#thorinxoc

Not a single soul was to be found on the streets of the city carved out of the rock at that late hour. Perhaps he was the only dwarf after all the exhausting hours of that damned day who could still stay awake or find the strength to walk through those narrow tunnels late at night. But because it had been such an exhausting day, he felt the need to get it over with as quickly as possible and to assert his right to throw himself between the sheets of his bed and sleep for the few hours he was allowed to. Talking to that one dwarf, however, seemed an impossible task that night, Dwalin was not at his home. Thorin had spent nearly ten minutes there, knocking incessantly on his door, and so now he found himself walking to the only place Dwalin could be found at that hour: the forges, their forge, the only place in the Ered Luin that they had managed to build without a hitch in the twenty years they had been there, the only place where Thorin could feel a little less like a king in exile than he already did.

After all that time Thorin still felt like one, a young king in exile, even if he was not a king at all. It had only been a few years that they had been in the Blue Mountains, yet, he already felt the weight of time on his shoulders, already felt old even though he was not.

Even though Thorin was not a king, he was treated like one and the dwarrowdams saw him as one.

He had noticed it long ago, how they looked at him, how they longed for him, how after a night spent in the sheets of an inn or at worst pressed up against the rough walls of a corridor, they worshipped him as such. They called him king while he was on top of them and inside of them and he loved it. But then they all ended up wanting more than one night from him, and he wasn't willing to give them that. A wife wasn't something he wanted.  He could do without the warmth of a woman's thighs if it meant bonding and he didn't want to bond, a loss he would never suffer again of that Thorin was sure.

Breathing heavily and now feeling his nerves on edge, he turned his head as he infiltrated the corridors of the market, now completely emptied: the long sheets that decorated the tunnels, from coloured were just bland, dark spots above his head as were the carved windows at the side of the corridors. He turned a corner towards the craftsmen's area and amidst the bluish gloom, a bright light from a window caught his eye, causing him to look up at the only unmarked door in the entire underground marketplace: Dwalin was indeed in the workshop.

What in Durin's name was he doing there in the middle of the night?

Moved by fatigue and impatience, Thorin lengthened his stride, lifting the sleeves of his blue shirt to his elbow, sighing, and without even waiting for a signal or knocking, he opened the door to the forge.

What he saw certainly didn't astonish him, but it did impress him enough to keep his hand clawed at the wooden door handle.

The entire forge was barely illuminated by the orange light from the furnace still crackling at the back of the room, creating sharp shadows on the stone floor and giving him a perfect view of the spectacle that was unfolding on the table at the side of the forge where he worked almost every day.

On the wooden plank next to the anvil, once covered with tools now completely thrown on the floor, two moaning figures were clinging together, rubbing their half-naked bodies against each other and making the wood beneath them creak with every single movement.

Dwalin was holding a woman sitting with her legs spread above the table, clutching at her buttocks under her skirt with both his hands. His tongue almost completely shoved down her throat, while she was moaning softly into his mouth, clutching at his bare ash-stained hips with both her legs. It was not at all difficult for Thorin to notice her hand inside Dwalin's breeches and how it moved slowly up and down, so slowly that the king felt a shiver of frustration run down his spine.  

For some strange and absurd reason, he found himself entranced for the first time by this scene that he had seen happen more than once in other situations with other dwarrowdams, but a sudden low squeak from the woman stopped his gaze on the small naked body clinging to the doubly larger one of his best friend.  

Thorin could not tear his eyes away or even cough to make himself noticeable, he clenched his jaw and his hand around the knob, finding himself subduing a growl in his chest and a heavy breath soon after.

He ran his eye from the small, slow hand hidden inside the brown fabric to her arm exposed by the transparent soutane. He ran his gaze over the full chest clearly visible through the transparent fabric to the backward sloping neck that allowed Dwalin to pounce on one of her breasts like an animal. He bit it with such force that he blocked her hand's movements inside his trousers and made her moan his name in such a sensual way that Thorin could hear that moan inside his loins and in his goal that suddenly became as dry as the crotch of his trousers tight, annoying him.

Damn.

He clenched his legs together, blocking the hand that was already going to rest between them to hide his bulge: now was not the time, there was something else to think about and then he would be going to take a cold bath as soon as Dwalin gave him a look.

But Dwalin didn't seem to cooperate, nor did Thorin's eyes, which widened as the female's back bent backwards, pulling the fabric of her.

petticoat down revealing both of her breasts.

Dwalin squeezed her buttocks, dropping his mouth even further down and grabbing a nipple left bare by the fabric with his teeth, making her almost squeal as he began to torture it with his teeth. And it was at that moment that Thorin had a full view of the face of the creature for whom his friend was not even looking at him: the smooth skin, the taut shoulders, the small neck, the unruly brown hair so long they touched the table, the half-closed eyes filled with small tears, the flushed cheeks devoid of hair, as well as her mouth wide open with pleasure with the outline devoid of any kind of beard.

And it was that last detail that was more powerful than any cold bath ever could have been. Thorin's hand, which by now had moved on its own to his annoying erection grasping it through his trousers, suddenly moved away and clenched into a fist at the side of his thigh. He felt his trousers get looser, the pulse in his throat slow and the disgusting rise.

A human, Dwalin was banging a filthy human inside their forge.

A female human.

He gripped the door handle hard enough to feel it go into the palm of his hand, and violently slammed the door shut behind him, looking away from the human to Dwalin who, unlike him, was far from disgusted as he continued to suck on her breasts as if he were a hungry bairn.

He didn't even seem to realise he'd walked in but knowing the dwarf he knew he'd heard him, but the truth was that for Dwalin, Thorin might as well have been rotting at that moment and the member in his breeches, now so taut it almost hurt under Eyia's attentions, if it could have spoken, he would have told him as much.  Responding to Thorin in the fastest way he knew, he ran his tongue over the taut nipple, running his lips and tongue up the defined line of her shoulder. She began to gasp with impatience and in a moment, he captured her lips again, sinking his tongue back into that tasty palate that tasted like a different fruit every night. At the same time, Eyia's small hand, first resting on his shoulder, gripped his crest, entwining her fingers tightly in his hair, making him roar inside her mouth as she squeezed his member with the same strength.

