would watch her with hawk like eyes, sometimes they would soften, before he caught himself and they turned back to stone.

Why had Gandalf not told him the truth? Well, he was aware of the dwarven heirs disdain for the Eldar. King Thranduil’s unfortunate doing. Thorin would have simply refused the notion, forcibly turning the ponies away and carrying onwards, whether the wizard followed or no. Her importance to be in this company was upmost, Dark forces were at work, unseen behind flickering candles and within dark corners.

It was she who had slain the Orcs baring the first missive for Thorin’s head. Their fates were intertwined now, threads crossed and woven into an amalgamation of silk and leather, a small secret could not harm, he thought. The silks delicate edges frayed at the wringing of the rough leather, yet ever and anon, the finer material wrapped and cut through the tanned flesh, akin to a tourniquet, as it tightened and scored most unexpectedly . She was wearing him down the tighter she became.

The elleth’s warg Lorne, however, had won the hearts of the all of the naugrim in an instant. Even dear Bilbo had warmed up to the beast. He marvelled at the wargs large paws that were the near size of the poor hobbits head, and oft found himself stroking his delicate ears beside the fire. He was more so surprised when Gandalf informed him of Wolf Language.

“I’m…sorr-so what? They have their own tongue?” Bilbo had asked, his hand stilled upon the wargs ear, his brows drawn downwards.

“Oh yes,” said Gandalf, nodding as he motioned with the end his pipe, “A guttural, disturbing speech to unaccustomed ears, especially yours, Master Baggins,”

The dwarves who had listened in close by had agreed, for they had come across orc packs conversing with their own wargs time and time again.

“They are tricksy creatures, sharp of mind, they turn against you just as quick as they can catch a fleeing hare!” Joked Kíli, to which Bilbo widened his eyes and looked to the beast below him, his heart almost stilling. He had caught several hares yestereve.

Ochre eyes lazily met his own.

Lorne made a noise akin to a laugh low within his throat, before letting out a series of sharp, grating noises that caused the poor hobbit to wince,

“Nay, the halfling is gentle, I shall not eat him…yet,” and ended it with a snap of his jaws. Bilbo had jumped back in surprise and Gandalf laughed, reassuring the startled hobbit.

The Warg had begun to disappear once a camp had been established, though still returning each evening with supper. He dragged back the largest beast he could find, a hart or wild boar sometimes a mouthful of large fowl or hares, one night he had even found an aurochs. The dwarves were in awe each evening, and ever thankful for him, even Dwalin and Thorin had thanked him with firm pats upon his shoulder. Nori and Bombur were also appreciative of the rest it gave them from catching food, and especially as it dissuaded them from using up their stores that could keep a while longer. Then, when the evening would draw to a close and a short rest was had, he would disappear into the brush, and return when the suns light began to creep upon the horizon, and the birds began their chorus.

“How came by such a beast?” Dwalin had asked one eve, his massive palm was slowly rubbing the warg's snout as it grumbled lowly.

Lorne had returned with another stag that night. His maw was bloody, and it seemed too was his shoulder, for the thick antlers the stag bore were of five and ten tines, and one was slick and red. It must have put up quite the fight.

The warg laid beside the elleth, his massive head was upon her lap as she tended to the nick upon his flesh. Her bowl of stew had rested neatly between his ears. Dwalin had rarely asked her questions, he rarely instigated discussions at all, yet that evening he had sat beside her before the fire, unprompted. She could feel the warmth radiating off of him more so than the fire, his hand inches away from her as he stroked Lorne with a softness she had not expected from such a ruthless warrior. She inwardly jumped in surprise at the question, even Thorin seemed taken aback, shooting a look from over the fire, watching closely. Dwalin’s voice was soft, as if not to disturb both her and the Warg.

“I found him alone as a pup, I could not leave him to fend for himself,” Was all she said, another mouthful of quick stew Bombur had provided went into her mouth, and her fingers moved back to the mass of fur. It was not a complete lie, yet the full story would have left more questions, more answers she was not ready to give. Yet he seemed satisfied regardless, humming as he drew his thumb down between the warg's eyes.

“It seems it was fate, then, brave pup,” he muttered, gazing into the wargs eyes, “Where does he go at night? I have noticed his absence,”

The she-elf looked to the dwarf’s tattooed hands. Elves rarely had tattoos, she saw very little of them, and from his hands, to this forearms, neck and head, Dwalin’s piqued her interest each time she saw them. They were faded on his fingers but still dark upon the backs of his hands, thick, inky geometric shapes she saw mirrored on their arms and armour. She could not quite make out the words the faded runes spelt, she hoped she could ask one day. To his face she moved her gaze. It was tender, the lines of war had all but melted away as thick, callused fingers soothed over coarse fur. How rare it must be to see such a powerful and gruff dwarf be so softhearted.

“He is on watch,” her finger dipped into a salve before the fire, before generously covering the small wound, “He circles the land around us, scouring, he returns only when the birds sing,” The Warg let out a low groan at the sensation.

“He’s keeping us safe?” Dwalin had a small smile upon his face.

The elf mirrored his upturned lips, and nodded. Dwalin seemed then to be more at ease, and leaned down closer, muttering to Lorne in Khuzdul, “Sweet wolf, thank you for protecting and providing.”

Early on, she noted that the company was slow in their travel. Ponies were kept in trots as opposed to gallops, even on long stretches of land, she wondered when they would even reach the mountain.

Gloved fingers turned the delicate page of her book. They smelt sweet and already had foxing upon them, and the bound edges were frayed and worn to the board beneath. It was one she had acquired from Bree, a small book of Hobbit poems and songs of old. For although she was closer to Nóldorin elves in her habits and general being, her love for songs and tales still coursed through her, and so odd books she oft enjoyed collecting.

