Chapter Text
The day started, bright and crisp and full of leisure, without a single hint of what’s to come.
Ningalor sighed her contentment and sipped from her wine glass, appreciating the richness of the flavor. Some would argue it was far too early in the day to consume alcohol of any kind, particularly for a woman, and especially for an unmarried one (an old spinster, they damned her). However, she knew no better way to celebrate the last days of April than to sip on wine just as fruity and vibrant as the month itself. The aged red revealed an undercurrent of chocolate, enhanced by the wooden taste of the oak and in perfect yet complementing contrast to the spark of the cherry. She spun the glass gently against the wooden bench on which she sat and inhaled deeply.
The sun shone bright and blew fresh, sweet breeze upon her face. While unconventional, she chose to spend it outside instead of hiding in her house from the unforgiving touch of the not-so-shy anymore rays of sun. Her duty as the sole manager of a rather large estate did not allow for idleness, but the day was too beautiful to spend it laboring over books and numbers and such.
The garden faced the road, which was somewhat inconvenient but seldom posed an issue. The people of her village, called the Shire, rarely crossed so close to her house without a good reason, and reading a book with a plot was indeed a pleasant change. In fact, she was immersed in the story, which began to unravel the tale of an unexpected journey, when a shadow fell on her page and interrupted her reading.
“Good morning,” she said, her tone polite but crisp enough to enlighten the intruder to her presence and, hopefully, shoo him.
“What do you mean?” said a deep, booming voice, “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?”
“Gandalf!” she cried. She leaped from her bench and ran toward the old man, opened the gate in a hurry and hugged him fiercely without a single consideration for her reputation. “Oh, it really is you!” She smiled shortly, before frowning again. “Though no doubt you are here only because of a scheme, and, therefore, I do not expect you to be good, on this morning or the rest to come.”
“How absurd!” The old man frowned quite menacingly, yet the amusement shining from underneath very bushy eyebrows could not be mistaken for anything else. “I never scheme,” he mocked her choice of words with a proud huff.
Ningalor merely cocked a brow at him, before schooling her features into a more appropriate smile as she decided not to comment on that. “Have you come to look at the estate? I have taken very good care of it, I’ll have you know.”
“Of that, I am certain,” the old man replied, scanning the building for a short moment and then scanning her quite thoroughly, making her feel entirely uncomfortable. He had a long, gray hair, tousled from the journey, and wizened, sunburned face. His long silver beard and broad shoulders gave him the commanding build of a king, and his eyes, like the bluest sapphires burning bright, seemed to notice everything. Massive, bushy eyebrows set above a rather large, prominent nose crowned his appearance with command and gravity. His clothes earned him the nickname ‘Gandalf the Gray,' for they were gray of color and tarnished by wear. His staff, wooden and polished, and his boots, black and covered in mud, were the only items which were not gray – even his hat, a large, pointy thing, was gray.
“Yes?” she asked after a long moment of silence, feeling increasingly ill at ease.
“You seem to have settled,” he offered finally, after another long moment of inspection.
“Well, of course. This is my home now,” she said, confused. “Wasn’t that your intention?”
“Hmm… Indeed, it was. And I am glad to see I was successful.” He added thoughtfully, “How do you like it?”
Ningalor scowled and yet answered honestly, hoping she wouldn’t come to regret her, “I love the peace and the quiet. I love the gentleness of the folk here, even if the conversation is lacking and their minds tend to be simple and focused on very few things, food chiefly amongst them. But of course, it is a small price to pay in return for anonymity and freedom.”
“You are bored, then.”
“Books make for excellent company,” she countered, sensing the wheels turning in her companion’s graying head. She crossed her hands over her chest, narrowed her eyes, uncrossed them and instead walked to her bench. She sat gracefully and picked up her book, hoping for it to signal that yes, she was happy, yes, she had settled, and yes, her book is preferred to some company.
“But the world is not in your books, child, it is out there! Beyond the borders of the Shire!”
“As I well know, thank you!” she replied curtly.
Gandalf scowled in response and added, “I think it is time, Ningalor, you had spent your days doing what you meant to be doing, and adding figures isn’t one of them.” He ignored the way she cringed when he used her real name, and then nodded, as if to himself. “It will be very good for you, and most amusing for me. I shall inform the others.” And he turned away without another word.
“Others? What – Gandalf!” She stood up, entirely flustered. Shouting would not do, as it was improper, and the idea of chasing the man on foot seemed absurd to her – he was indeed an old man, but surprisingly swift for his age, and she already lost sight of him as he turned left at the nearby corner.
With an angry huff, she closed her book and finished her wine. She could not protest, not really, as she was not really the owner of Bag End. She only managed it when Gandalf was absent, which was usually the case. And if Gandalf wanted to bring guests, she could do nothing about it. Deciding to swallow the bitterness of a lost argument, as well as the powerlessness of her situation, she squared her shoulders and entered the house, opening the round, green door with more decisiveness that she actually felt.
“Primula?” she called, picking up her hat and a basket. “Primula?”
“Yes, Miss Lily?” A stocky, agile woman appeared. She had long black curly hair, bright blue eyes, and apple red cheeks. Her comely face lost its smile when she saw the expression on Ningalor’s face, and she lowered the child she was carrying to the floor, letting him toddle away as he liked. “You look troubled, what is it?”
“Master Grayhame dropped by. I believe he intends to invite some people over,” she said, fastening her hat with short and brisk movements. “Did not say how many, or when they will come,” she added when she saw the questions forming on Primula’s face.
The woman scoffed. “That’s very like him, indeed!” She rolled her eyes at her employer. “What shall we do, Miss?”
Ningalor passed her another basket. “I suggest we stock up before the markets close. I am not sure what we have in our cellars, but we definitely need more wine and ale, if we are to cater to his tastes.”
Primula accepted the basket with a warlike glint in her eyes. “Well, I do know what we have, and I agree entirely. Let us raid the market, then,” she declared as she wore her hat and smiled at Ningalor, who lifted her brow in a small, calculated movement. “Nothing too perishable, mind. I suggest smoked meats and cakes, and cheese and wine by the dozen.”