In Durin's name that human would have driven him mad one of those nights, but to the King of Erebor that little game was beginning to get on his nerves.

Clenching his jaw Thorin walked unconcernedly to the side of the room and without a word sat down with his arms crossed on the wooden chair where he usually threw his dirty clothes after work, apron on the opposite side of the table where that vicious act Dwalin was engaged in was taking place.

"I need to talk to you. " He told him, trying to keep his eyes focused on his friend's profile, who as soon as he noticed his insistent gaze broke away from the human's lips and turned his head towards his own.

"I am a little busy at the moment." He retorted throwing an eloquent look towards his hand around the human woman's outstretched leg and, as if to underline what he meant, the woman rubbed her femininity against Dwalin's thigh meowing like a cat in heat.

Repugnant.

With disgust and indifference, Thorin shook his shoulders letting his back go even further to the chair.

"I can wait." He retorted in Khuzdul not wanting the human to understand one more word from them.

The dwarf warrior gave him a dirty look as soon as Thorin let go of his back to the chair and crossed his arms in anticipation, raising an eyebrow wryly: he couldn't even for once give him a freaking hour off, all that work would kill him sooner or later as well as his composure and that damned look of indifference.

Dwalin had to bite his lip, holding back a groan between his teeth as Eyia's small fingers moved up his member until they grazed his tip. Slowly she began to stroke it with small concentric gestures which she began to imitate with slow movements of her pelvis making him feel how wet she was, riding his leg slowly, moaning into his hear his name and making him hate Thorin insistence even more.

"Do-we-really-need-to-do-this-right-now?" Dwalin roared at Thorin, barely managing to keep his hands fixed on Eyia's thighs in the meantime that she again let her hand go even further down his trousers.

"Dwalin, please." She whispered pleadingly in his ear licking his earlobe rubbing herself against his leg again. "Please."

Following her, with his blue eyes, Thorin let out an annoyed snort as soon as the girl in one smooth movement freed Dwalin's member completely from the fabric of his breeches accompanying him past the loose leather straps caressing his entire length right before his eyes.

"She is human." He pointed wryly, clutching his forearms outstretched at the girl's insolence.

"I know what she is." Dwalin retorted, barely suppressing a groan as Eyia mischievously began to slowly kiss the side of his neck, swiping her wet tongue under the hairline of his beard as fast as she continued to torture his erection.

"Why?" Thorin asked, beginning to grow impatient that the girl didn't even mind his presence and continued unconcernedly, moaning into his friend's chin.

"Why not?"

"Because she is a human!" Thorin roared back, retorting something that was more than obvious to him.

Dwalin rolled his eyes, trying to maintain a modicum of control, which was very easy for him especially if instead of a pair of tits he had to look at Thorin's unyielding face and instead of hearing moans he was instead forced to hear his irritating tone berating him for a problem that had been his and his alone for years.

He knew why Thorin was scolding him: all his life the idiot had lain only with dwarrowdams, as they had all been taught since they were only boys, as the true tradition of their people dictated. But Thorin seemed to be the only one who still followed that idea, and since they had left the villages of Dunland, it was as if that thought had become even more ingrained in him. If only that idiot, bound to his damned traditions had known what it was like to be between their thighs, and Eyia seemed intent on making him understand that or at least make Thorin feel so uncomfortable that he would get them both out of the way.

That was why Dwalin adored her, why he wanted her every night, why he craved her thighs so much that he had rotted the guards at the entrance by paying them to let her infiltrate the halls most nights. That lustful, rebellious human tavern-keeper from that night in the city of men had become his favourite poison, and the taste of her cherry in his mouth had become tastier than any beer he'd ever drunk.

Marred the dwarrowdams and their ostentatious purity and devotion. He adored his human.

"You are too stern, you always are." He scolded Thorin with a hiss but was unable not to sneer as he cast a glance underneath him to the stiff, rosy nipple pressed against his pecs indulging what he already understood to be Y/N's desires. "Have you ever seen one of them without their clothes on?"

With a snort, Thorin rolled his eyes again in annoyance. "She is nearly as tall as you."

"Only if you keep staring and trust me it's the last thing ya notice when you are on top of them or...behind them." Dwalin snickered, looking him straight in the eye even as he slowly moved up to Eyia's shoulder, kissing her as she reached up to his ear, biting it under the earring.

"He is boring you were right." A single whisper that made him grin against her rosy skin and made him make perhaps the rightest decision of his entire life.

Dwalin licked his lips as he continued to look at Thorin, and with a sharp movement, he passed the hand still clinging to Y/N's leg underneath her petticoat, lifting it all the way up and revealing her open thighs and belly still pressed against the now soaked fabric of his breeches.

Thorin thought still tried not to look, was compelled when he saw Dwalin's hand full of scars, like his own, began to stroke her inner thigh with the back of his hand in front of him. "They have a body as sensitive body as a virgin one. Sometimes I am even afraid of breaking when I touch it. They're the hardest metal I've ever dealt with."

As much as the king had tried to control himself, he couldn't help but bite the inside of his cheek when with the pelvis of the human went for Dwalin's touch again spreading her legs wide just for him.

When Dwalin noticed how Thorin was staring at his hand, he smiled triumphantly: perhaps giving him a little demonstration before blowing him up wouldn't be such a bad idea. The dwarf warrior shifted his gaze from Thorin's increasingly tense face to the face of Eyia resting on his shoulder before he leaned back with his torso from the table, allowing Thorin to see what was to follow.

Slowly he brought his hand up to Eyia's throbbing pubis, and knowing how she would react, he brushed his thumb over her opening making her legs spread even wider. He lowered his touch until he flowered her engorged, wet clit. Eyia moaned softly against the beard on his neck and in a spasm of pleasure, she pulled her hand away from his member grabbing his wrist: like an obedient virgin, the way she wanted Thorin to look at her and all just to get him out of her slit.