She cast her eyes up and ahead then. Lorne was stood atop the hill in front of them, his blackened silhouette was imposing from afar, the ponies had gotten used to him, even as the sun shone upon his fur. Atop his back sat a crow, it flexed its wings before taking off once more.

Oín and Ori had both begun to notice that all manner of corvids and thrushes - even butterflies and moths - had begun to trail the company ever since the lady and her warg had joined them. Curious though it seemed, Oín had took it as a sign, a good omen from the Valar. Thorin had scoffed at such notions, it is merely because Lorne brings food, he’d say.

Yet the delicate opaline moon moths would land upon the elleth’s cloak during her slumber, and Ori, who would fight to stay awake just to see them, would scramble to find his book and pencils. Thorin would notice them too, with wide eyes he’d watch them, a secret wonder within him, yet he would merely turn over upon his bedroll and exhale deeply, lying upon his back. His mind would be troublesome, his chest even still as his eyes scoured the blanket of white gems above. The stars made him feel so small, it was too vast up there, was this why he felt the way he did?

Bofur had appeared at the elf maiden’s side, standing up in his stirrups as he attempted to get a better look at the book within her palm. The book was snapped closed, and a coy smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. The dwarf pouted and sat back within his saddle.

“I was interested in that,” he mock whined.

She hummed amusedly, running her fingers down the spine of the book before tucking it back within her satchel. She tugged her hood a little tighter and bit the inside of her cheek.

“So tell me,” She started, leaning forward upon her horse, “All of your names ring similar, who is related?”

Bofur beamed at such a question, his earlier intrigue for her book all but forgotten. “Well, Thorin is the uncle of Fíli and Kíli, straight from the line of Durin, so are Dwalin and Balin, sons of Fundin, they are brothers - a few years apart of course - and third cousins to Thorin-“

The elf nodded along. She was aware of the line of Durin, well enough to have met the ancient forefathers of the Longbeards many moons past. Thorin held himself in the way that they all did, with pride and strength. She recalled him as soon as she saw him.

“-Glóin and Oín are also brothers, line of Durin, fourth cousins to Thorin, would you believe it! Dori, Ori and Nori are brothers, and are…” he paused, hands upon his chin, his face pensive, “…distantly related to Thorin, but still in the house of Durin, its vast!”

The elf hummed and giggled, “and you?”

“Me!” he sat up straighter, pointing to the dwarves ahead, “Bombur’s my brother, Bífir is my cousin, though he’s a little slow because of…,” He gestured to his own forehead, miming an axe, “y’know, but we get by!”

“Are you all borne from the Line of Durin?”

His brows raised, almost touching the upturns of his woollen hat, “Oh! No, no! look at us compared them them! None of those fancy fineries, no no we are tinkerers, toymakers, miners, smithies, that sort of thing, born and bred in the Blue Mountains,”

The elleth tilted her head, “How come you joined the company? You had never seen Erebor, why reclaim what you had not known?”

Bofur sat back then, straighter almost as he looked ahead to Thorin. He had not expected such a question. His voice turned a touch graver, his familiar whimsical talk had left him, “Thorin created a life for us in the West, if it wasn’t for him, we wouldn’t be here now, we wouldn’t be at all, and when he called upon us…” He looked down at his hands, almost struggling for words as he wrung the leather of his pony’s reins, “We felt like we owed him this, as thanks, for we Dwarves would be nowhere without him, he fought for us, he provided for us, protected us when no one else would.. His home was stolen from him and it'll become ours again if we succeed.”

She looked ahead too. She could only see the back of Thorin’s head, the iron bead his hair catching the light of the lowering sun. Everything about him seemed to fall into place. He had lost his home, and fought for it, and is doing so again. She was aware of Thranduil’s unwillingness to help the dwarves when Smaug had breached the walls of Erebor. She had scolded him for it when she learnt the truth but he merely waved her away.

In years past, dwarves had crafted beautiful jems of starlight for the elven queen of Mirkwood. Fashioned out of the purest mithril, they were named The White Gems of Lasgalen. The elf queen had fall in Gundabad, and since they were made for her alone, King Thranduil could not claim them without rightful pay.

He thought them greedy, and so the alliance was severed, setting in motion rivalry that has lasted decades, even extending to the refusal to offer aid when the dwarves needed it most. Yes, she understood his hatred for her kind, for dwarves were stubborn things, and she realised Thorin was most severely. Though she desperately wanted to prove his thoughts wrong.

A warrior, a leader, a friend, an uncle, an uncrowned king, she saw all in him then. He held himself with the regality of one who had fought to have the right to lead this quest now. Yet, she watched him spar with Fíli and Kíli and saw a gentleness there, soft movements and corrections, and with Dwalin, she saw raw force and impressive strength. She did not have to see him wield an axe to know he was a formidable opponent, and she hoped she would not need to be on the receiving end.

Bofur furrowed his brow, “Not even the other clans would help us. It’s strange really, but with eyes now looking to the mountain after so long, its time to move before others do,” He then cleared his throat, holding his saddle as he leant back and swung his feet forward, as if making a clear channel for such serious thoughts to leave though the thick leather of his boots.

“No, we’ve been on the road, y’know? A bit rougher than the rest, as you can see,” He gestured to his moss coloured garb - it was worn, heavy layered and earthy - with a grin upon his face, “Someone’s gotta keep the descendants of Durin alive, and who doesn’t want to share in fabled riches for it? We were also promised free ale,” he gave a cheeky wink, revelling in the lightness of her laugh at his jest. The air around him felt warm, and he could have sworn she glowed, just a little, her eyes glistening with a thousand stars.

Silence settled between them then, just filled by birdsong, distant chatter and the sound of heavy hooves. The longer it sat, the longer he stared at her through the corner of her eye, almost itching to hear her speak once more. He never understood her insistence to wear her hood up during the drier weather either, he had even offered her his hat one eve. She had politely declined, yet he, so did they all, wished to see her without it.