Ningalor walked out and let Primula close the door behind them. “A raid indeed. Let us hope we will prepare well for the oncoming attack.”
The other woman laughed freely, giggling at the notion, and Ningalor allowed a small smile to grace her lips as her companion chatted away. If all else fails, at least she could prove to the old man how well she learned the ways of the Shire.
Maybe that would convince him to let her stay.
They were properly excited that day and nervous at night, but no visitor came knocking on their door. The day after passed just as peacefully, as the only unusual event happened during the late afternoon when Frodo, Primula’s son, managed to chase a pack of geese inside the house.
They found him giggling and jumping excitedly, completely satisfied with the havoc his actions caused.
Primula cleaned the house while chastising the boy. Meanwhile, Drogo, her husband, fixed the fence and took care of the poor beasts, and Ningalor rearranged her paperwork, which floated everywhere and had to be chronologized, again.
Therefore, when she finally sat to dinner with the Baggins family at the servant table (smaller, homier, easier to clean), the knock on the door caught them entirely unprepared. Neither was eager to get the door and find out who was on the other side, and each urged the other with pointed brows and shifting looks to go and greet the guest.
Eventually, Ningalor rose, feeling quite ridiculous for being wiggled at, and announced, “I’ll get it.”
She was, after all, the hostess of the estate, and that was her responsibility. She walked toward the hall, straightened her dress and felt slightly better when she heard Drogo and Primula getting up unanimously and following her to the door, which was knocked on, again. She looked behind to find Primula muttering something about the lateness of the hour and to see – oh Gods, this was not meant to be a reassuring sight – Drogo clutching a shovel.
Ningalor opened the door, and whatever she was expecting, it wasn’t a tall, burly man with a massive, wild beard, dressed in a long cloak and looking incredibly dangerous.
The tall man bowed slightly, taking in the sight of baffled Ningalor and the couple behind her in a stride. “Lord Dwalin, at your service.”
Ningalor blinked twice, then remembered the manners of her youth and curtsied shortly. “Madam Lily, at yours. Do come in,” she said politely and stepped back. The broad-shouldered man entered the house (he had to bow slightly to fit) and glanced around – not in appreciation, she sensed, but in search of a trap, or perhaps a way out. A warrior, then, even if his muscly frame already informed her of that.
“Please place your weapons next to the door, if you’ll be so kind,” she added, taking in the sight of two battle-axes and goodness knows what else. “And your cloak.”
She did not need to glance back, for Drogo suddenly remembered his duties (or perhaps Primula nudged him) and came to help the man shrug off his heavy travel cloak, which seemed out of place in the warm weather. In the candlelight, she could see his scalp was tattooed with symbols foreign to her. He had a rather large, prominent nose, a wolfish beard and mustache, ashy brown, and as dirty and tousled hair, covering the area from his ears to his neck. His eyes, bright green and vigilant, scrutinized his surroundings from underneath thick and bushy eyebrows. His face was torn by old battle-scars.
“Are you Gandalf’s guest?” she inquired when the man did nothing to explain his presence.
“Aye. Said it will be here. Said there will be food. Lots of it,” he grumbled. His voice was thick and his annunciation – guttural.
“Right this way, my lord,” she said with a small bow of her head and led him to the formal dinner table while Primula, bless her, already scurried to the kitchen to bring dinner. “Are we to expect more guests tonight?” she asked.
The man settled into the chair, his frame still mighty and menacing despite the homely tapestry surrounding him. “Aye, lots more,” he said with a gruff, nodding in appreciation when Primula appeared with a dish of fish and a large flagon of ale, which the man finished alarmingly fast. “Any more?” he ordered.
Ningalor exchanged a glance with Primula, who hurried back to the kitchen. The lord’s accent was familiar, yet she could not place it. Staring is rude, she reminded herself after failing to decipher the Lord’s origins, and followed Primula to find the couple already preparing several more dishes.
“Something tells me this ‘Lord’ intends to eat like one, and if more like him are coming, then we need to prepare our entire cellar!” Primula hissed.
Ningalor nodded and intended to voice her own displeasure when a knock, just as alarming as the one before, made the couple jump and Ningalor freeze. “Let us hope that when he said ‘lots more’ he meant about five more, yes?” Ningalor sighed and walked briskly to the door, took a steadying breath, and opened it.
“Lord Balin, at your service.” Bowed a smaller man than the one before, and definitely kinder looking (both things not hard to achieve, considering the impressive scowl and size of their first guest).
“Madam Lily, at yours.” Once again she curtsied and allowed the man in. He wore a magnificent, red cloak and tunic, even if slightly singed. He had a long, massive white beard, receding hairline, and hairy eyebrows.
“Cloak and weapons by the door, if you please,” she added, pointing to the small pile.
“I see I am not the first to arrive,” he commented, chuckling.
“No, my lord. Lord Dwalin is already eating at the table. May I offer you dinner?”
“That will be most appreciated,” said the old man kindly.
Ningalor warmed up to him slightly – he spoke like a proper lord and not one raised in the wild – and led him to the dining room.
“Brother!” Dwalin, who already finished his fish and apparently was busy finishing their bread, got up from his chair with a loud clank and marched toward Balin.
“Good evening, brother!” The men clasped hands and chuckled, then smashed their foreheads together.
Ningalor frowned, and both men lost her respect.
What an inappropriate way to behave at a dinner table!
Primula appeared carrying yet another tray, and both men sat and began (or resumed) to dine, exchanging small pleasantries and ignoring Ningalor entirely.
While it was incredibly rude to disrupt a lord’s dinner, she felt that, for the sake of her and the Baggins’ nerves, she quite had to. “Excuse me,” she said once, politely, and when ignored she repeated her words, her voice stern, “Excuse me!”
Balin seemed to notice her and turned to face her with a frown. Dwalin just narrowed his eyes. Great.