She glared at him : she knew she'd go crazy, she'd freak out, probably kick Thorin out in a bad way and in Durin's name that would turn him on more than any moan she could ever get out of her mouth.

Thorin Oakenshield, hunted by a human from his own forge.

"They adore us ya know, human maids." Dwalin whispered, turning his gaze to him and grinning out of the side of his mouth as the human's small hand tried to push his friend's hand down even further. "It is something I can't even explain, they look for our bodies as it's the first time they see man, they touch us as we are melted gold." She told him turning her head towards the human's rubbing her lips against the small ear covered by the unruly wisps. "By my beard..." Dwalin murmured hoarsely as he felt Y/N getting wetter and wetter under his fingers to the point of dripping. "She pends from my lips and limbs, as I am Mahal myself sometimes." He murmured more to himself than to Thorin.

"Of curse she does, you are paying her." Thorin retorted, making his friend grin in satisfaction as he looked at him again.

"I am not, Eyia is no whore she is an innkeeper from the human village outside, the innkeeper who offers the sweetest ale in all of this damned Valar-dominated part of the world." He commented hoarsely as he continued to look at him, but Thorin's gaze remained fixed on Dwalin's hand.

The friend of his, biting his lip, let his middle finger in between the two wet folds slide inside her, just enough to get only the tip of his finger in but enough to make her moan with so much satisfaction Thorin felt that nagging feeling press into his trousers again, growing more and more.

"So you are courting a human in a forge." He muttered, lowering his arms to try and cover his shame as much as he could manage.

"I am not courting her we just keep each other company until the sun rises every two nights when you are not inside this damned workshop and I have a moment's peace."

At those last words, Thorin could no longer remain silent or still, forcefully he held his forearms glaring at him. He could have accepted that Dwalin had taken a shine to a human, and even justified his sneaking her in. He wouldn't have approved but he would have understood, instead, he let her into their city only to bang her every other day.

She suppressed a small growl but was unable to keep from gritting her teeth furiously at each other. "So you are sneaking a human maid into these halls with-"

"You can also speak directly to me you know I am not invisible."

Finally, Eyia couldn't take it any more, that game was taking too long and knowing that they were talking about her in that deep, scratchy language, now after those long weeks even familiar, was driving her out of her mind.

She had been good, patient but Dwalin's finger between her legs was no longer enough and in those few hours she had free in the night, Eyia wanted to feel more than just his fingers and hear those words in Dwarvish only whispered into her ears between thrusts.

Pulling her lips away from Dwalin's strong neck she lether face go gently against his chest and entwined both arms around his shoulders, finally glancing down at the end of the table at the annoying interlocutor. She knew very well who he was, she could guess who he was, but at that moment it could have been Aule himself and she would have treated him the same way.

Eyia felt Dwalin's chest move up and down as his rough and deep chuckle resonated into the room, while on the other side the other dwarf remained silent, crossing slowly his legs while an irritated snore passed through his lips.

"You have a sharp tongue for a woman."

"Many say so, they say I tend to give voice to my though too many times."

"That's why Dwalin likes you then." He retorted, grinning out of the side of his mouth as he glanced behind her, clearly referring to Dwalin who was still holding his hand between her legs, teasing the entrance with the tip of his finger.

But Eyia weren't in the mood at that moment at all.

"He likes to talk, a lot actually, more than me even sometimes." She retorted aggressively, raising an eyebrow as Eyia slowly dropped her hands towards the step and gripped the edge of the table.

Oh yes, he liked to talk, especially as he watched her get dressed. He kissed her with his rough lips, he kissed every spot he hadn't touched enough during the night, rubbing his rough beard over every inch of her body and more than once, in those chats, she'd overheard them while his head was between her legs and she had to hold on to his black hair looking at the tattoos on his head.  

And those little discussions were also the reason she knew exactly who she was facing, the one Dwalin liked to call the Pride Bastard, or in some rare moments, his king.

Sceptically, Thorin raised an eyebrow and tilted his head slightly to the side. "He doesn't speak a lot to me, that's why I came here, because I needed to talk with him, but he was busy, with you."

"Then maybe he prefers my company because or you are just a silent person or just boorish...I think more the second choice. " Eyia hissed, totally voicing her thoughts as she turn her upper body totally towards him, not at all ashamed of her condition. How her breasts were totally in his sight, as well as her belly almost completely exposed if it wasn't covered by the side of her thigh.

He was the one who had stayed if her body was going to give him any trouble he might as well go away and let her continue her night with Dwalin without any further ado on his part.

Thorin clicked his tongue again, but this time through his blue eyes partially covered by the pitch-black wisps Eyia could see a spark ignite, a spark that made her womanhood pulsate between her legs and hold her hands on the surface of the table almost crawling over it.

"Yes, you tend to use your tongue a little bit too much for my tastes." He pinned the dwarf down, narrowing his gaze and spreading his legs over the chair in a fluid motion, settling even better: oh no, he wasn't leaving, not now.

And for all the Valar, he was annoying, he was boring, he'd used a tone since he'd walked in that even if she didn't understand it was capable of sending her into a rage, but she'd be a liar not to admit he was the most beautiful dwarf and man, and elf she'd ever seen. Dwalin was gorgeous, he had aroused her instincts the first moment Eyia saw him sitting at the tavern table. Powerful, rough, mischievous, but with a gaze that showed all the gentleness that could conceal the dwarf still well placed between her legs at that moment. A carnal, hard, violent beauty: his scars on his body, his arms covered in those tattoos she could have looked at and kissed for hours, his broken nose, but Thorin was a different kind of beauty. One she had rarely had the opportunity to see, a beauty as cold and dark as his hair that began to make the inside of her legs throb once more. The fine lips, the sharp eyes that were eating her alive at that moment, the backset as if he were not sitting on a wooden stool in a forge but on a throne. The taut, stocky muscles that darted beneath the regal yet humble blue shirt he was wearing crumpled at that moment. The dark hair on his chest rising slightly towards his square jaw covered by a short, unkempt beard the same colour as the long, black hair loose on his powerful shoulders. That voice, for all Valar, that hateful, haughty voice, that was making the hairs on her back stand up in annoyance but so deep and authoritative that it seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth, tangling with her own.