Though he kept his air calm and focused ahead, albeit not too convincingly, for the elleth noticed his stares, and the opening and closing of his mouth, causing a smirk to play about her face and her eyes to roll ever so.

In that time, Kíli had decided to encourage his pony to gallop, circling around and weaving between each dwarf. A string of “Oi!”s and half muttered cursed rang out between each, whilst Fíli and Ori encouraged him, calling out whom to weave through next.

As she watched the weaving prince, the elf thought to delve a little deeper, something Gandalf had failed to mention, and something she thought Bofur would happily divulge. She looked ahead to the old wizard. His horse had moved ahead to match Thorin’s pace, his hat angled down to the king.

“How do we intend to get into Erebor?” She asked, “The front gate is sealed, guarded most securely.”

“Ah,” Bofur raised his finger, narrowing his eyes, they had a secretive glint in them, “There’s another way in, we have a map,”

Her brows raised as she sat up straight within her saddle, “A map?”

“And a key!” Kíli shouted as his pony galloped by, his hair flowing within the wind. The elleth’s horse threw its head back, snorting in surprise, “There’s a hidden passage to the lower halls!”

She giggled as she watched him fly off, his voice fading as he did so, dipping behind Balin, who only tutted and shook his head, turning his attention to the ledger upon his lectern.

“Except we don’t know where it is,” Bofur replied, “Well, we do now we have the map, but we don’t know exactly, Dwarf doors are tricky, and we can’t read the map to its ‘exactities’.”

Intrigued, she tilted her head to the side and asked, “Why not?”

Kíli came back around again, “It’s ancient! Gandalf said there’s people who can read it though!”

She opened her mouth to respond yet the deep tone of Thorin’s voice cut her off. His ear seemed ever attentive to her, and by her reckoning, this was no chance summons. He called forth both Kíli and Bofur, and the elleth need not look ahead to know his eyes bore into her form.

Bofur’s mouth was then pulled to a tight, apologetic smile, and urged his pony onwards to meet Kíli. She exhaled lowly, her shoulders dropping. It seemed he did not want her to know details of their quest. How could she help if she did not know? It irked her, yet she knew to be patient. Gandalf had then slowed his horse to match her speed and trotted beside her, a rueful smile upon his face.

“Patience, Mellon, he will come around,” He said, reaching over with a fabric wrapped palm and patted her knuckles.

She scoffed, “I would not be so sure, Mithrandir, if he does not want me to know how we to enter the mountain, then it will get worse before it gets better.”

He simply eyed her with a slight incline of his head, his mouth parting with an exhale, his eyes soft. He unfortunately knew she was right, for the elleth was rarely wrong with such notions. All that mattered now was preparing for such a downfall.

That same night, Thorin had deemed they camped upon a small cliffs edge, just off of the border of a small wood. It was dominated by pine and larch trees, and the pines needles sat dry and sharp below their bedrolls, pinching and jabbing. Wind whipped through occasionally. It was warm and quick, sending larch cones and needles tumbling across the dry grounds back into their bedrolls. The sky was clear too, the moon was full and glowed bright, shining upon the company. Whilst nothing seemed amiss, the air felt wrong here, something had been here recently, or it had failed to leave.

The elleth had urged against resting here. They were too high up for her liking, too exposed, and with the fire set back within a stone overhang, its light cast dancing shadows that would be seen for miles. Even the embers reached high within the sky.

Thorin had ignored her concern, her questioning and snapped back with a harsh growl, “I am this company’s leader, we will camp where I say.”

She blanked at his brazen words, and felt a growl rise in her throat as he turned away from her. An urge to bite back, to get him to heed her words before they all perished. Yet she quelled it and walked away with a huff of her own, and began unpacking her bedroll beside Gandalf.

With his return of supper, Lorne too felt unease. His nose huffed through the needles, sharp eyes cast around their surroundings. The doe he brought was lithe, it seemed the area was full of meagre pickings. With a whisper from his elleth of queer sounding words, he disappeared into the thick undergrowth. His watch had begun.

Not many had slept well that night, but the ones who had, slept so well that they laid solid like logs, and sounded like them being sawn. Even inhaling a whispering of small, rust coloured moths. Bilbo huffed and pushed himself upwards, a scowl upon his face as the moths left Glóin’s slack jawed maw with his last exhale. The hobbit hauled himself to his feet and brushed himself down, before tiptoeing throughout the entangled mess dwarves.

He had made his way over to his pony, Myrtle, greeting her with a soft, hushed voice. He checked over his shoulder, before producing a pure, red apple from his pocket. It must have been one he had picked by the water earlier. He presented it to the mare with an open palm, a finger upon his lips as he stroked her snout and muttered sweet words to her.

His likeness was that of a fawn, so gentle and innocent, he was such a stark contrast between the rugged, brutish dwarves he had found himself with. A fresh babe stumbling upon uneven legs mere minutes after being born, trying to find his feet afore his mother dashed into the undergrowth unexpectedly. Yet it impressed the elleth, he was keeping up surprisingly well, and she could tell his was quite enjoying himself with such a challenge of person and change of complete scenery.

Gandalf favoured halflings over any other race, their resilience and softness of heart - the urge to do what they thought, no, knew, was right - had always rang deep within the wizard, a trait he honoured and appreciated most fondly. The elleth knew very little of halflings, but knew Gandalf would not choose something without strong reason. Albeit she still watched over him with a keenness of a returning doe, her eyes ever watchful for him no matter where they went.

Thereupon was a cry in the distance. It rang clear through the night like fast wind whistling through the boughs above. Bilbo’s legs almost buckled beneath him, a fawn he became as he froze and dropped down. Thorin’s resting eyes flicked open, spying the area as the elleth made to move. Their gazes almost flashing to each others in an instant, yet avoided them just as quick.

“What was that?” Bilbo squeaked, pointing behind himself as he looked to the ledge beyond their camp.