“Do forgive me, my lords, for the interruption, but how many of you are we to expect? I am asking for the sake of preparations, of course.”
Balin smiled at her in reassurance. “Hmm… I do not know, Gandalf was not too unambiguous. At least one more for sure, and let us hope for far more than that, yes?”
Dwalin nodded as he tore his cold cut with relish, and Balin returned to his own dish, so, properly dismissed and none the wiser, Ningalor left the room and once again retreated to the kitchen.
“Well?” Drogo asked, frying fish in a hurry.
“At least one more, but hopefully more than that.” She buried her face in her hands.
“I do hope that they will have proper stomachs, not a bottomless pit like that Lord,” Primula spat, stuffing the chicken with quite a bit of force. “Are we to feed an army?” she complained.
Knock – no, knocks on the door. Ningalor cocked a brow quizzically at the couple, but both were too busy to notice the impropriety. She walked to the door, wondering what she would find upon opening it.
“Lord Fili –“
“And Lord Kili –“
“At your service,” they finished together and bowed together, which made her lips twitch.
“You must be Lily!” said the dark-haired boy (whose name she already forgot).
His pleased yet inappropriate comment made her lips curl.
“Madam Lily, if you please.” She stepped inside and repeated the usual comments, watched as they hung their cloaks (“Look, Fili! I think Lord Dwalin’s here! Lord Balin, too!”) which meant the dark-haired one was… Kili? She began to wonder at the amusing similarity between those people’s names as she led them inside (were they also siblings? They did not say), and then hurried to the kitchen to bring more tankards of ale since Dwalin and Balin already finished three.
The light haired one, Fili, she supposed, had a bright, handsome face, a cocksure gait, and eyes promising mischief. He had a beard and a mustache as well, short and well-groomed, though he had quite a mane of long, blond hair to make up for that. His clothes were rich in texture and, like Lord Dwalin, adorned with quite a bit of soft looking fur.
Kili, however, was dark haired and had the least impressive beard out of the four (more of a stubble, actually). He had the same cocksure gait, the intensity of his companion and the handsome features – sharp eyebrows, dark eyes and an elegant nose, but his youth still showed in the roundness of his cheeks.
Ningalor wondered if they came from the mountains as she considered the thin fabric of her dress, and about the wealth of these people, these lords, that were Gandalf’s guests. She took one plate full of sausages from Drogo, and yet another bottle of wine, and aided the two in feeding the men – who apparently hadn’t eaten for a week, judging by the amounts they managed to consume.
Another knock on the door – by the gods, make it the last of them! – interrupted her train of thought, and she once again hurried to the door, wondering, for the first time, where did Gandalf intend to lodge them – Bag End had two guestrooms and two bedrooms, but…
She opened the door and cursed the fates, for before her stood not one, not two, but eight men, each more menacing and stranger looking than the other. Then she laid her eyes on the strangest of them all and exhaled in relief mixed with the lightest touch of reproach.
“Gandalf!”
The old man smiled at her, clearly quite pleased with himself. He chuckled when Ningalor ordered the new guests around and then, despite the fact she was supposed to lead them to the dining room, only muttered, “Just follow the noise.”
Which they did heartily and offered her neither names nor service – perhaps she judged the Lords too quickly for their ill manners – this group had none!
She looked at Gandalf in disapproval. “Gandalf, what were you thinking, inviting an army here? And without proper warning! Poor Drogo and Primula are working so hard, your men clearly have no manners, and where on earth am I supposed to lodge them? I do not suppose either of them – or you – thought to bring a tent with you?” Yet she still looked behind him, as if expecting a tent.
“Now, now, my dear! No need to fret.” The old man chuckled. “Have you eaten yet? I did want to join you at supper, however, circumstances….”
They reached the dining hall – Gandalf had the gall to laugh openly at the raucous merriment. Ningalor, on the other hand, paled and wondered how many hours she would have to spend scrubbing the floors (and, oh gods, the walls. How on earth did they manage that?).
“I think I lost my appetite,” she uttered in pure distaste.
Gandalf hmmed and took his seat. “Well then, could I trouble you for a plate?”
She offered him a tight-lipped smile. “Of course, the usual?”
“If you could, my dear. And after that – do join us!” he called after her.
Ningalor already dismissed herself and left. She returned with his food, but the old man was too busy counting his companions to notice, and muttered, “We appear to be one man short.”
Dwalin, if she remembered correctly, took a large sip from his tankard and declared, “He traveled North to a meeting of our Bond. He will come.”
Ningalor sighed, feeling entirely unrepentant as she cursed the man in her mind and surveyed the table. Indeed, a few more dishes, perhaps, and then it would be a proper time to bring out the desserts. Oh, and she had to tell the couple to make one more dish for later. Right.
She marched, determined to be useful to the best of her ability, into the dining room. The men shouted at her for cakes and beer, which made her cringe with distaste (as if I were a common wench!). But before she could serve the men, there was another knock on the door, louder and clearer and far more commanding than its predecessors, and the men fell quiet.
Ningalor cocked her brow at that, wondering if the knocker had not dented the wood or damaged the paint with his forceful knocking, and turned to open the door when Gandalf rose from his chair, muttering, “He is here,” and went to the door by himself.
Curious though she was, Ningalor walked to the kitchen to perform her duties. She cared little for the commotion or for those who were late. Primula returned to the dining room with her, carrying a hot plate of roast lamb and stew. She placed the dish at the appropriately empty seat at the head of the table, while Ningalor spread out the desserts and cakes and ale. This time, however, no one paid attention to them or to the food.
“…I lost my way, twice. Wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for that large oak tree you spoke of,” said a deep, smooth baritone voice, rich and articulated.
Ningalor paused, frowning imperceptibly. This man differed from his companions, though she knew not the reason, nor could she decipher that from his words. The… rhythm of his words was different. One might suspect he was of aristocratic origins.