Thorin waded through the darkness, unconsciously plowing towards a tiny spec in the distance. He had to move, to be rid of the darkness that surrounded him. Voices too, surrounded the warrior, some kind, others harsh, all filling his thoughts and giving him the sense of no escape. Escape, what a wonderful thought! He would do just about anything to be rid of the dark void he wandered through and the voices that taunted him. "Look at him," a gruff male voice said, almost sneering. "The great Khuzdul King, running from his fears." "Give him a rest," a kind female voice quipped, reprimanding the first. "It can't be easy to be murdered." The first snorted and moved on, while the second made a sympathetic mumble before moving away. More voices came and went, more taunting then the first, and less sympathetic then the second.  The spec in the distance took form as an open doorway, the other side radiating with a feeling of home and comfort. Ease settled into Thorin's heart as he felt the light touch he face, wading though the dark became easier and the voices faded. He reached for the white void, but something nagged at him. He would be reunited with his fallen family and friends, and await the arrival of those still living. He was sure Fili and Kili were waiting for him to enter and enjoy the afterlife with him, and he couldn't wait to see them, full of their childish laughter that they lacked on the quest.  Despite all of the things that awaited him in the Halls, he still hesitated. "What is it child," a voice asked, gruff but kind and clear, more defined then the other voices. Thorin turned towards the voice and saw an older looking man. He held ancient knowledge in his eyes that burned with fire. His beard was long and grey, as was the hair on his head, both braided spectacularly. His hands were rough with worked age, he had obviously held a smithy's hammer most of his life, if not all of his life. "Ye do not wish to enter me Halls," he asked, clasping his hands under his round belly. Thorin felt his face flush as he realized who he was facing. "Is there somethin' that troubles ye?" "No, I wish to enter your Halls, My Lord," Thorin said quickly, lowering his gaze to Aule's feet. Instead of boots, the tops of his feet were covered in a thick fur, rather like a hobbit's. "Then why wait," he said, gesturing to the doorway. "Yer afterlife is waiting, and yer nephews are eager to meet again." Thorin winced as he was reminded that they were dead, he lowered his gaze further to his own feet. It had been a family joke that Thorin would outlive the two because of an adventure they would traipse after. A bitter taste was left on his tongue as he was again reminded he brought them on their death bound adventure. Thorin felt Aule's heavy hand grasp his shoulder, a firm but gentle touch that gave reassurance, a smile on the Valar's aged face as Thorin gazed up at him. "Yer not th' first ta stop at me door because of regret," he informed Thorin, rubbing his thumb against his shoulder. He felt relieved that he wouldn't need to explain what feeling dwelt in his heart, it wasn't something a dwarf normally did. Auel chuckled, clapping Thorin's shoulder, slightly worrying the Dead King. "I made ye out o' stone fer a reason lad," he chortled as he lead Thorin towards the beconing doorway. "But in there, ye need not be made o' stone, ye don't need ta weather any storms in there," he explained as he walked through. Auel's grasp slipped from Thorin's shoulder to his hands, Thorin felt like a pebble again, being lead along by his father. Thorin's heart panged again, realizing that his father may be in there. But even as Auel stepped through, Thorin hesitated again. Auel stopped, still gripping Thorin's hand, a fatherly look of worry on his face. "What is it lad?" He asked, stepping back into the dark. "Is there a reason ye shouldn't enter-" "No!" Thorin shouted, snapping out of his thoughts. His voice echoed in the dark, stirring up the restless spirits that lingered there. "No, I feel qualified, but...." Thorin paused, trying to find his words. Auel watched him, no longer being able to read his thoughts as he had before. Or, it seemed that way to Thorin. "Isn't there another way," he asked, stepping away from the door, pulling his hand from Auel's. "A way where we all live- I don't even care if I die," Thorin added when Auel gave him a queer look. "Fili and Kili are practically children- And Dis! Ohh, Dis... Please, don't make her loose her lads," Thorin begged, tears falling off his beard and landing near his feet. Auel stated at Thorin with his queer look, the kind look had vanished as Thorin had made his plea. Thorin waited patiently for his answer, his heart plummeting as Auel stifled a snort. As his snort became guffawing, Thorin knew it was impossible, he felt his soul crush. "Oh lad, can't ye see where ye are," Auel asked, wiping a joyous tear from his eye. Thorin frowned as the darkness disappeared, and the feeling of a prison left. Thorin and Auel were now standing on a green hill, with flowers of every color blooming around them. In the distance, he saw hobbits sitting, laughing, being hobbits, while dwarves made themselves merry nearby, but the most unusual thing was that they were mingling, hobbits taking drink of the dwarves strong ale, and the dwarves learning how to garden with the smaller hobbits. Three, no four heads, Thorin recognized in the hobbit's group, five! Fili had dirt in his hair, making it harder to recognize, while he had though Kii was a lady hobbit with that flower crown in his hair, and the one he was struggling to make in his hands. Vili, their father, was sampling the hobbit cuisine, starting with the greens he was eating as if they were poisoned, now wolfing them down, finding they were actually tasty! Thrain was over under a tree with a little table, teaching a few of the hobbits about metal weaving. One hobbit yelped as a piece of coal split in two, showering Thrain's leather apron in sparks, but it didn't effect the old king. The hobbit's laughed at the one, Thrain chuckled a small bit before resuming the class, chiding the hobbits for laughing. Fundin, who was playing checkers with an elderly hobbit couple, while smoking a pipe, waved with a happy smile. Thorin waved, hesitantly, back, then turned with a questioning look at Auel. The King of the Halls smiled, his fiery eyes on the brink of tears. "Look through lad," he said, stepping away from the open door, sniffing back the emotions to keep them at bay. "I don't understand," Thorin said, folding his arms, still quite confused. "I thought that was the door that lead-" "To th' Halls? Nay lad, th' second ye hit th' light, ye were in th' Halls. Come, look through th' door! See what lay beyond!" Thorin stepped forward, leaning on one side of the doorway. He was still confused, but the gentle peace that settled over him pushed those to the back of his mind.