Kíli’s face seemed to drop as took in the fear upon the hobbits face, “Orcs.” Fíli froze as he took his pipe out of his mouth, before he caught on to his brother’s play.

“Orcs!” Bilbo yelped, stumbling his way back towards the fire Fíli and Kíli were seated beside. Thorin sat up straighter then at the word, the wind whipped in his face and sent his braids dancing. Orcs, nor any foes, had not been mentioned nor encountered on their travels so far. She had not seen either fight with their weapons, only spar amongst themselves, and with the way that Thorin carried himself, she had no doubts he would be formidable.

Albeit, his instantaneous jolt upright seemed to catch her eye, it looked instinctual, like a being who never rested fully. It has not passed her unnoticed that Thorin rarely slept, even with Lorne or another dwarf on watch, his fight never returned to rest. The elf watched him from her peripheral as she turned the next page in her book, eyeing the pearlescent moth upon her drawn up knee, for she knew no Orc would make it to them alive.

“Throat-cutters, there’ll be dozens of them out there,” added Fíli, motioning gently with the top of his angled pipe, “The lowlands will be crawling with them.” Bilbo’s face paled, his mouth gape as he looked about frantically.

“They strike in the wee small hours when everyone’s asleep, quick and quiet, no screams, just lots of blood.”

The younger dwarves had decided to play with the hobbit, though jesting about orcs was unwise, especially to those who had not seen them. Bilbo seemed as if he would fall over, he knew not what to do. The elleth hissed inwardly and made to stand.

“You think that’s funny?” Thorin’s voice had cut off her thoughts and readying defence. It was stern and vexed as he raised from his ledge beside the fire, “You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?”

Kíli’s shoulders dropped, “We didn’t mean anything by it,” he muttered, his eyes lowering a and flickering to his pipe within his lap, fiddling with the crude scraper he was using with uneasy fingers.

“No, you didn’t,” Thorin bit back, his voice was a growl, she had not heard it’s like aimed at his nephews before, “You know nothing of the world.”

Heavy boots thudded past her as he made his way to the edge where the ponies and horses settled, his hands clasped behind his ridged back. The motion startled the moth upon her, and it wordlessly fluttered back up into the sky. She felt an air about him she had not felt before.

“Don’t mind him, laddie,” Balin’s voice appeared like a salve, gentle and soothing upon the scolding the younger dwarves had received, “Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs,”

He rested against the rock face and those who were awake lent him their ear, for he told the tale of Azanulbizar. A fearsome battle fought beneath the East-gate of Moria between dwarf and orc. It was where King Thrór tried to take back Khazad-dûm after Erebor had been lost. The valley ran with crimson and jet ichor then, every inch of rock was saturated and the earth hummed with the song of death.

It was also where King Thrór met his desmise, at the hands of Azog the Defiler. A massive, marred Gundabad Orc. His strength was unmatched amongst his kind, and he was the leader of legions of Orcs that had overrun Khazad-Dûm. The mention of his name peaked her interest, and her eyes flickered to Thorin, whose back seemed to straighten at the name also, his shoulders locking together as Balin told of Thrórs end.

The elleth had recalled mentions of the pale orc, and suddenly her eyes flashed with recognition at Balin’s description, for she realised she too had met him in ages past. His pale flesh was unusual, it glistened almost, it was littered with self-inflicted scars, a show of his prowess and strength, and her first encounter showed just that.

A pit in her stomach opened up as she recounted their one and only meeting, and heat flooded her face and palpitations erupted within her chest. She felt her fëa leaving her to her recollections as nails dug hard into the bound book within deft fingers. She inhaled sharply and jerked her head to the side, as if to rid her mind of it. A thought for another time, perhaps.

For Sauron to have such a formidable creature at his beck and call, who knew what untold damage could be caused by his hand. What could Marion have promised to an orc? For what could an orc want? That which he did not have already? Yet he was puppet in pale flesh nonetheless.

“He had sworn to wipe out the Line of Durin,” Balin said, and the elleth’s expression opened, her eyes almost glittering in the far away firelight and her lips parting. Gandalf tilted his head towards her, looking up through wired brows. For then, she knew.

Thráin had charged upon Azog and was never seen again, not even amongst the dead, it was said. Yet Elrond had agreed that he was not slain. He would have shared a fate similar to that of Thrór’s, his corpse would have been on display and thrown back to the Dwarves to instil terror and doubt, to pave the way for the orcs victory. Though, even then, the Dwarves were leaderless, being picked off one by one, their numbers dwindling.

“Then, I saw him,” Said Balin, looking over to Thorin, his heart was swelling, feeling full within his chest, “A young dwarf prince, facing down the pale orc,” Thorin seemed to be stuck in a trance, as if Balin’s words were taking him back to that very day, “He stood alone against this terrible foe. His armour rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield,”

Her eyes then flickered back to the branch that stay fixed upon his pony’s tack. She saw it often, and always wondered what it was. It was smoothed and oiled, with iron fittings upon its ends and a leather strap within. He must have taken such great care in such an item, she thought, for it saved his life, so much so he took his name after it for his valour. He was upon his back, the branch upon his chest as he fumbled around for his sword with exhausted fingers, and they had finally found purchase with Azog’s last blow. His arm was sliced cleanly off, the cries that day must have been akin to the screams of Melkor.

“Azog the Defiler learnt that day that the line of Durin was not be so easily broken,”

The dwarves had rallied and with that final burst they drove back the orcs, defeating their foe before the very gates of their ancestral home. The dead that day were beyond count. There were no songs, no feast that night that could have been proper, nothing could have respected the dead, for the grief and survivors felt was immeasurable.

After a brief breath, as if offering silence for the fallen, Balin started again, “And I thought to myself then,” his eyes had never left the kings back, and the rest of the company had awoken with the story, and had moved to rise, “There is one I could follow, there is one I could call king.”

