3 | KINGS AND LEGENDS
IF SOMETHING IS BEAUTIFUL, it is dangerous. Take elves, for example. Fair, graceful, slender - physically perfect, but also the most deadly creature living on Middle Earth. They were as deadly as they were stunning, and it was terrifying.
Places were only beautiful to cover the ugliness below, I had learnt. Beauty was a mask that was used to hide darkness, a shroud over truth. Beauty was a lie, one which had been taught to the elves and the men until they were blinded by it.
And, apparently, taught to the hobbits of the Shire, too.
Gandalf smiles, admiring the Shire calmly. I believe that he is a wizard now - I would be a fool to question him. He is an odd wizard, for sure, but a wizard all the same. I can see it in his walk, as he treads the earth so gently, inhumanly. I can see it in his smile; the smile that says : I know more than you will ever know. I can even see it in the way he eyes the Shire - with a strange kind of benevolence, as if he created this place and has looked after it - it is the same way you would look at a plant which you have nurtured and grown once it flowers.
For once, I find myself agreeing with him here, though. The Shire is perhaps the most delightful place I have ever seen. The grass is the purest shade of green, sprouting at the edge of every house until I feel as though I am surrounded in a grassy haze. Flowers frame every hole, bursting with life in shades of violet and magenta, each garden taken care of with meticulous detail. Even the doors are perfectly painted, not a scratch in sight.
It's rather nauseating, actually. How can anything be so perfect like this? It's all so boring.
"Good morning." A voice snaps me out of my reverie, as a young man sitting on a bench gives both Gandalf and I wary looks. He's small, hobbit sized, I suppose, but sits above us, looking down. He seems rather confused, but carries himself with a frown buried on his forehead - it ages him.
Gandalf would not be Gandalf if he answered questions normally. "Good morning? What do you mean? Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning. Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?"
I give Gandalf a wary look, struggling not to laugh at the expression the hobbit in front of us gives him - of the utmost confusion. "All of them at once, I suppose." He says, scratching his chin and his head, his pipe leaving his lips again as a puff of smoke escapes him in a perfectly formed circle. Even the smoke is perfect! What is wrong with this place? "Can I help you?"
"That remains to be seen," Gandalf says, watching the hobbit closely, eyes narrowed. I begin to feel slightly invisible, just standing there. Should I speak, or hold my tongue? "I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure."
"An- An adventure?" The hobbit is so comically shocked it's a struggle to hold in my giggle, as he begins to walk around, lost for words. His walk is rather powerful for someone so small - he walks like somebody with a purpose. "Now, I don't imagine anyone West of Bree would have much interest in adventures." He sniffs condescendingly. "Nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable things. Make you late for dinner."
"Gandalf," I whisper, nudging his arm. "Are you certain that this is the correct hobbit?" He sends me a glare, deigning to ignore me. I don't care. I proved my point.
"Good morning." The hobbit says again, somehow managing to sound offended. I never knew there was a way to say the words 'good morning' with such contempt. He seems lost for words - I feel a little pity for the poor man. Gandalf does have that effect on people.
"To think I should have lived to be good-morninged by Belladonna Rook's son, as if I were selling buttons at the door!" Gandalf exclaims, huffing.
The hobbit looks as offended as one can, when 3 feet tall. "Beg your pardon?"
"You've changed, at not entirely for the better, Bilbo Baggins," He declares, as I begin to feel as if I am watching the most bizarre battle of wills. A confused yet purposeful hobbit against an ancient, powerful wizard...strange. Somehow, I'm not sure who will win.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?"
"Well, you know my name, though you don't remember I belong to it. I am Gandalf, and Gandalf means...me!"
"Gandalf...not Gandalf, the wandering Wizard, who made such excellent fireworks! Old Took used to have them on Midsummer's Eve. Ha, ha! Well. Hmm, I had no idea you were still in business."
"Of all things, " I murmur, my eyebrows furrowing as I turn to the Grey Wizard. Fireworks, really? "That is what he chooses to remember?"