The white dissolved into an aerial view of Bree. The human settlement's streets were packed, even as it rained. Although it rained, Thorin could smell the food items from the market vendors, an apple crisp becoming quite distinguished through the many smells. The view scanned the streets as if it were from a bird's eye, watching the various people waiting in vending lines. The view finally settled on a shorter person, one with a familiar blue cloak and silver tassel. "This is a one time chance lad," Auel said in a hushed voice, Thorin had first thought he was speaking to himself. The dead king balked for a moment, realizing what the Valar meant. Joy flooded through him for that same moment, only to be squashed as another thought bloomed. He cast a worrying glance at his dead friends and family. "What of them?"  Auel followed his gaze and grumbled, he hadn't really wanted to dwell on the matter much, seeing as he was breaking nearly every rule in his book.  He knew exactly who Thorin meant too, doing this probably looked like a death sentence to them. "I can not explain th’ details lad," Auel explained quickly. "Ye must trust me that they'll survive this time, it's up to ye whether ye will er not. Their souls will return with ye, but unlike ye, they won't remember a thing." Auel glanced worriedly at the doorway, then back at Thorin. "I need yer answer now, yes or no?!"

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It is early in the day, the new dawn gray and still.  The hour is that where creatures of the night begin to settle and those active in the light barely begin to stir. As such any sound seems muted, drowned in the peace of the groggy morning. To break the stillness of the atmosphere would seem a most unforgivable sin.

 Then again, as a hand retrieves a pouch stuffed full of coins, it seems the intruder wishes only to not wake the sleeping dwarf, rather than preserve the tranquility. Eyes shadowed by a thick maroon hood bounce between the dwarf and the pouch as slowly, with utmost care, the purse is settled snugly within the confines of the thief’s own sack. But the task is not yet done. After robbing the dwarf of his coins, other pockets are scrutinized with curious fingers and more objects are quickly added to the thief’s collection.

 It is a pity that the dwarf fell asleep while on watch, for his valuables are but the first to fall prey to the hunter’s greed. The thief, in turn, blesses the morning’s fortune. One by one, eleven more dwarves, the hobbit and even the wizard are relieved of their material goods. It is a cautious but not sluggish task. Moving with a practiced ease among the bedrolls, hands and fingers wander confidently but carefully. The thief’s dexterous digits seem to move of their own volition, like hounds sniffing for their quarry they seem to locate the most valuable goods with ease.

 Within minutes, as the dawn barely begins to blush with color, all but one of the company has been robbed. It is a dwarf, but he sleeps far from the others and does not lie across the ground. Instead his back is to a boulder and he keeps one hand upon the wooden haft of an axe. Such a position would commonly suggest alertness; one the thief would avoid, but the dwarf has succumbed to exhausted sleep. His head droops loosely to the cushion of dark hair swept over his shoulder. His snores are deeper and steadier than all the other dwarves. He would be, according to the thief, the easiest one to steal from - too tired to notice the warm presence that now hovers at his shoulder.

 As predicted, the job is quick and simpler than all the rest. This dwarf does not carry much in valuables, even his pack is barren of many belongings. The thief displays little remorse in leaving the traveling group without a cent as the job concludes with one more sack of coins stolen.

 But then, of course, it happens. A minor thing of seemingly little importance; the dwarf moves his hand. It is a small, unconscious movement, merely a twitch. The thief freezes. There, unseen until now, within reach upon the dwarf’s finger sits a large, gleaming ring. A silver square-shaped ring that would surely bring in quite the sum - if it were to be taken.

 The thief looks out towards the woods and the waking sky and takes a single step in that direction before looking back at the ring. It is a marvelous piece of jewelry, thick and heavy; obviously crafted by talented dwarves. Anxious fingers toy with a vial tied from the thief’s neck. Eyes flicker back and forth from the safety of the trees and the gleam upon the dwarf’s finger. The sounds of bird song already whistle in the trees, a rabbit darts from one bush to another and still the thief does not move. To take the ring would be risky. To stay any longer would be to risk getting caught. The thief cannot afford to be caught. Nodding, their mind made up, three steps are taken in direction of the woods, before being retraced in a hurried fashion back to the dwarf’s side.

 Greed overpowers the knowledge that they have enough, but it does not hinder the thief’s caution. Looking about the camp, and sparing the sleeping dwarf a wary glance, a tentative hand reaches out for the ring. Pinching with forefinger and thumb, the ring begins to wriggle free from its rightful place. Little by little, twist by twist the ring loosens. The entire affair takes only a few seconds, but the loud thumping in the thief’s ears makes it seem like an eternity as their gaze flits worriedly between the dwarf and his possession.

 With a final decisive tug the ring plops warmly into eager fingers. The thief gazes fondly at the prize but the euphoria of success is interrupted by a deep, sleep-addled voice. “What are you doing?” The dwarf is waking up, alerted by the sensation of a foreign touch. There is a moment of stillness, it lasts less than the life of a single breath. As soon as it is over, the thief stares into the eyes of the dwarf as comprehension fills their cerulean depths.

 Striking out with ferocious speed before the thief can react, thick dwarven fingers wrap around the hand holding the ring and the other reaches out attempting to grab a hold of the intruder. The thief wastes no time in responding just as viciously. Already clutching a small blade, it is swung towards the dwarf. It makes slicing contact and he lets go with an aggrieved grunt.