Thorin had turned at that, and met every gaze that was upon him with an upturn of his lips - faint - if one was not quick enough to catch it. He bowed his head, slowly walking back through his honoured companions with a quiet purpose, his hands still steady and clasped behind his back, but his eyes were cast downwards. He glanced then at the elf, looking away afore their eyes met for more than a second. His expression was unreadable, she supposed she preferred that to distain.

Bilbo, whom was still sat before the fire, spoke then to Balin, his voice curious and soft, “But the pale orc? What happened to him?”

Before the elder could reply, Thorin cut in, “He slunk back into the hole from whence he came,” his voice held an edge, “The filth died of his wounds long ago.”

Gandalf then exchanged a glance with Balin. It seemed a knowing glance, a glance they both understood silently. The elf caught it even still, and watched as he shakily exhaled, the old toby within his pipe flickering and clicking. It seemed then, silk had it found its charge, even through its frayed edges and torn seams, it seemed to tenderly wind around the leather.

The company seemed to settle down after into peaceful reminiscence. Soft murmurings between each other as Bilbo moved to ask gentler questions. Suddenly, the elleth’s hróa seemed to stiffen, her spine felt like the whorls of a daffodil, weightless.

“We are being watched,” her voice was low as she muttered to the wizard beside her, “He knows, does he not?”

Gandalf only offered a single nod in return, taking a long, deliberate drag upon his pipe.

For Lorne had been stalking the Orcs upon the adjacent rock. They seemed to spy upon the company for a while before turning to leave, where he then had decided to let them be. He thought their slaughter needless, for now.

A Warg, however, had strayed from its pack. Its nose twitched and snuffled the air, and it soon found itself before Lorne. No words were spoken between them, for the warg scouts had forgotten manners, and the mangy beast was no match against him.

Its yowls echoed through the night air, waking Bilbo once more, and he had had enough. Orcs or no, this place was not for him. He huffed up once more and collected his things, tiptoeing through the intermingled Dwarves once more. This time he made his way to the elleth, his voice silent as he remade his bedroll beside the her, his back curling into her hip with a deep exhale. It was a place she oft found Bilbo in areas she realised he was uneasy in, he seemed to find comfort by her side.

At least, she thought, some felt safe in her presence. Yet for her, rest did not find her easily that evening, exhaling deeply herself as her attention returned to her book.

Lorne had returned at the first song of the blackbird. A fine rain had began that covered the dwarves in a shimmering layer of dew, each silvered and damp. An earthy, yet comforting, scent was carried throughout the air. It was warm, and mixed with the dying embers upon the pine wood they had collected.

The elf had heard his arrival, for sleep was only momentary that night, her mind a-wild, and answered his gruff chuff with a squeaked stretch. His nose nudged her cheek with a soft whine, he was eager to leave this place and move on to the next. They both had realised the further away they travelled from the shire, the more disquiet had settled upon them.

“We were being watched during the twilight,” He spoke as she rose to her feet, gathering her cloak from gently underneath the sleeping hobbit, “Scout filth, they disappeared soon after, yet one lingered”

“He was foolish then,” she replied, wrapping up her bedroll and tiptoeing to her horse, who whickered softly in greeting, “They have returned to inform their master,”

Lorne grunted in response and shook his fur, water flying this way and that, “Foolish indeed, yet I await his next pack with eager jaws,” Snapping his teeth at her, she let out a quiet laugh. Avid was the warg for bloodshed, for his bloodlust was frightfully unrivalled, particularly for unkind orcs. His fëa was fiery, and the elves oft said it was Fëanor’s fëa that was inside him, unstoppable and protective, goal-oriented and gentle. It was fate, mayhap by the Valar themselves, that he was found that day.

His withers bowed as the elleth jumped upon his back and sat astride him. He took her then to a gentle stream not far from their camp, where she drank and bathed in the cool waters. The warg drank cautiously, his eyes open and waiting.

They had been there a while, and the elleth was sat upon the edge as the sun had rose upon the horizon. The fine rain had quelled, revealing a soft arch of colours within the reddening sky. The bushes rattled and twigs snapped causing a nightmarish growl to emerge from within Lorne’s throat. He put the elleth behind him and bared his teeth.

“Easy boy,” a shakey voice called, “It’s just me, don’t worry.”

Fíli. The elleth peered from behind the warg and smiled. In his arms was a bundle of water skins, yet one arm was outstretched towards the beast. The growling was quelled and he softly sneezed, shaking once more before padding off up the stream.

“I see you are on skins duty today,” she called out, fastening the last few buckles upon her lather garb.

He stood up straighter, startled, he had not expected another, “My lady, forgive me, i didn’t know you were here, i can-“

“Do not be silly,” she soothed, “They need filling up one way or another.”

He gave her a small, cheeky grin, and came beside her. He knelt down gently, dropping all of the water skins and began filling. Quick was the water that flowed through the land, and they made short work of the skins.

She watched him with curiosity, tilting her head to the side as she leaned back upon her hands, “Why is the heir to the throne filling up everyone’s water skins? Did you pull a short straw?”

He paused at her words, huffing out a laugh, corking and placing down before collecting another, “No, I didn’t,” he shook his head, “Not this time anyway, I offered to”

“Should that not be another’s job? Thorin would not fill them.”

Fíli looked up to her and pursed his lips, his voice light, “He would, if no one else could, he’d be the first to,”

The elleth laughed a little, drawing a knee up to her chest, “I cannot imagine him doing such a thing.”

A smile twitched upon his face as he took in the elleth’s appearance, and he motioned to her with an empty skin, “You don’t know him as I do. He leads, he protects, he does things for us that we would do for him, for ourselves even, he is an equal as much as he is our king,” He looked down then to fill up the skin, “He cares for us, he does this all for us as well as himself, y’know? He isn’t selfish, he provides… but how can I lead if I don’t follow in that example, i can’t just go around giving orders and making choices, I have to care and provide for my people, that is what a king is.”