Gandalf sighs, looking slightly more appeased, his ego inflated enough that he can speak a little kinder. "Well, I'm pleased to find you remember something about me, even if it's only my fireworks." He turns to me, as if waiting for something. I raise an eyebrow in return, not sure what he is waiting for. He turns back to Bilbo and nods decidedly. "Well that's decided. It will be very good for you, and most amusing for me. I shall inform the others."
Bilbo as he begins to stumble around, confused. He seems rather wary and suspicious of Gandalf still, understandably - Gandalf did just appear at his front-door and insult him. "Inform the who? What? No. No. No! Wait." He stops for a moment, eyes flickering between us. "We do not want any adventures here, thank you. Not today, not-mm. I suggest you try over the Hill or across the Water." He points in one direction, then the other, before nodding so violently I half expect his head to fall off. "Good morning."
He stumbles toward his front door, opening it rather vehemently, but doesn't slam it. Instead he closes it rather gently, but with a strange sense of finality. The door stares back at us, still and immobile, but I get the feeling that Bilbo is watching us from one of his windows.
"Are you sure he's right for this?" I ask, raising an eyebrow at the wizard. Usually I wouldn't question Gandalf, but this seems like a very questionable choice. "He won't survive a day out there."
Gandalf steps forward, his staff scratching an ancient rune onto Bilbo's perfectly painted door, a mark that will not be easily removed."It will be good for him."
"Maybe," I agree, squinting at one of the windows where I am sure that I can see a figure staring back. "Not so good for us if he gets himself killed, though."
"He will be fine." Gandalf steps back, admiring his handiwork.
"It's a bit shabby," I tell him, eyeing the rune which is not carved on with much skill. The lines are wonky and lopsided. "I can see why you are not an artist."
"I can see why you're always alone," Gandalf returns, walking away, his back facing both me and the hole. "The dwarves will like you very much, I imagine."
Somehow, I doubt that.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
When I next see Bag End, Gandalf and I are accompanied by a group of eight dwarves. I do not know them well, considering that I spent most of the journey avoiding any and all contact with them, but I know that they are watching me suspiciously. We had been introduced, but the disdain I saw when they took in my ears and that I was a woman had destroyed any ability I might have had to remember their names. If they would not treat me with respect, then I would return the courtesy.
Bag End glows with life, the lights on and the scent of food drifting out of the rune-marked door, which Gandalf opens smoothly. It is a hard fit inside, though the dwarves manage, fitting in rather comfortably. Gandalf can barely stand without hitting the ceiling, and I have to slouch rather uncomfortably to not do the same. I cannot wait to find a seat.
The dining room table is covered with so much food that the table does not seem to exist anymore, filled with bread and cheese and all sorts of meat and vegetables. I squeeze gratefully into an empty corner, glad to not be standing, before I grab some bread and cheese, and pocket a silver knife and handkerchief. Years of growing up on the streets have taught me that it's not wise to pass up on a free meal, but I do feel a little guilty as I stare down at the silverware I have pocketed. I ignore the feeling.
The dwarves seem to have made it their mission to knock over any and every piece of furniture Bilbo owns. Any longer and they may force him into an early grave, as he stands, turning in every direction but surrounded by enemies of his tupperware.
"Excuse me! That's my mother's West Farthing crockery, it's over a hundred years old!" Bilbo cries, as a plate is thrown at his face. The poor hobbit looks furious, as the dwarves show their usual lack of respect towards anything that isn't their own.
"A hundred years?" I grin at Gandalf, who sends me a knowing look. Examining the plate beside me, I raise an eyebrow at the wizard. "How much is it worth?"
Gandalf sighs, turning away from me to watch the dwarves with a slightly amused smile painted onto his face. "You can't steal everything, you know."
I roll my eyes, blocking out the dwarfish song. "I thought that was why I was here?"
Gandalf smiles in the fashion that only wizards can, successfully evading my question. "You have a lot to learn."