Gandalf appeared, accompanied by a tall, strongly-built man, handsome and grim. He had dark hair, falling to his shoulders in long, smooth tresses. His clothes were the richest by far, as he wore a fur-trimmed coat and silver mail. His tunic was vibrant blue and his entire posture a regal one, and his eyes, piercing blue, scanned the men with a commanding calm and a benevolent tilt of his head. His sharp, aristocratic cheekbones and the trimmed beard only accentuated the strength of his jaw. He had a prominent nose and thick, expressive eyebrows, but one could not mistake his somber, noble features for anything but utterly captivating.
His eyes locked with hers, and the contempt they held made her forget whatever praise her mind supplied.
Gandalf cleared his throat. “Lily, my dear, allow me to introduce you to the leader of our company, Thorin II Oakenshield, Duke of Erebor.”
The man, Thorin, was not impressed by the title, as was Ningalor, who frowned in confusion. Nor did she appreciate the fact that Gandalf had, once again, introduced aristocracy into her life. She had rather enjoyed the lack thereof, despite what the old man might have thought.
The Duke was looking at her, inspecting her with revulsion unhidden. As if she were some broken furniture, useless and disappointing, unworthy of even the mere show of politeness. Prickled, she pressed her lips in a similar show of disgust. “Duke of Erebor? I thought that title was lost. Unless you are the Usurper, in which case I do apologize,” she quipped
and congratulated herself when the man narrowed his eyes at her, sending a scorching glare her way.
Gandalf interrupted, as usual, “No, no! This is the true heir to the title, which indeed, as you so politely mentioned, was lost.” He cocked a bushy brow at her, a gesture she reciprocated. Something that, apparently, caused the younger men to snicker.
Sensing that she might be hindering something, Ningalor curtsied gracefully and mumbled, “Do excuse me.”
She turned to leave, but Gandalf would have none of that. “No, Lily! I must insist that you had stayed with us. Prim, dear, if you are all done setting Thorin’s food….”
“Oh, right, yes, sorry, Master, I’m –“ Primula blushed, curtsied, and left the dining hall in a hurry. Ningalor followed her escape, then returned her eyes to Gandalf. Meanwhile, the so-called duke abandoned their company and sat, with all due ceremony, of course, at the head of the table and began to eat.
His men spoke to him, but Ningalor did not understand their words nor bothered with them. Indeed, she felt more and more out of place with each passing moment. Her gaze snapped to Gandalf.
The man must have understood her objection from the look on her face, for he quickly added, “You are very necessary for this meeting, dear. We have gathered here for your sake, after all!” He ushered her into a chair – next to the Duke, in fact, and sat between them – as a sort of a mediator, she thought grimly.
The Duke glanced at their direction and replied in grave Westron to Dwalin, who asked him a question in a loud, protesting, desperate? manner, “This is our quest, our duty, ours alone.”
Ningalor frowned but said nothing. She glanced at the faces of the men – worried, fallen, angry, unsure. Whatever cheer they had died with the Duke’s words, or perhaps his mere presence. They looked grim and weathered, and even the boys had a hard, sharpened glint in their eyes.
“But how are we to reclaim the Mountain with thirteen men and one woman? We need their help!”
Her eyes widened at the words, and she fixed a flabbergasted gaze at the speaker, a red-haired man with the wildest, most impressive coppery beard she ever saw and a guttural accent like that of the warrior-lord. But before she could say a word of protest, Gandalf placed a steadying hand on her shoulder. She sent him a suspicious, accusing look, and while at it caught sharp blue eyes – the Duke was scowling at her, then fixed his eyes on Gandalf, who opened his mouth to speak.
“Yes, Gloin, that is indeed one option, but a very dangerous one at that! An army of men, all of whom identifiable as members of the Dwarven Bond – you will attract attention, and not the one you seek. No, for such a quest, it is better to be swift, and silent, and shadowy. The less attention, the better, and swifter you will be, the more trouble you will avoid. For every problem, there is always the violent option – but the diplomatic one is no less potent, and sometimes even wiser.”
All eyes as one turned to look at her, and Ningalor, who had spent many years avoiding the spotlight, did not welcome them. “Ah, let me guess. Am I to be that fabled diplomat?” she asked softly, but the poisonous edge had not gone unnoticed.
Gandalf, of course, chose to ignore that. “Fabled? Too young for that, I think.” He chuckled. “But you do have a way with words, especially with the other alliances, I believe? The Brotherhood of Men and the Elven Alliance often clash with the Dwarven Bond. Now –“
“Whom are you loyal to?” asked one of the younger men – Kili, was it? She forgot who was the dark haired one and who the fair. His rude interruption of his superior could have been brushed aside had his question been less penetrating. Dangerous, even. She must answer carefully.
“The Shire once owed its loyalties to the High King, but there hasn’t been a king for many decades now, and it hadn’t pledged for any of the alliances,” she replied and thought of Gandalf’s words. Erebor… she saw it once, a heap of ruins in the distance. She saw it from her room, in her father’s fortress.
“What about the White Council?” asked another, but she did not grace that with an answer. That question was too dangerous for her to risk answering it honestly. For if her case were brought before the White Council, her current actions would be considered treacherous, even if only the help of a member of the White Council allowed for the execution of her betrayal.
“I am afraid I must to refuse you, my kind lords and good sirs,” she said, voice clear and sharp, “I have my duties –“
“What duties?” boomed Gandalf, infuriated with her decision, “None which I haven’t given you!”
And that is why one must never trust a member of the White Council, she thought disdainfully and said, “So you have the right to order me around as you please?” She stood up, cheeks ablaze, “I will not go east, Gandalf!”
“You fear a childhood shadow! Besides, our road will not take us near –“
“Oh, indeed, for roads and rivers are free of wanderers, restrain his reach and stay his spies.”
“You think too highly of yourself, I dare say,” Gandalf replied hotly, and then added more kindly, “You are changed; time has passed. Those who are looking will not know what for. It is quite safe, as far as the road east goes.”
“Pretty words might soothe a baby, but I haven’t been one for quite a while. Diplomats, there are many. Find another.”