 No time is wasted looking for the point of contact. Pulling free the thief collects the sack full of stolen goods and races towards the woods. The knife is hidden away safely, wiped of what little blood remained on its blade. The thief has not determined a destination but rather only a single goal: to escape. And it is almost guaranteed were it not for the sound of one very angry dwarf in pursuit. It will not be simple to lose him, after all everyone in Middle Earth knows that dwarves are natural sprinters. But the thief has some confidence. Despite their own lack of speed, they are running through a forest filled with fallen branches, rotten logs and clearly many, many trees. Surely, a burly dwarf can be outrun.

 However, after minutes of running at their top speed, the thief is tiring. Legs aching and lungs burning, they push on only because the dwarf is gaining ground, the sounds of his own labored but measured breaths getting closer and closer. The thief will not be eluding the dwarf much longer. It seems the right time to change tactics. Slowing, the thief hopes that by surrendering, the dwarf can be appealed to. The pursuer however, does not slow. He does not so much as weaken in his step. He keeps running and collides heavily against the thief, hurdling them forward and effectively smashing them against the trunk of the nearest tree.

 Crack! Rammed against rough bark, the thief tastes blood. Little time is left to ponder the pain or the taste as the dwarf finally and roughly jostles them around to face him. Slightly dizzy, the thief puts up no fight. Instead they slyly slip the stolen ring into their pocket and blink blearily up at the angered dwarf from beneath their hood.

 The dwarf spares the short man only a cursory glance. There is not much too see except dirt streaked clothing, a lowered hood and a cracked vial filled with purple liquid. The dwarf holds out a sharp axe menacingly, deterring any hope of escape. “Run, and I shall cleave this axe into your back.”

 “Woah,” the thief’s voice is a rough, panting whisper as small hands are raised in surrender and the hooded head ducks down further, “no.  I won't run.”

 Accepting this as truth, the dwarf relaxes his defensive stance and allows the axe to slide to the ground. Just as soon as the axe is lowered, the thief gives a mighty push and charges away as fast as possible.

 Thwack! The thief does not make it far. Handle vibrating from the force, the axe imbeds itself into the tree, inches away from the thief’s head. The dwarf stalks up, anger overflowing at the blatant lie and betrayal. “You dare try to run away? To try and escape from me?”

 The cloaked thief can do little but turn to face the advancing mass of fury. A huge dwarven fist swings towards them, aiming straight for their head. Narrowly avoiding it, they escape only by falling against the tree and axe. Now trapped between the tree and one extremely furious dwarf, there is nothing to do, but to beg. Chest still heaving, the thief grabs the vial filled with purple liquid in one hand and pleads, “Oh, please no! Don't hit me. I'll-“

 “I'll do as I see fit to any man who dares steal from me!” Such is the dwarf’s wrath, he is deaf to what the thief’s voice reveals. Shooting out his injured hand, (for the knife had cut across his palm) he grabs the thief’s cloak and keeps them still as he clenches his fist again and swings.

 There was no escaping the oncoming impact of the enraged hit, but the thief is desperate. That meaty fist looks like it could break something and easily. In a last attempt to spare too much injury, the thief reaches up and pulls down the maroon hood while rapidly speaking, “And a woman?”

 The advancing punch falters only enough for the fist to open. A heavy hand slaps straight across the thief’s face, snapping her head sharply to the side. It was, thankfully, no bone shattering punch, but her cheek now stung and her neck ached from the force of it. Raising cool fingers to her cheek, she winced as she looked back at the dwarf. “Yes,” her jaw hurt as she spoke, “very well. I deserved that I suppose.”

 The dwarf feels a moment of guilt. He had vowed to never raise his hand in violence toward a woman. She had a dirt streaked face, her bottom lip was split and her cheek was blossoming in an angry red color. It was a pathetic picture. But his anger soon returned to him, his guilt pushed aside. The thief being a woman did not change the fact that she had stolen from him and his company. He took another step forward, crowding her while tightening his hold on her cloak. “You will return what you have stolen from me immediately.”

 “Of course.” There was no use fighting it now, and much less of trying to escape.

 “And what you took from the rest of my company.”

 The woman grits her teeth and the grip she has on the vial tightens. “I don't think so.” She does not notice the sudden bite of glass in her palm. “I stole that stuff fair and square. If they want it back they can come and get it themselves.” He is still crowding her, pushing her heavily against the tree. Releasing the crushing hold she has on the vial, she raises her hands to his chest to push him away but only manages to do so weakly as she begins to cough.

 He too coughs a few times before stepping away from her and allowing her the room she demands but he remains cautious. This time, the dwarf will not underestimate the thief’s desire to escape.

 With her free hand she reaches deeply into her pocket, and as she retrieves it, his ring is cushioned in her palm. She holds it out and he makes an avid grab for it before she snatches it right out of his reach. His fingers close over nothing but air. Glancing up their eyes lock: hers brown and mischievous, his like twin blue flames.

 She breaks the contact first by tossing him his ring and stepping out of reach. “The ring didn't fit anyway, so no big loss I suppose.”

 “And the rest of it?”

 “Like I already s-” With the pain subsiding in her cheek and her breath finally calming, she finally feels the sharp sting in her palm. Surprised, she turns her hand over and looks at the shards of glass clinging painfully from her skin before realizing the glass could only belong to the vial that had hung about her neck for months. The vial filled with a purple liquid. The vial filled with a very powerful potion.

 A bitter taste crawls up her throat, the dwarf’s voice becomes a mumbled background noise. The vial was broken, the potion released. The potion she had taken out of pure curiosity because the description of its powers had been too fascinating to not wish to witness it for herself. But it had not been meant for her.

 In a hurry, she opens her sack of stolen goods and retrieves everything she had taken from the dwarf in front of her and tosses them at him. Her desperate voice is clipped and short as she says, “Here, here. Take your things.” It is her luck that he abandons the surprised look he is giving her to collect his belongings. So while he is distracted she scurries off, wanting to put as much distance between herself and the dwarf.

 It is in those moments, as she sneaks away from him, that she hopes she is wrong. Surely, it takes a while for a potion to take effect. Undoubtedly, it does not actually do what she was told it did. Without question, it would not be potent enough to take effect. Right?