She nodded then thoughtfully. Truth be told, she had not expected such an answer, and given how Thorin was to her, cold and distant, she had not witnessed the side that the others saw, the side Bofur had told her about and the side Balin had too. You can perceive it, yet not fully comprehend it. He ruled, and he cared, he provided, even if that meant stooping so low as to filling up water skins for his companions

“He’s not always how as he is with you, you know,” He continued, “And i’m sorry for it too, it’s not exactly a warm welcome into our company,”

“I believe you, I do, he will come around i’m sure of it,” She absentmindedly pulled the hair around her ears, as she spoke, instinctual, but Fíli did not notice, even if a coy smile did play about his lips.

She grinned back, moving to aid him in filling up the rest. By the time they had finished and returned back to the camp, the dwarves had packed up, and horses and ponies were ready for the journey ahead.

The elleth helped distribute the skins, which were accepted gratefully with manners and all. Fíli had the idea that she present Thorin’s to him. After some reluctance, she gave in and snatched it from the prince, his grin was from ear to ear.

He was already sat atop his pony when she approached him, the skin within her grasp, why was she so nervous?

“Your water skin, Thorin” She said, holding it out with gentle fingers. Blue eyes caught hers, they were narrowed as he held her gaze, flickering to the skin before back to her. He too seemed reluctant to accept it, just as much as she was to give it, yet after an uncomfortable length of prolonged eye contact, he took it from her grasp, their fingers grazed one another. Her hand felt on fire at the brief contact, and she was sure he felt the same, as he muttered a thanks and turned away from her, walking his pony on to meet Gandalf. She merely watched him go, her palms hot. The elleth had failed to notice his unsteady hands, the heat upon his cheeks, and the clenched jaw that could have cracked teeth.

The ride ahead was lengthy, yet steady, but the ground became more uneven as they went. The rain had returned as the sun began to draw back down to its resting place, and hoods were raised and grumbles set in. The elleth felt agitated in their location to camp once more.

She had suggested places to camp throughout the day, ones that were significantly drier and less exposed, yet Thorin had not replied, still tight jawed and steeled eyes. The space was oblong, wide and open. A large pond lay at once side surrounded halfway by trees, the rest was open valley beyond a few shrubs and the odd tree. Perfect for foul things to hide within, for the trees and shrubs were densely packed. It seemed strange for such a large space to be so open.

The feeling of being watched loomed over the elf, the muscles in her shoulders felt tight, and spiders seemed to race around her arms. Something was out there. Lorne felt the same, for he was circling wide around the company like a shepard’s dog becoming his livestocks living wall.

His jaw was locked, and he kept glancing to and fro rhythmically. From his eyes on each Dwarf and halfling, as if counting, checking none had strayed, to glancing off into the shrubs and valley beyond, waiting. She pulled her hood closer to her cheekbones and cast an eye to Gandalf. He did not return the look, yet his movements were slow, cautious, and a low sigh escaped him. This was all she needed.

The rest of the company seemed not to mind, or to notice, as they began to unpack their stock and tied up their ponies with their usual evening vigour. Some of the ponies were whickering uneasily between each other, and the elleth’s horse refused to be secured by Bífir, and instead came to stand behind its elleth, nudging her gently with its soft snout. She muttered to it calmingly, even Bilbo came up to try and ease the beast. Thorin did not seem to mind nor notice either, setting his satchels and weapons down upon the floor beside Dwalin.

“Glóin, get a fire going, Bombur, start on supper,” he called over his shoulder, and the said dwarves called out in agreement, Glóin settling off for firewood, and Bombur whistled for Lorne.

Yet Lorne paid no mind, his pace was steady and even, his pupils blown wide, and his circling had begun to perplex the larger dwarf. Bombur grew dizzy as he twisted in a circle following the warg. He moved to elbow Bofur - nearly tripping up on the process - who too looked on and watched, and elbowed the next, and so on, until soon the majority of the company had stopped in motion and watched the wolf pace around.

“What is he doing?” Bilbo asked Balin beside him, his eyes were narrowed as he turned and watched the animal rush past. Bilbo held onto the halter of the elleth’s horse, stroking its nose. The elder dwarf was no fool, and thought no use in lying to the hobbit.

“He’s wary, he’s fencing us in,” His cool tone still made Bilbo’s eyes widen, "We shouldn't be here"

“Fencing us in?” he squeaked, “What do you mean? what’s out there?”

Lorne barked and grunted in response, ending his words with a sneeze.

“He said that he does not wish for you to find out, Master Baggins,” Gandalf’s voice appeared behind him, and almost made him jump out of his skin, “And rightfully so.”

A growl rose within the elleth’s throat, she had decided she had had enough with the kings unwise choices, how could he not notice? How could he not feel the same? She was more attune to things than him, yet in her anguish she failed to recall that. She strode over to where he, Dwalin and Nori were setting up at the edge of the camp. They were oblivious to the main camps concerns, too busy amongst themselves to notice the kerfuffle the circling warg and unruly ponies had caused.

“Thorin,” She called as she stood behind him. Nori noticed first. A lopsided smile was plastered upon his face in greeting, yet it faltered when he saw the others behind, stock still and grave , and so scrambled off to his brothers.

“Thorin,” Nothing. Dwalin had froze now and sat back upon his heels, though he would not look up to meet the elleth’s eyes.

At the last straw she raised her voice, how could a king be so disrespectful to those travelling beside him? Even an ear and a dismissive grunt would have been preferable to complete ignorance.

“Thorin Oakenshield,”

He halted in his movements. It seemed his whole body had locked into place. His finger tips were steady, just hovering above his axe that he had placed down prior. The rest of the company seemed to turn their gaze to the pair, even Lorne had stopped his circling. Dwalin beside them seemed to lower his head at the sight of rage that seemed to bubble beneath the flesh of his friend, and cleared his throat softly.