“Lily –“
“I haven’t been to any court for… far too long. I know not how to hold a sword, nor shoot an arrow. This… quest of yours was not meant for folk such as myself –“
“Lily!” thundered Gandalf as he rose from his chair. “Cut out from the world indeed! You have forgotten that I have been roaming this earth far longer than you have, and I have met many a man – diplomats and soldiers alike – therefore, if I chose you, it was a well-informed decision that was made carefully. Sit down and have some wine, please.” When she refused to sit, he poured her a glass and continued, “He will not look for you, surrounded by those of the Dwarven Bond. And while roads and rivers are no barriers, he has his mind occupied elsewhere. Now,” he added, sternly, as Ningalor slowly slid into her chair and accepted the glass of wine, yet did not sip from it. Shame boiled within her when she realized how many had witnessed her conversation with Gandalf. Too many. On second thought, she did sip from the glass.
Too many ears. Too dangerous. Does he mean to blackmail me?
“Now,” Gandalf repeated as he sat down, and once again the eyes left Ningalor in peace and focused on Gandalf. “As you well know, the objective of this quest is to take back Erebor. We will encounter trouble on the road, no doubt about that, but… when we get to the Mountain….” He pulled out a map, weather-stained and ancient, and a key from his robe and placed them on the table.
“The Front Gate is sealed. Smaug the Usurper crushed the doors, and mercenaries known in the wild as the Goblin tribes are patrolling the roads to it. However, this map speaks of a hidden entrance, and this is the hidden entrance’s key.” He handed the key to Thorin, who accepted it with yet another dark scowl.
Ningalor cocked a brow. “I do not see why I am needed. You speak of Goblins and danger and goodness knows what. What skill I have, they will skewer me before I have a chance to talk.”
It was the renegade Duke who answered. “We do not need you for the road. We can fend for ourselves and take care of you,” he replied grimly, voice dripping contempt. “We need you to speak with the serpent, find out his traps, discover his plans.”
Ningalor’s eyes widened momentarily before she managed to school her features and hide her thoughts. “You want me to speak with the Usurper? The mad murderer will skin me alive the moment I step into his halls.”
The false Duke’s face twisted into a thunderous glower, probably because of the unfortunate way she chose to phrase her sentence, but Gandalf, once again, stepped in. “Not another word of pessimism, child!” he reprimanded. “Smaug was not seen for many a year. It is possible that he merely died or perhaps left. We need to find out. If he is still alive, I do believe that he had no interaction with the world at large for many years. His first action will not be to kill you.”
“Hardly reassuring.”
“I am sure your mind will change in time,” Gandalf said offhandedly, smiling serenely at her bitter expression. “Trust me on this,” he said to Thorin, who growled his displeasure yet nodded to Balin.
Balin retrieved from his pocket a rather large piece of parchment, with many additions and side-notes, written painstakingly in perfect calligraphy and minuscule script. Ningalor frowned at that, blinked several times, yet found it hard to focus on the words. No, reading was impossible under the weight of… actually, only one man was looking at her, and he turned his piercing gaze away the second she lifted her eyes and met his.
She pursed her lips. “I shall take some time to read, then. Excuse me.” She left the room.
This time, no one tried to stop her, though she may have heard Gandalf sigh.
“This is a terrible idea.”
Thorin’s eyes left the woman, now that she had gracefully retreated and finally managed to escape their company. She did not say it, but he saw in her eyes how offensive she found them, and he could not have agreed more with Dwalin’s words.
Gloin, too, hmmed his agreement. “She looks weak, too thin and frail, and no doubt too used to the comforts of home. Saw none of her diplomatic skills yet.”
Gandalf cocked a brow. “Did she not convince you, quite easily, that she is not meant for this journey? That was her point, and she got it across rather well, I should think. But that only proves my point as well.”
Ori blinked. “I don’t understand, if –“
Balin chimed in, “The odds are against us. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toymakers; hardly the stuff of legend. We are not a company of the very bravest, or the very brightest, and she no doubt sees that, too. We cannot risk taking her with us, and she has no reason to come.”
Oin joined, “And if she did come, it will be only for gold.”
Gandalf boomed again, “I will allow no such words of slander! Had Lily had a love of gold, she would not be found here, and do not mistake it.”
Thorin considered their advice and their bickering. His men did not like her, and neither did he. Evidently, Gandalf saw something they did not, though perhaps he only wanted to add this burden to serve his schemes, or as mockery. He gritted his teeth when he remembered the woman’s words. Not five minutes passed since he entered the house and she already managed to insult him – did so on purpose. Her features, lovely when he first saw them, contorted in scorn, and he saw no beauty in her any longer.
“If you want my aid, you will take her with you,” Gandalf added. He directed his words at Thorin, for none had dared to speak until their leader voiced his opinion.
“We do have quite a few warriors amongst us,” Thorin offered, weighing the options, and to Balin’s scoff, he added, “Courage, loyalty, a willing heart. I can and will ask no more of any of you. Should she show us the same, I will consider her a worthy member of my company.”
She had blue eyes, cold, scornful, expressionless, frightened.
So far, she had nothing to offer that he asked for, and while the youngsters grumbled at his decision, he knew that Balin – and Gandalf, no doubt, understood his words perfectly.
However, even a reluctant agreement was enough to satisfy the old man. He rose from his chair with not an ounce of the difficulty that usually accompanied old age. “A wise decision, Your Grace! Now, I will go and check on Lily, for she has gone for quite a while,” he excused himself and left.
Thorin looked at his men, his true company, and saw only fire in their eyes.
They offered plans, they spoke of risks. Each repeated a rumor heard from passing travelers or traveling merchants. They were unsure, they were worried, and Gandalf’s suggestion for their lucky number, which seemed so promising at the beginning, now seemed like yet another empty promise; another disappointment.
Balin cleared his throat. “Thorin, you have a choice,” he started softly, the age weighing his voice. “You’ve done honorably by our people. You have built a new life for us in Ered Luin, a life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor.”
