1 | vengeance [oakenshield]

TWO

COLD GREETINGS

It had been about a month since his meeting with the Wizard.

One month. But it felt like eternity.

Maybe because it has been eternity; it's been an eternity since he held hope in his breast, eternity since he felt excitement on the horizon, eternity since he felt the world was on his side.

A sudden dread twinged as his eyebrows drew closer together. If the world was truly on his side, then why wasn't his kin? Why deny the Dwarves a chance to reclaim their home, restore their honor, finally live a life of peace instead of groveling at the feet of Men who would dare treat them lesser than they deserved? A life in the Blue Mountains had been quaint and peaceful, he guessed, but it wasn't home.

Erebor was home. And he swore to his family that he would kill that dragon, no matter what.

He quickly shook his head in attempts to dispel any distractions that wanted to venture forth into his head. Focus, he had to focus on the task at hand. A King wasn't supposed to show doubt in the faces of his peers, nor fear in the face of a daunting mission. He was prepared, he was ready — if he allowed himself to feel this way, one could argue that he was excited.

But, as quickly as it may have came, that excitement soon molded into frustration. Where in the fuck was he?

He had been riding through the Farthing woods for much longer than he knew he should've been riding for, anticipation rising with each tuff of his pony's hooves. A simple trek to the Shire was turning out to be an unwanted adventure, and every moment he spent lulling about in empty sticks were wasted moments that could be used to plan.

A feint rustling of the trees forced his cascaded raven hair out of his eyes as he looked up, his forehead creasing as his eyebrows angled downwards. The hairs that were standing on the back of his neck was a pure indication that something was wrong, but the anxiety in his stomach was an indication that he didn't know what was wrong — false, he knew what was wrong, the anxiety came from the problem itself:

He wasn't alone.

"You're lost."

There was no direct location of the sound, and now the anxiety was churning in his stomach. But he remained his composure. What kind of king would he be if he showed fear every time a voice called out to him in the dark?

"You keep traveling in circles."

Still peering into the trees, he slid off his horse and cautiously placed his palm on the hilt of his axe. The voice was female, that much he could interpret, but there was still no direct location of where she actually was.

Thorin's ears never picked up the soft thud of someone's feet touching the ground from behind, landing with so little but enough force to rustle the leaves surrounding both of them. She was so subtle, Thorin took the movement of the leaves for the wind, which was lowly whispering in his ears, telling him—