Thorin’s fingers curled and flexed. It was painful how slow he stood and turned to face her, his eyes were dark, and his jaw muscles tensed at his temple. He already knew the words that were to come out of his mouth, he could not stop them. Her incessant interference and questioning was enough. He would not have an elf continue to question his judgment. Before she opened her mouth to speak, he took a step closer to her.

“I do not care for your words of wisdom, Knife-ear,” He spat the words with venom, and her face dropped at hearing them, they struck their mark and her stomach seemed to drop, “I am leader of this company, not you, my word is final, and yours end here, she has been deceiving us all.” Behind her, the company chatted in hushed voices. Knife ear? What does he mean? The elf heard her pulse thrum within her ear and her breathing hitched.

“Thorin, w-“ Balin stepped forward, his face was quizzical, thick brows drawn close.

“No!” He barked in response, his eyes wide with fury.

“Uncle, what is this?” Questioned Fíli, yet Thorin shook his head, dismissing even his nephews call.

“No, no- She has deceived us all and I have had enough,” Laboured breathing clouded his mind, and without thinking, he reached up snatched the gold leaf between her collar bones.

His face was hot, and in one swift movement he tugged down sharply. The pin broke like a twig in his broad hands and he tossed it to the ground, discarding it behind him. Rage seemed to fill her own hröa, but she knew she could not let it spill, she must keep it in check, the muscle at her temple ticked and her knees seemed to ache.

He wrenched off her cloak from her shoulders, and it fell in a heap, beside her. Thorin seemed to step back in surprise by his own actions, and all the elf could do was watch its crumbled form as his chest seemed to heave. Her hair fell and revealed her curved, pointed ears. The gold ends and rings glittered in the lowering sun, the stones reflecting and blinding. The company had gasped, confirming with each other, yet tones were not that of disappointment and betrayal. It was wonderment. She’s an elf?

Lorne was by the his elleth’s side in an instant, his teeth were bared and slick and his hackles were thick and raised. His growl was low within his throat, it was horrific and sickening, they had not heard it’s like before. It caused Dwalin to jump away surprise, his hands raised in front of him. He whispered as many calming words as he could muster as he backed off, trying to edge closer to Thorin to pull him back, but Lorne’s eyes were not fixed upon up him, they were upon Thorin.

He seemed to not notice, for the elf and he bore holes into each other, his chest rose and fell, and he hissed through gritted teeth.

“No help, no aid shall come from her, or any of her kind,” He raised his voice now, talking to the others, “Nor shall we accept it.” His finger was raised, pointed directly at her face. The others made no move to respond, their faces seemed solemn, distant almost.

“Thorin, get back.” Dwalin had hissed softly, he made no moves to pick up any weapon, but nonetheless Lorne lurched forward and snapped his teeth in warning. Only then did Thorin take a step back, dropping his arm by his side. He seemed to have been removed of his vexed state, and had realised how very close to mauling he could be, should the elf wish it.

She looked at him now - truly looked at him - her eyes were hard. Never has she seen such a purer state from Thorin towards her, and she was able to pick apart each emotion, touching it with graceful fingers and name each one and its reason for being there. There was one she could not name, or maybe, she refused to, refused to acknowledge its existence there, for it seemed like folly.

Thereupon, she exhaled slow, straightening yet dropping her shoulders with each millisecond of breath that left her. Her jaw tightened, and she grasped onto the thick fur upon Lorne’s neck. She appeared then, to them, brighter. Not in ways of her mannerisms or her expressions, but physically. Her skin seemed to glow with an inate light. She seemed fairer, weightless almost, as they gazed upon her. So much so they seemed to wince and blink through squinted eyes. She had quelled it through enchantments of her own to lesson prejudice from other races.

Thorin’s expression seemed to open, his lips parting in a hidden breath as he took another step back. It seemed to him like he was witnessing her all over again, and his rage and distaste seemed to dissipate within her light. She was ethereal, he realised all gems and jewels within Erebor could not compare to that which was before him.

“Gandalf preferred to keep it a secret, for fear of this very outburst,” she spoke, “I am a Vanyar elf of Valinor, and I have been upon this land since Fëanor himself touched upon Middle Earth, since Finrod Felagund was deemed so by your ancestors,” Soft chatter broke out at her words, the recognition of her words by Balin and Oín. She angled her head to the side as if to look at back at them, showing her ears too, before looking back to Thorin, “I am not your enemy, but if you deem me so, then so be it, you shall have no help from I.”

No word was uttered by any then for a breath or more, and although the elleth and the king held each other’s eye, she saw the Gandalf behind. Gandalf was stood leaning upon his staff, it seems no words could be spoken here by him that would be heeded, yet.

Thorin broke first, his breath stuttering, his chest faltering as he looked to the ground. With the opportunity, she leant down and retrieved her clock, bundling it within her arms before turning her back on Thorin and making her way across the camp. Her head was held high, and she seemed to float for how graceful her strides had become, the dwarves making way for her even if they were far off.

Lorne stepped a paw closer to the dwarf one last time, his teeth bared as he barked out words that made even Dwalin cringe at the sound. Gandalf did not call to translate, but it seemed the intent was clear, “Heed my words, Dwarf, I shall have your throat should this repeat.”

“Tolo, Lorne,” The elf called over her shoulder, and the warg was instantly upon her heels, slow and rhythmic were his paw steps.

It surprised her then, that Bofur reached out to touch her shoulder with an utter of her name. A comforting grasp it was made to be with his eyes wide as a doe, yet she evaded his waiting hand swiftly with a shake of her head. She wanted to be alone, for her heart still thrummed within her chest, her spirit still felt of fire.