Thorin stirred. He could have no doubts, not in his heart nor theirs, if their quest were to succeed. “There is no choice, Balin. Not for me. Our home was taken from us, stolen from us. Our men, women, and children died in the wild, starved in the cold, lost their honor, their comfort, their freedom. We paid with many lives, and while we had nothing – a once great people brought low – that snake stole our home and enjoyed its riches. We will reclaim our homeland, free it from his grasp, and seize back Erebor!”
They had an outline of a plan, but no actual plan, and some of his men saw too many winters or too few. Many, indeed, had not held a weapon for too long a time and allowed their skills to rust. But now, cheering and chanting, their spirit lifted and their eyes blazing –
Balin smiled and raised his cup, “To Erebor! To Thorin! To Durin the Deathless!”
“Du Bekâr! Du Bekâr!” they shouted in response, and the house shook with their zeal and valor and faith.
He could ask for no more than that.
Ningalor read the contract. Most of it tried to prevent her from suing them, or so it would seem. Loss of reputation, damage to home while gone… renting equipment? What could she possibly rent from them?
There was, in fact, only one section regarding the promised payment – one-fourteenth of the profit. One fourteenth?! She looked up upon hearing the door open and saw Gandalf. “They will stab me in my sleep! Fourteenth indeed! The same share as the so-called Duke! Perhaps I misread….”
“You did not misunderstand, my dear. The promise is one-fourteenth of all of the wealth in Erebor indeed, and that is not an amount to be trifled with.” Gandalf smiled gently at her, so she guessed the look on her face must have been quite silly.
“But this is beyond ridiculous! Unprecedented too, to be sure. Are you sure they won’t stab me when the job is done? Nothing in the contract says otherwise.”
“Of course not! How can you possibly think such dark thoughts? They are decent fellows, honest and loyal to the bone.”
“To their leader, perhaps. Not to me.”
“And their leader is an honorable man. Grim, perhaps, but fair.”
She could not ignore the reprimand in his voice and pursed her lips in response. “I have no need for gold. And that much is bound to be trouble, rather than comfort. I have here everything I need.”
Gandalf sighed and sat beside her, took out his pipe and began to smoke. The rich, spicy tobacco filled the room with ashy aroma. “You might not,” the man said slowly, thoughtfully, “but your people do. They need your help.”
“My people?” she protested, “What people? I have none – Except for the Baggins, perhaps, but I do rightly by them, or at least –“
“Do not mock me, child,” Gandalf chided, quick to anger. “I am not speaking of the caretakers! I am speaking of your people! The people you abandoned! Mirkwood is not what it once was. The Great Greenwood is falling. The borders are shrinking, as each passing day brings with it more criminals who choose the trees as their home. The roads are not safe, your people are hiding, and your father does nothing to fix it! Instead, he locks his people inside and sends his guards patrol only the paths close to his home. The once great Dukedom is no longer, and people fear to tread near it.”
Ningalor swallowed with difficulty. “You haven’t told me.” She did not refute his accusation and weathered the sting silently. He hadn’t mentioned that he was the one who made her betrayal possible.
“You haven’t asked.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “And what am I supposed to do? How can I, wealthy or poor, influence his rule? I will not,” she added, voice wavering, “return to him. I will not.”
Gandalf hurried to reassure her. “Of course, I am not saying that you should! Nor will I allow him to find you, if I have any say in the matter. But as a wealthy woman, you can pull many a string. And connections with Erebor, and perhaps even Esgaroth… the possibilities are infinite. All you should do, my dear, is dare. Dare to be brave, and you could help Thorin and his company and save your people. I do believe in you, child.”
Ningalor, her breath quickened, rose from her chair, back ramrod straight, lips pressed into a tight line. She could not. She would not. She opened the door to leave, but the act allowed Thorin’s speech to echo within the small study and her very core.
The story of loss, the massacre, the wretched wandering of his people…
She remembered the fires. She saw the flames from her window. She smelled the ashes.
Clenching her fist, she turned to Gandalf, whose kind eyes told her he knew exactly what went through her mind, and yet, she knew what she had to say. “Fine, I’ll do it. But I have a few conditions I want to be added to the contract.”
Gandalf, damn him, cocked a brow and smiled.
Thorin relaxed in his chair, smoking his pipe, and pored over maps with Balin and Dwalin. The men served his father before him and knew the way well, and their shared experience helped devise the safest and fastest route to the mountain. That is, if all should go according to plan.
The dishes were cleared – one look from him and his men quickly offered their help to the exhausted couple who had been waiting on them all night. Gandalf had finally emerged from the study, though he and the woman still spoke in hushed voices. The old man treated her as his ward, it would seem, and while it should have attested to her worth, all it did was annoy him.
The woman once again raised her eyes to meet his, though her blank expression revealed none of her thoughts. She turned away from him, probably to complain to Gandalf about this or that, for the old man glanced his way before stirring her to the table where he sat.
The woman looked mildly upset, which probably meant she was entirely annoyed with them and the situation. She said nothing, apparently waiting for the old man to start talking.
Gandalf, in a rather rare occurrence, kept his mouth shut.
The woman sent one undecipherable look his way (resentment, surely), before she turned to Thorin and, finally, spoke. “I have heard your words, Your Grace, though no doubt they were not meant for my ears. And yet, I found they had affected me all the same. I would be honored to take part in your quest, such as it may be.”
Her eyes were unwavering, her voice steady and clear, and though he could read nothing from her expression, he also could find no hint of either deception or scorn.
All eyes focused on him, and he replied with the proper respect, still wary of the woman and her intentions. “I accept your services, which were highly recommended.” Scowling slightly, he added, “I cannot guarantee your safety; nor will I be held responsible for your fate.”
The woman cocked her brow. The cunning in her eyes told him she expected such a warning, or perhaps anticipated a similar issue. “The edge of the wild is full of perils. I cannot hold you the culprit of circumstances,” she offered. “However, before I sign this contract, I would like to discuss the addition of three sections, should we all agree on them, of course.”