He turns away from me, and I don't know what irks me more. The obvious dismissal or the patronising tone in which he speaks to me. I'm not some child who is misbehaving, I am an adult, and and an elf, definitely worth more than his afterthoughts. I refuse to be treated in such a way, my pride will simply not allow it.
My attention is turned away, as the dwarves have somehow managed to clean up, and Bilbo looks slightly mollified at the sight, though out of breath from his stress and his shouting. He pants, bending over to clutch his chest, heart beating at a million beats per second.
Three sharp knocks on the door cut the dwarves and their laughter short.
"He is here." Gandalf states ominously, standing up slightly, hitting his head on the ceiling, yet again.
"Obviously." I mutter, still sour about him condescending to me, as I get to my feet too, bending down a little to accommodate my hair. The hobbit hole is still too small for my liking, but it is good enough.
The door opens, and here stands another dwarf, his aura more intimidating than the others. Even without for his fine clothes, and his expensive fur, he was the type of dwarf I would either steal from, or avoid with all cost. He looks deadly, even to me, which means royal training, so money, or a criminal, which means danger. Judging from the way the dwarves bow in reverence, I assume a king. The king.
"Gandalf." He nods. "I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. Wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door." His voice is low, and soothing, but somehow still rough. It reminds me a little of a blunt axe, especially with his dwarvish accent.
"Mark!" Bilbo exclaims, horrified as he points at the door violently, his patience sorely used up. I feel pity for him; this must be the most excitement he's ever had in a night. "There's no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!"
"There is a mark; I put it there myself. Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield." Thorin. The name suits him, and I know I can't forget his name so easily. From the way Gandalf speaks, I get the feeling that he may be the most important person I have ever met.
"So, this is the Hobbit." He steps forward, and I have to admire Bilbo's nerve. If it were I, being scrutinised by that deadly face, I might have been tempted to bleat in panic. "Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?"
"Pardon me?"
"Axe or Sword, what's your weapon of choose?"
"Well, I have some skill at Conkers, if you must know, but I fail to see why that's relevant." I can't help but chuckle at the mental image it sends; Bilbo, facing down a white orc on a white warg, holding conkers as his only defense. Thorin stands there beside him, holding only a branch as a shield.
Gandalf coughs uncomfortably, pulling Thorin's attention away with a sniff as he nudges me forward. "And this is Raelyn-"
"-an elf," Thorin dismisses me, shaking his head and turning to Gandalf. "And a woman. We have no place for her here."
I bristle, hating the disgust in his eyes, the way he glares at me. "Half-elf." I snap. "And I may be a woman, but that doesn't give you reason to look down on me. I'm just as good a warrior as any man in this room, and probably a good deal more intelligent!" I may be stretching the truth a little now, but I can fight, better than Bilbo, at least. And dwarves aren't exactly known for their intelligence.
Colour floods his face, perhaps from the insult, as Bilbo peers at me, noticing perhaps what he hasn't the first time; the pointed ears, the light-footed way in which I stand. I have always been more human than elf, especially on the inside.
Thorin looks at me again, and I can see him assessing my worth. "What do you have to offer us, then? Are you a skilled warrior? We cannot have a woman on this quest if she will be a burden."
"But you'll have a man on this quest, even if they should be a burden?" I ask again, questioning and challenging him. If he doesn't want me in the company because of my skills, fine. But I won't let him judge me because I'm an elf, and I certainly won't stand for being treated any different because I'm a woman.
Gandalf cuts in before I can weasel my way out of the question about fighting skills. "Raelyn is a thief." he states, and I see Bilbo's respect for me plummet. To him, thieves are lowlifes, liars, people to be avoided. To me, they are my kin, my family of backstabbing, traitorous hearts. The dwarves don't react, perhaps knowing what I have become used to- living on the streets, begging and stealing my way through life. But I have survived, and that means something. Perhaps one day I can learn to be better.
"A good one?" Thorin questions, sounding doubtful as he eyes me up and down.
"The best."