An uncomfortable quiet had fallen upon the company. The elleth had made a small camp beside the pond, still within ear-shot of the company. A bedroll was made up, even a fire, and Lorne had caught her a small hare. She had not touched it, instead she hugged her knees, staring into the crackling fire before her. The embers hissed and popped at the wood, flushing up into the sky. The warg curled around her, encasing her in warmth and fur. He stared at the fire also, refusing to leave her side. Her horse also had stayed with her, it stood grazing by the waters edge, its tail flicking absentmindedly

The company were silent too, not many spoke as they surrounded the fire. Occasionally, their gazes flickered back towards the elleth, hoping, wondering.

Bilbo had picked up the elleth’s fragile gold pin, and eyed it with a wondrous gaze. It was unmistakably awe striking, its function secure but delicate, and it had broken easily beneath Thorins grip. It had been passed around dwarven hands throughout the evening, and it was Dori’s turn, for he was turning it about in his palm before the fire. The gold was unlike anything they had seen, it reminded them of Erebor in many ways, the way it seemed ever polished, reflecting the licking flames upon their faces.

Nori’s eyes lit up at the sight of gold, and he reached his hand out to his brother, “Oi, let us have a look?”

Dori scowled and closed his fist around it, “Get your sticky paws away, you’re definitely not holding it, it’s like to go missing!” Nori grumbled to himself and sat back. He could not argue with that.

“I bet that’s first age,” Nodded Glóin, “Maybe even from Valinor itself.”

Murmurs broke out now, “Where is 'Valinor'?” Asked Bilbo. He sat cross legged beside Dori, his head upon the heel of his palm as he looked in wonder at the pin.

Bofur looked over the fire as Dori held it again between his thumb and forefinger, up front of the flames.

“The edge of the world, that’s where all the valar live, The Undying Lands, said to be most beautiful, you used to be able to sail to it…” He said, his mind full of stories, before gesturing to the pin, “Can I…have a look?” Dori eyed him for a moment, before reaching over and placing it within his palm. Bofur turned it over once or twice, inspecting the damage, before nodding confidently, “Hmm. Bífir, What do you make of this?”

The said dwarf perked up from his whittling. He was carving a fox, most small and delicate, fitted with its soft curves and bushy tail. Bofur offered the gold leaf, and he took it cautiously, inspecting it much in the same way as Bofur himself did.

He nodded excitedly, “Yes, yes! This I can fix, no trouble at all.” His Khuzdul was thick, and after translating for Bilbo, quiet cheers rang out between them all, for their plan was on.

“You are not setting a good example for yourself, Thorin,” said Gandalf.

He and Thorin were on the far side of the camp, Dwalin and Balin beside them.

Thorin stood with his back to the three, his arms crossed and his gaze cast over into the valley.

“There is no example I need set for my own kin that which they have not seen themselves.” He called over his shoulder. His voice was low, steady, yet an edge was upon it. How could she have disarmed him so with all but a look?

“She is here to help us, not betray us, for what would she gain?” Balin said. He had grown fond of the elleth, even now, knowing she was an elf seemed to make no difference to him.

“She lied to us!” He turned now, a fired gaze upon his face. Betrayal.

Gandalf stepped forward with a shake of his head, “No, It was I who lied, Thorin, I kept it hidden from you for your own good, you need her help, whether you accept it or not.”

“My own good? I need her? You let an enemy into our midst,” Thorin’s voice was harsh, he let his eyes flicker to her over Balin’s shoulder for a second, “Already is she questioning my judgment, what may she do next? Let her pet slaughter us in our sleep?”

“Your exaggerated worries are not to be fed, must you question each who comes to our aid? She questions to keep us alive,” Huffed Gandalf, he sounded exasperated, for he knew this would come, a poor judgment on his half he had to admit, but there was no way around it, “She has been in Middle Earth a lot longer than you have, she advises because she is aware to that which you are not,”

Thorin scoffed then, “I do not need advice from an Elf, when have elves ever helped us? When our people were starving and homeless, where were the elves then? Where was she then?”

“She has helped us now, she has shown care and respect, and us in kind,” Balin interjected, stepping closer, “We have no reason to banish her from the company, she has done no wrong.”

The king grumbled under his breath, turning away. Balin spoke true, the elleth had helped and he had noticed each time, for he could not turn his eyes away from her. He was grateful for her Warg for he fed them without question, and each smile and kind voice she earnt from the company he heard. Even Dwalin had moved walls within his mind to let her in, but the sharp tug at his own mind would not quell.

“She signed Balin’s contract, she’s a part of the company,” said Dwalin, his arms were folded, and he stood sideways on, his gaze upon the warg and elleth across the way. Thorin seemed to freeze at his words.

“What?”

Dwalin nodded once, “She signed Balin’s contract,”

Balin nodded too and searched inside his raiment pockets, before producing the parchment and handing it to Thorin. His hands seemed unsteady then, as he reached for the contract and unfolded it. At the bottom was her signature and printed name in her refined hand. He made to hold an inward groan as he passed it back to the older dwarf with two fingers.

“You are aware Lorne will no longer provide us food, yes?” Dwalin asked, motioning his head towards the wolf, his amber eyes were fixed upon him, that he could see, “Nothing was brought tonight, and I have a feeling nothing will again.”

“Until you put aside your pride and ask for forgiveness,” Said Gandalf, “This rift is unnecessary and affects all,”

“Forgiveness?” The word seemed to cut through him like a knife as he shook his head, “I will not beg to an elf with an oversized hound,” A quivered breath left his body as he unfolded his arms, his shoulders seemingly dropping, “we do not need her help, that is final.” His voice was but a whisper that time, uneven, as if he was saying it to himself.

He turned away then, parting through Gandalf and Balin as he made his way back to the fire the rest of the company had surrounded. It seemed the conversation had ended.

The three exchanged pained glances.

“His stubbornness will be this company’s downfall,” Muttered Gandalf, hitting the ground with a thud of his staff.