Thorin narrowed his eyes, yet the fact that the woman was still standing, her posture regal and confident, and the fact that Gandalf was not a step behind her robbed him of any objection he might have had.
“Balin,” he snarled, after a failed attempt to hold his temper in check.
The older man nodded and took out a beautiful, intricate pair of glasses an equally delicate pen, and raised his head expectedly. The woman offered him the contract, moved a chair with undeniable grace and sat down, Gandalf right behind her.
“State your objections, and we shall discuss them.”
“Not objections, Your Grace,” she countered, the movement of her lips sharp but her words cautiously annunciated, “mere… additions. Should they be agreed upon.”
Thorin leaned back in his chair, using his height to his advantage, but the woman did not seem affected by that. She spoke with the same trained expression and articulate voice; she did not join the quest yet, and already she wished to change the terms and demanded to be treated as equal. The insult implied made him tighten his fist in anger.
“Firstly, I would like a promise that no matter the circumstances, the members of the company, myself included, of course, would do all in our power to aid the other members, and allow neither circumstance nor… any other source of hurt or misfortune befall our comrades. Unnatural and natural alike, delivered by fate or by direct order.”
Thorin leaned forward, eyes ablaze with rage. “You think I will hurt my own men? That I intend to harm you on this quest?” he snapped. The implication was clear, and no doubt stemmed from the age-long hate directed at his people. Clearly, they were not worthy of her good opinion, or even good enough to be considered honest or fair in their offers!
The woman did not flinch, though she swallowed before explaining her actions, “I am sorry for what I have implied, Your Grace, but I know you not. Gandalf vouched for your character, and I do believe him, but power may yet change a man, and I prefer to assume the worst about your character and let time and shared experiences prove me wrong than assume the best and be let down,” she answered eloquently.
“I am not a thief in the dark, claiming things above my station. I was born into power; I know its taste and temptation, and even in exile I have led my people and ruled and served them to the best of my ability,” he replied. Her explanation felt too elegant, too noble and lofty to be thought on the spot. As if she predicted his objection. As if she – a mere housekeeper – understood anything about power and command. Perfection smelled like dishonesty, but one he could not prove. He gritted his teeth.
“I do not doubt your word; I see the truth of it reflected in the loyalty and love of your men.”
Once again, her ready reply made him scowl. He wanted her to think, to fumble over words, to get flustered and trip. The more she spoke, the more he suspected her addition was a mistake. The woman looked like the very definition of a trap.
She continued as if she guessed his thoughts, “However, I am an outsider. And I have seen men, greater and lesser, born into power or rose into it, who lost sight of the things that truly mattered.” She sipped from her glass. “It is a precaution, nothing more,” she added, her eyes hard but not sharp, as she knew she had won.
Thorin’s scowl deepened, but he saw no way he could reasonably object to her clause. He nodded to Balin, who engraved the words into the aged parchment. He let the woman view the contract, who nodded appreciatively when the man followed her wording, then to Gandalf, who hummed his approval, and lastly to Thorin, who gave a sharp, yet firm nod.
He fixed his glare unto the woman, who spoke once again, “Secondly, I would like a promise, based on good faith and honor bound, that should I ever be in need of a sanctuary, for whatever reason, Erebor, should it be successfully reclaimed, would be willing to grant it.”
Thorin’s gaze darkened. “Whom do you need protection from?” he asked, his words forceful and demanding. Was the argument between her and Gandalf, not an hour ago, planned? Another deception?
“No one at the moment, but should such need arise –“
“You spoke of a man, earlier this dinner,” he interjected, dismissing her lie. His words were harsh. He did not care if he offended or hurt her – she spoke quite freely in their presence, after all.
The woman did take a moment to answer but did not falter. “Indeed, I have, but Gandalf said that, at this time, his search for me had come to a halt.”
“Why is he searching for you?” he demanded, displeased with the answer. The woman had existing enemies. Did Gandalf try to use him as a mercenary army for his ward? The thought burned his skin.
This time, the woman pursed her lips and Gandalf countered instead, “That, Thorin, is no concern of yours. But it does not add to your list of enemies, I assure you.”
“Is this because he poses no threat to us, or because he is already an enemy of ours?” Dwalin demanded. His eyes did not follow the conversation but focused entirely on the woman, as if he expected her to pounce on Thorin for whatever reason.
“Neither, or rather, somewhat in between, as the situation stands. Let us hope we shall not encounter him at all,” Gandalf replied as vaguely as he could. “A sanctuary, I should think, is not too harsh a demand… no length of stay is requested, or any supplies, or even lodging. Lily provided you with all of that, and she was not even warned of your coming.”
“This is your estate, is it not?” Thorin growled. “It is her duty.”
“She is to manage it, see to the business and balance the numbers. The preparation of food and lodging is not listed among her duties, and yet she did take care of that,” Gandalf objected.
It was a weak argument, hardly a point of comparison, but members of the Dwarven Bond, all too often outcast by the other alliances, did not take hospitality lightly.
“Very well,” Thorin muttered, disgruntled. “But should she ask for such a sanctuary as protection from one of our own, she will have to face a trial.”
“Agreed,” the woman answered, narrowing her eyes at his phrasing, but Thorin merely nodded to Balin, who once again wrote the new section and showed it to all parties involved.
“And the last?” Thorin demanded, already aggravated by the conversation.
This time, the woman did hesitate. She dropped her eyes, betraying a short moment of vulnerability, but when she raised her eyes, it was gone. “Should the quest be accomplished and Erebor were to be reclaimed, and should, amongst the vast wealth of your dukedom, should one find the White Gems of Lasgalen… I would like them.”
This was her least articulate comment, and her voice was quiet and her eyes not half as haughty as before. This was what he hoped for earlier, but that did not matter when he heard her request. “Not an hour ago, you heard of this quest for the first time,” he snarled. His voice dropped several octaves and thickened with anger. “Not half an hour ago, you refused to take part in it. And yet you dare – before we even sat a foot out of this house – you dare claim a part of the treasure as your own?”