"Raelyn can hold her own in a fight," Gandalf speaks, bending the truth a little. I can fight, barely. My bones are starved of muscle, and the sad truth is I can never find enough food to build them up, but I have elvish reflexes and a desire to survive, which is really all I need. "She won't need coddling."
I nod, agreeing. Thorin doesn't react, though I can tell he is examining me, assessing my worth. He sees perhaps what the others didn't- the worn boots, loose clothes, and the stolen silverware. The two poor quality knives I have hidden, and the feral look in my eyes. "Very well." He grunts, frowning. "I suppose I have no choice, Gandalf."
"That's right," I murmur, sitting back down in my corner, and helping myself to another piece of bread. I am the only one eating now, for some reason all the dwarves have stopped.
Thorin steps inside, automatically taking his place at the head of the table, a leader through and through. The dwarves grab some food for him, and he begins to eat, somehow still managing to look majestic. His eyes are dark, murderously glinting.
"What news from the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?" One dwarf speaks - the eldest by far. His white hair and beard marks his age, and I can tell he's the counselor, the advisor to the king.
"Aye," Thorin says between mouthfuls, pulling apart his bread. "Envoys from all seven kingdoms."
The dwarves murmur happily, quieting when Thorin speaks again. "They will not come. They say this quest is ours, and ours alone."
Bilbo, still out of the loop, interrupts the disappointment. "You're going on a quest?"
Thorin seems in no mood to explain his life story to Bilbo, so Gandalf takes it upon himself. "Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light." I admit I'm quite curious myself, so I lean in further, edging to see as Gandalf begins to explain.
"Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak."
Bilbo leans in, reading the map. "The Lonely Mountain."
The mountain is inked on delicately, with more care than the rest of the map. Someone clearly cared about that place.
"Aye," Another dwarf speaks. I begin to feel like I should have bothered with their names. "Oin has read the portents, and the portents say it is time.'
The one who must be Oin agrees, adding; "Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold: When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end."
Bilbo looks increasingly concerned at the mention of a beast, turned a shade paler, looking between Thorin and Gandalf concernedly. "Uh, what beast?"
"Well that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat-hooks, extremely fond of precious metals--" I can't help but to smile. Either dwarves have no tact at all, or they simply find it amusing to terrify poor Bilbo. Likely the former.
"I'm certain he can't be that terrible," I assure Bilbo, who doesn't look at all reassured. The description of the dragon even unnerves me a little. How did Gandalf not mention this? Did he deem it inconsequential, or unimportant? It's very important. I do not want to die, and my survival instinct far outweighs my need for gold.
"No," the dwarf nearest to me disagrees. "He really is."
I glare. "Have you ever even seen a dragon?"
He doesn't answer.
"I'm not afraid! I'm up for it. I'll give him a taste of the Dwarfish iron right up his jacksie." One of the younger dwarves cries, embarrassing himself. Perhaps it's all the time spent in the company of men and elves, but no man would speak so informally, let alone in front of their king. I can't help but to think that dwarves will be much more fun to be around, once I get over their sexist attitudes and how much they hate elves.
The eldest dwarf speaks again, and I can't help but to think how brave he must be, a dwarf of his age daring to reclaim a mountain from a dragon. He's either mad or insanely courageous. "The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us. But we number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best, nor brightest." Hear, hear.
"We may be few in number, but we're fighters, all of us, to the last dwarf!"
"And you forget, we have a wizard in our company. Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time." I laugh as the company turns to Gandalf, who looks increasingly uncomfortable. Hearing my chortle, he sends me a clear glare, narrowing his eyes and daring me to speak.
"Oh, well now-"
"How many then?"
"How many what?"
"How many dragons have you killed? Give us a number?"
Gandalf remains unable to answer, and the dwarves begin to argue amongst themselves. The number is clearly zero, which is worrying - but not as much as the fact that they have such a superficial knowledge of history, and that they should know that.