 She is nearly thirty hobbit paces away when he finally realizes that she has escaped him, again. The thief hears him call out to her, his words mean nothing as they are carried away. Her measured and careful steps become strides as she realizes she is nearly in the clear. Just another step…

 There is a tug in her gut. It is too late. The potion has worked and she knows it. Despite this however, she takes another step, futilely hoping it is her imagination. With the next step, she feels her legs seize up, the muscles tensing and cramping painfully. She takes another, praying the cramps are merely a result of being chased through the forest. Another step and her body freezes in pain.

 On this morning, while drops of dew cling like precious jewels to an old spider web, while cheerful bird song lifts the air and the sun’s warm rays fall in dappled patterns through the trees, two lives are irrevocably forged together.

 The thief does not take another step. She freezes in her spot and inhales the fresh air deeply through her nose. The pain that grips her has not abated but as she forces herself to calm, she finds it is a tolerable sort of pain, though definitely an unwanted one. The potion, its magic, has worked.

 To continue moving away from the dwarf would be to spell disaster. It is still, however, with great reluctance that she turns back to look at him. He is still standing in the same spot, an exact thirty hobbit paces away from her. His face, she imagines, looks much like her own. Twisted in discomfort and arms helplessly clutched about his abdomen. Unlike her however, his dark brows are drawn tightly together in confusion. The thief is not confused, she knows exactly what has occurred. And she knows exactly what she must do next.

 Stiffly she trudges back through the undergrowth towards the dwarf. The pain does not subside even for a moment, but the nearer she gets to him the more desperate she becomes to reach him already. But she slows as soon as she can see the deep blue of his eyes and finally she stops as he rights himself. Slowly, apologetically, she reaches her bare hand out towards him.  

 He is clearly worried, not understanding the source of his debilitating and uncomfortable pain. The dwarf can see the woman standing there, her hand held out to him but he cannot comprehend what has occurred. He knows of the cramps that grip his leg muscles, he feels the discomfort as plainly as he can see it on her face and he knows she suffers just the same. But why? He realizes it matters little as he glances down at her outstretched hand and then goes back to looking straight at her. She has a pitiful smile about her lips because they both know. He knows what he must do, though how he knows precisely, he cannot be sure. Sighing, he reaches out and takes her hand in his own.

 The relief of release is swift and instant. The pain melts from their bodies through the brief contact of their hands. As soon as it is over, they let go of one another and the dwarf looks long and hard at the woman in front of him. She in turn, avoids his gaze for as long as she can before dropping her shoulders in defeat.

 “We are cursed.”

 ><><><><><><><><><><>< 

 As soon as she has finished explaining what has transpired, the thief goes very quiet. Her arms are crossed, frown deep and pensive. She looks just as he feels. The dwarf can hardly wrap his head around it: they’re cursed. Of all the many obstacles he had believed would hinder him on his journey, this particular instance had not crossed his mind a single time.

 But then again, maybe this issue could be resolved. Perhaps, not all was lost. At the very least he would not give up hope yet.

 Abruptly he stands, hefting his axe into his hand and walking away. He does not look back or call out to her, simply starts marching back towards his campsite. He supposes, briefly, that there is an upside to his predicament: she cannot leave. She can’t stray too far from him, nor can she deceive him any longer. The thief absolutely must follow, which means she will have to return the items stolen. This pleases him, but it is a very small comfort. After all, what if the issue cannot be resolved?

  “Are we returning to your camp?”

 His reply is a curt, “Yes.”

 Sighing, the thief supposes she should have expected this. If they were to be cursed together she would have to go where he went. She resigns herself to the fact that she must give up her own life to follow the dwarf. The loss of her independence makes her ache to the very core. Her only comfort: that he seems to be as equally upset by the circumstances.

 He speaks again as they get closer to the camp, “There is someone in my company - a wizard. He may be able to help us out of this unforeseen and inopportune quandary.” This news seems to delight her. Her step quickens to match his pace rather than lagging a few steps behind. As soon as they are free of one another, the better for them both.

 Upon reaching the camp, he pays little attention to the number of still sleeping dwarves (their lack of initiative would have angered him at any other time) and rushes along towards the wizard in gray who sits on a boulder packing tobacco into his pipe. The man in question glances up with a bright smile aimed in their direction, but as the dwarf and the thief get closer, his smile fades.

 “Gandalf,” says the dwarf, wasting no time in getting to the point, “we require your help immediately.”

 “Indeed. What on earth has occurred to the two of you? You simply reek of magic!”

 “We’ve been cursed.”

 “Cursed?!” Gandalf’s raspy voice deepens in surprise as his pipe is all but forgotten. “How did this come to be?”

 “We have… well, been inadvertently exposed to a very powerful potion.” This time the thief speaks up. The wizard’s eyebrows shooting up prompt her to continue; she can already imagine the question he wishes to ask. “It magically bonds two self-aware beings forcing them to remain near one another. To venture outside of the limits allowed causes pain to prompt the two… subjects back to one another.” She had only explained the situation twice thus far and already she could feel it weighing her down. She was stuck… to a dwarf! The reality of it was closing in on her but she tried to focus and breathe deeply. Surely the wizard would fix this. He must. He is a wizard.

 Gandalf suddenly seems to remember his pipe and ignoring the two miserable looking people before him he raises it to his lips and begins to puff away. For a long while, he does not speak, nor does he make eye contact with either of them. Rather, he begins to blow perfect rings of smoke above his head, watching them disperse into the atmosphere.

 He finally speaks when a glance over at them reveals their near-murderous expressions, “I am afraid there is nothing I can do.”

 The thief clicks her jaw. Her mouth opens, lips twisted in a sneer before she allows a sinister smile to claim the position. A small huff escapes her nose and she notes how quickly the wizard ceases to smoke. “There is nothing you can do?” Gandalf seems to wish to say something but she beats him to it, stepping forward and saying, “You took all that time, to tell us there is nothing you can do? So much for a great and pow-” The thief cuts herself off, closing her eyes to refrain herself from speaking unnecessary words.