The woman flinched, and it was plain to see his words affected her, but she did not back down. “Your anger is justified, as are all of your accusations,” she replied eventually.
Thorin waited, infuriated, but the woman said nothing more and did not attempt to offer any explanation. That, at least, he thought he deserved. “Did you know the gems were in Erebor before you agreed?”
She considered his question for a moment. “Yes.”
“Are they the reason –“
“No!” Came the swift reply.
He loomed over her, his eyes narrow and his glare penetrating. “Why, then?”
She did lean back in her chair to distance herself from him, but other than that did not move. “Leverage.”
The woman sat still, no expression on her face but the hard glint in her eyes. The mere word had a chilling edge to it he did not expect to find in a woman like the one before him.
“I assume you will not tell me who is your target.” He could suspect, however. The man hunting after her and the man she planned to use the gems against were the same man.
The woman shook her head, a short, graceful movement. “He is not of the Dwarven Bond.”
“Why this necklace?”
The woman opened her mouth, closed it, and murmured, “It just seemed like the proper tool.”
Tool, she called it. The art of his people, secrets refined by eons of practice. A tool, she thought it.
She glanced at Gandalf, but the old man shrugged and said nothing. He looked at the unfolding scene with interest but did not participate in it.
“As you like,” Thorin waved his hand. “But should I decide against any or all new additions, I can change the contract as I wish, without informing you.”
“So I’ve read. In that matter, I have no say. I can just hope that your actions will be guided by honest intentions, instead of dishonest ones.”
Once again, her words crawled under his skin and infuriated him. He fixed his irate glare on her, but the woman instead glanced at the paper as her eyes followed the elegant movement of the pen. After they all read and nodded, Balin offered her the pen, and –
The woman paused. She straightened and lowered her hand, which shook slightly.
Gandalf, glancing at the paper, hmmed when he noticed the problem. “I think your signature will do, Lily. Isn’t that right?”
Balin nodded, baffled. “A signature or your name, whichever you prefer.”
Gandalf placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder, a touch she leaned into. She breathed, fixed her posture, raised her hand, and signed with a swift, curved movement.
Afterward, she offered Balin back his pen and swallowed. “I believe our business is done, then?” Her voice, however, was steady.
“Yes….” Balin took the parchment and glanced at the signature. His face betrayed his utter confusion. “My, what language – is this Sindarin?”
Thorin snarled silently.
“It is the sign of my ward,” Gandalf supplied. “And as valid as a name, if not more, for it is backed up by the Heren Istarion.”
“I see,” Balin replied, studying the symbols, “fascinating. All right, all seems to be in order,” he declared and packed the contract with a pleased expression. “Welcome, Miss Lily, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield!”
The woman smiled thinly, though there was a hint of warmth in her icy eyes. “Thank you, my lord.” She rose and straightened her dress. “I will take care of the sleeping arrangements.” She turned to Thorin, whose suspicion did not fade in the slightest. “Are you to sleep alone, or would you rather share?”
Thorin, of course, did not want to share, but the estate, while large, could not have that many bedrooms. “How many beds do you have?” he inquired, trying to keep the anger from simmering. It was a practical inquiry, one he could not object to.
“Four. All of them large and could hold at least two.” She turned to Gandalf. “I assume you would want to keep your room to yourself….”
“Well, there must be some benefit to being the owner.” The old man smiled. “And my back is not what it used to be.”
“Very well. Your Grace?”
“I will lodge with my nephews.” She knitted her brows and so he clarified, “Fili and Kili.”
“I shall add a mattress if one was not already added. My lord?” She turned to Balin, sensing, rightly, that he was the elder.
“I think I will stay with my brother,” the older man replied, and Dwalin grunted his agreement.
“Hmm… for the last bedroom… Oin and Gloin? They are lords as well, are they not?” Her manner was so businesslike, it was nothing short of infuriating. Bossing them around, ordering them…
Gandalf took out his pipe. “And where will you sleep, my dear?”
“With Drogo and Primula. They have brought a mattress down to the servants’ rooms.”
Gandalf furrowed his brow. “You are no servant,” he objected.
The woman’s fingers twitched. “And yet, I am no lord.” She exited the room, her hair and dress billowing behind her.
Gandalf sighed, and only then Thorin realized that his eyes followed her, clouded with anger.
“She used to be a person of great importance, once,” Gandalf said slowly. “Do not mistake her actions or her words for scorn or mockery. She was raised to withhold words and emotions and to reveal nothing.”
Thorin tightened his fist, muttering darkly, “Why are you telling us this? I care not for who she used to be.”
The man puffed a ring of smoke. “You are both grim and bitter, and I refuse to have an adventure without any joy in it,” he replied loudly. “Between the two of you, I fear I may find more cheer in a graveyard.”
“This is not one of your parties, old man,” Thorin hissed, jaw clenching. “I would advise you not to forget that.”
“And I would urge you to listen to my counsel more often,” Gandalf rose, angry himself. “I think I hear music. I shall go and seek the company of like-minded fellows.”
Thorin waved his hand in dismissal, but the old man had already left.
He groaned in aggravation and muttered, “I agreed to suffer an addition to our company to reap the benefits of his wisdom; why must he have picked the most obnoxious one he could find?”
Balin tilted his head. “I am not so sure, Thorin. She is eloquent and presented her arguments rather well. We spent hours debating on the very wording of the contract, remember? She convinced you with relative ease.”
“If Gandalf had not sat right next to her, I would have thrown the parchment in her self-righteous face,” he growled, unwilling to be appeased.
Dwalin shrugged. “Say what you like, there is something not right about her, and I don’t like it.” He turned to Thorin. “You noticed it too, didn’t you?”
“Noticed what?” Thorin grumbled, tired and suffering from a mild case of a headache.
“You kept staring at her,” The older warrior pointed out.
Thorin, scowling, sipped from his wine glass and said nothing.