Suddenly Thorin jumps up, bellowing an order in dwarvish that I don't understand. Perhaps I should learn dwarvish; it could help me here. "If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too? Rumours have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for 60 years. Eyes look east to the Mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor? Du Bekâr! Du Bekâr!"
My limited knowledge of languages allows me to know that the last words are a call to arms, but I can't help to be impressed. "It's a good speech," I whisper to Bilbo, who nods absently. "But I would add a little less shouting, truthfully."
"You forget: the front gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain." The eldest dwarf remains ever the voice of reason, and I can see that he is clearly the wisest man here, excluding Gandalf. Whether from experience, or common sense, he speaks true.
"That, my dear Balin-" Ah, so his name is Balin. "-is not entirely true." Gandalf pulls out a simple key, seemingly from his cloak. Years of stealing valuables allow me to notice that while it seems simple, the craftsmanship is exquisite. There's simply nothing in the world like a dwarfish door, or key.
"If there is a key," Another dwarf calls, "Then there must be a door."
"Well," I say, rolling my eyes. "We found the genius, then." He glares. I ignore him.
Gandalf points to the map, his finger touching the delicate runes that have been inked on. "These runes speak of a secret passage into the castle."
"There's another way in!"
"Well, if we can find it, but dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map and I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in Middle-Earth who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth, and no small amount of courage. But, if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done."
"That's why we need a burglar,"
"And a good one too. An expert, I believe," Bilbo agrees innocently.
"And are you?"
"Am I what?"
"He said he's an expert!"
"Me? No, no, no, no, no. I'm not a burglar; I've never stolen a thing in my life." Poor Bilbo looks horrified, and I can't blame him. This does seem like a quest for a madman, or a poor man. Bilbo seems to be neither.
"I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins. He's hardly burglar material." Balin, once again, seems to be the only dwarf with sense.
"Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is." Gandalf roars, standing. A dark shadow overtakes the room, and I'm reminded again who I travel with- Gandalf, one of the five wizards, one of the most powerful beings on Middle Earth. It's right to fear him, though I don't believe he would harm me. He does seem to like me, despite his condescending mutterings and exasperated glances.
"Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage. You asked me to find the fifteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know, including himself. You must trust me on this."
I should have been born a hobbit, much better for thieving.
Thorin concedes, bowing his head, though his eyes tighten with a little annoyance. "Very well. Give him the contract."
Bilbo tries to politely refuse, but it's futile as he grasps a paper longer than his own body. Thorin hands me my own roughly, shoving the parchment into my arms.
Bilbo seems to be reading every line with great care, but I don't have the patience, nor can I be bothered. "I get a fair share of the jewels in the mountain, after I help you take it back?" I ask Thorin, knowing he's the one to make the decision.
"Agreed," he says, curling his lip at me in distaste.
I grin, grab the quill Gandalf offers and sign my name, not bothering to read the hundred-and-forty lines on funeral arrangements. Just don't die, I tell myself.
Bilbo seems happy to read the funeral arrangements for me. "Terms: Cash on delivery, up to but not exceeding one fourteenth of total profit, if any. Seems fair. Eh, Present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof including but not limited to lacerations ... evisceration ... incineration?"
"Oh, aye, he'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye."
Bilbo begins to breath heavier, in short bursts as he grows pale; none of the dwarves notice. Complete lack of tact, then. I begin to regret signing this contract, I should have read the fine print.
"Think furnace with wings," A dwarf says, smiling warmly.
"I don't believe you're helping," I mutter to him. He looks abashed, then tries again. He seems kind, at least he tries to help. Effort over execution.
"Flash of light, searing pain, then Poof! you're nothing more than a pile of ash."
"That's worse." I hiss, trying to signal to him that he should shut up.
Bilbo hums to himself, nodding, before keeling over in a faint, hitting the ground with a thud. Oh, well.
Gandalf sighs through his nose. "Ah, very helpful, Bofur."
a/n : wow, this must be about the fifth draft of this chapter. i don't know what it is about it, it's just SO hard to write. anyway, hope you like.
lyra x