 Gandalf clears his throat, clearly affronted. “There is nothing I can do, but I may have a friend who can.”

 “A friend? Where can we find this friend of yours?”

 “Oh…” he drawls distractedly, “He is still some ways off, but undoubtedly our journey shall allow us to cross paths with him.”

 Our journey? She supposes she grew too excited at the prospect of being free. It had been hopeless from the start. Slowly she looks around the camp. There are four empty bedrolls, two undoubtedly belonging to the dwarf and the wizard. The rest are filled with lightly sleeping individuals. Individuals she stole from and now apparently, has to travel with. She supposes it could be worse, but she honestly cannot imagine a worse scenario.

 The dwarf has similar thoughts. However, he feels his situation is much direr than her own. He muses on his misfortune. His quest was already nearly impossible, but now he had to include the extra responsibility of another person, and a woman at that. To make it worse, he was magically bonded to her, now he also had to watch his step, ensuring neither of them wandered too far from each other as if he did not have enough to worry about. He looks to Gandalf, “I do hope your friend will be more capable.” Turning away, he gives the wizard no chance to respond.

 Directing himself towards the woman, he leads her to where two of his company members are returning from the woods. “It would seem we must tolerate each other for a while.”

 “It appears so.” They stand side by side until the two other dwarves arrive.

 “Balin. Dwalin,” he begins, “there is something we must discuss immediately.”

 “What has happened? Who is this lil’ girl?”

 She could understand the large dwarf’s worried and suspicious questions but calling her a little girl was a bit too much. The thief glares at him sharply, but he does not notice or does not care (she cannot tell which), he is entirely focused on the dwarf beside her.

 Quietly he began to explain to both Dwalin and Balin what has occurred. He leaves not a single detail out, beginning with her stealing from them early in the morning. This particular piece of information has Dwalin snarling at her angrily through bared teeth. She grumbles at him right back; she is not ashamed of what she has done or of what she is, she merely regrets the fact that she now has to return it.

 As his thorough tale concludes, he looks closely at his trusted companions. Balin is silent and pensive, hand stroking his beard in a continuous rhythm. Dwalin looks angrily at the woman, while she stares back with equal if not greater ire.

 “You,” began Dwalin, “This is all yer fault.”

 The dwarf is about to step in when she says, “My fault?” He decides his interference is not required as she goes head to head with the fiercest warrior he knows. She barely reaches Dwalin’s chin, but she points her finger at him with overabundant confidence. “I did not intend for this to happ-”

 “Ye were stealing and-”

 “Don’t interrupt.” Despite the shaking of her hands, the thief makes sure to keep her voice even and steady. She will not turn this into a yelling contest. “I was stealing, yes. However, that was my single intention: to steal your goods and to be on my way. That potion I had was never intended for myself. I may be a thief, but I am not a liar.” She pauses briefly, cooling herself down, “However, you may have whatever opinion you wish… oh Master Dwarf.” She bows her head at him mockingly, eyes never leaving his.

 They glare at each other, he doesn’t blink, neither does she. His teeth are set firmly, her fists are clenched tightly. “It does not matter if ye are a lass – If ye hurt anyone, or betray anyone, you will pay.” With that, Dwalin turns around and leaves.

 Balin does not follow. Dwalin’s outburst had its foundations but it had been somewhat too aggressive. Ever the peacekeeper, the older dwarf waves his hands in a placating manner, “Do not let him unsettle you lass. Dwalin, like most dwarves, is highly suspicious and untrusting.”

 “Yes. I’ve dealt with dwarves before.” Her voice has cooled considerably, but she can’t help but feel sheepish. Her own outburst had been unnecessary. Most likely the only effect she will have achieved in confronting Dwalin, will be to alienate him further from her and cause him to mistrust her even more. “I understand. And I also apologize. This is a quite the unfavorable situation, one we could all do without, but it is what it is. If it were not for this, I would be long gone with all I had stolen.” The two dwarves raise their brows at her; the one at her side going so far as to cross his arms over his chest but remaining quiet.  “But I will be returning everything I have taken as a sign of good will.”

 “You would have had to return it regardless of good will.”

 “True.” She shakes her head and looks back to Balin. He is kind enough to say nothing, offering her only a vague shrug of his shoulders. “True. But I am hoping that by returning it, I can introduce myself and begin relations a tad better than I just did with Master Dwalin.”

 He supposes it would be a start. The dwarf does not much care whether she gets along with his company or not but he knows it would make traveling easier if they did. This was to be their life now. At least until they met with Gandalf’s mysterious, but apparently very powerful friend. The thief at least seems open to adapting, a good trait, one he would do well to imitate. Like she had said, it is what it is and they would simply have to deal with it. So, he would. He had to. “Very well,” he finally says, arms still crossed over his chest and not quite looking at her, “That does seem to be the best manner in becoming part of the company.”

 The thief merely hums at him. She is willing away her disappointment. She has to make the best out of her situation and that means integrating herself into the social dynamic of her new companions. But that does not mean she only intends to make friends. No. She knows she must help and contribute in any way she can. The woman is not helpless and she would make sure they would not treat her as if she were. She refuses to be another load they have to carry. She can pull her own weight and then some. Besides, she muses thoughtfully, what if Gandalf’s friend is unable to help us as well? What if there is no solution? The thought is too dark to ponder for long. He will be able to help us… Until then she will strive to make amends and to live as peacefully with the thirteen dwarves, the hobbit and the wizard as she can.

  “What is your name, lass?”, says Balin after a long silence.

 His smile is comforting and genuine. Despite her many thoughts she gives them pause to reciprocate with a small smile of her own. “Sona. My name is Sona.”

 “Sona.” He smiles a little brighter as he says it. “Well Sona, despite the circumstance, allow me to formally welcome you to the company of Thorin Oakenshield.”

 “Thank you.” Thorin Oakenshield? He said it as though the name had some great significance. The name did sound familiar though, quite familiar. But she could not remember where she had heard it or why. Thorin Oakenshield… Thorin Oakenshield…