4 | GRIEF AND PAIN
"HE WON'T COME."
"Yes, he will," I say indignantly, as Kili shakes his head, grinning. "I'll bet you five gold coins." I don't even have five gold coins, so Gandalf had better be right about this. I trust his judgement, but I think that he may have misjudged the hobbit.
Gandalf sends me a knowing look as if he knows what I'm thinking. "He will come."
More dwarves join in, hedging bets in various scales of money. Should I have wagered more? Well, not if I lose.
Glaring up at the sky, I begin to pray to the Valar that Bilbo soon appears. it's often futile to ask them for anything important, so small favours like this will surely work. My mother often used to tell me that I was blessed by the Valar, though a large part of me supposed that that was was incorrect. How could I be blessed by the Valar, such an insignificant peasant girl?
However, for once, my prayers are answered, as Bilbo comes sprinting down the road, looking proud of himself. "I signed it!" He looks extremely excited, despite having run far in his bare feet. Does he not own shoes?
Balin takes the contract, examining it sternly, agreeing that everything is in order. The dwarves and I cheer, thrilled. I'm glad he's here. "Give him a pony," Thorin orders roughly, barely looking back as he continues to walk forward.
"No, no, no, no, that--that won't be necessary, thank you, but I--I'm sure I can keep up on foot. I-- I--I've done my fair share of walking holidays, you know. I even got as far as Frogmorton once--WAGH!"
Two dwarves beside him launch him onto a pony as he cries out, like as fish out of water. I nudge Gandalf, gesturing to Thorin. "Does he ever smile?"
Thorin doesn't turn around, but answers anyway, his voice full of its usual disdain. "I can hear you."
I don't reply, as a bag of coins soars over my head. Kili rolls his eyes sulkily, before handing over five gold coins. I really should have bet more on this. "Thank you." I tell Kili smugly, kicking his leg from my own horse.
He sighs heavily, glaring. "You cheated."
"No, I didn't." I grin, watching his face crumple in irritation. "You're just a sore loser."
"I'm not a sore loser!"
"She's right, you're a sore loser." Fili agrees, as Kili glares at him angrily.
"You should be on my side! You're my brother!"
"No, no, wait, wait, stop! Stop! We have to turn around."
The dwarves and I are equally confused, though I can't help but to feel like I'm watching a scene from a play; the Chronicles of Bilbo Baggins. The dwarves begin to look around, alert, searching for danger.
"I forgot my hankerchief."
I guiltily remember the expensive cloth I may have grabbed yesterday. This is my fault, isn't it?
One of the dwarves passes Bilbo a rag, and he grabs it, looking utterly disgusted.
"You'll have to manage without pocket-handkerchiefs and a good many other things, Bilbo Baggins, before we reach our journey's end. You were born to the rolling hills and little rivers of the Shire, but home is now behind you; the world is ahead."
At this, Gandalf pushes ahead, next to Thorin, as I fall back, feeling bad about stealing the hankerchief. There's nowhere around to sell it, anyway.
"Here," I offer it to him as I smile kindly, wondering if he'll notice that it's actually his.
"Thank you," he sighs at the cleanliness gratefully, before re-checking, examining the embroidery with horror. "This - this is mine!"
"I know," I mutter, refusing to meet his eyes. "I borrowed it."
I don't think Bilbo has ever been so happy to be in the company of a thief.
A moment later he is looking back at the Shire wistfully, as the green hills shrink behind us. We are almost out of Hobbiton now.
"You get used to it," I tell him softly, patting his arm rather awkwardly. "Give it a few days, and you'll feel better."
Bilbo nods, smiling at me, thankful for the distraction. "Do you have a home, somewhere?" His words are strangely offensive, but his tone is merely curious.
"My mother was a human,' I tell him quietly, looking down. Telling this story is always rather painful and embarrassing, but he doesn't seem the type to gossip, or use his knowledge against me. And it may make him feel better. "She had an affair with an elf, and became pregnant with me."
Bilbo raises his eyebrows in surprise, looking thoughtful. "It's not common, is it?" He asks. "For a human and an elf?"
"No," I say, not daring myself to explain the inter-dynamics of my species any further. I've never met a half-elf before, and I feel as if I might never. There are only three instances of human-elf relationships and all of those were in cases of love. "But she never saw my father again, anyway."
"Who was?" He prompts curiously.
"I don't know," I say quietly, casting my eyes to the ground. "She never told me."
Bilbo doesn't take his eyes off me, horrified. "If you don't mind me asking - how did she die?"
That's a wound I would not care to reopen. "I'd rather not talk about it."
He nods kindly, patting my arm as I did for him just minutes before. There's a strange kind of symmetry in that. "I understand. My own mother died some years ago."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"Thank you." He nods, coughing into his hankerchief. "So, uh, how did you become a thief?"
"It was the only way to survive," I tell him, wondering if he can understand that. He who has only ever known comfort and safety and Bag End, who has never seen how cruel people really are. "I was only a child and I needed money."
Bilbo doesn't know how to answer that, as he stares in surprise. "That must have been hard."
"That's life." I tell him softly, biting my lips.
Bilbo, perhaps noticing how uncomfortable I have become, launches into an unnecessarily long and detailed description of his own childhood.
Before long, it's time for a snack. I'm glad to be passed an apple, and two pieces of bread by Bombur. I notice that the other dwarves have far less food. "I don't need all this." I say, gesturing to my apple and bread. The dwarves turn to watch me carefully, and I watch Gandalf turn away, deliberately not getting involved. Good, I don't need a wizard to fight my fights for me. Though it would be nice. "Why do I have more than all you?"
I don't mean to be ungrateful, but the other dwarves are watching my bread like hawks. I don't want my portions to be taken from their food, that isn't fair. Plus, I'm used to eating less.
Thorin walks over, rolling his eyes at me. He looks particularly angry today, as opposed to rather furious every other day. "You need the food. We're taking care of you." His tone is mocking, as if he is making fun of me.
I have no problem eating more food, if they thought that I needed more. What upsets me the most is the fact that they are giving me this food just because I'm a woman. "I don't need to be taken care of," I seethe, standing to tower over the dwarf. "I can take care of myself."
Thorin nods, almost amused. "I know that," he says. "But aren't you a little tired of this? You should go back to your dresses and jewels, instead of wasting both our times with you pretending you're tough enough to be on this quest. What are you trying to prove? Isn't this getting tiresome?"
I splutter, speechless. Is he treating me like this because I'm a woman, or because I'm an elf - I can't tell. Whatever it is, he makes me furious. "I may be a woman," I hiss, my voice imbued with what I hope is deadly calm. "And an elf, but at least I didn't spend my life sitting around, while my loyal subjects wait on me! At least I tried to make a name for myself, instead of relying on my "royal blood" and "rightful inheritance." Maybe if you stopped whining about what you've lost, and appreciated what you have, you'd be a better king, a better man, and a better person!"
Thorin's face contorts in anger, as the dwarves shuffle away, heading to their ponies. "You are an elf," he snarls, furious. "So you think that you're better than everyone else. Well, on the inside, you are just as dirty, useless, and lowborn as the rest of the world. You're nobody, and you'll never be anyone, so just give up on making yourself a name, and run back to your small town life and your cursed life, elleth. Nobody wants you here."
"I suppose you're assuming I care what everybody else wants! I want to be on this quest, and I will be, I don't care what you say. I know that I'm worth much better treatment than this, and that's your problem, if you can't see that."
And with that, I storm away, my point made.
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
And so we continue, riding further and faster, as we all begin to get more comfortable. The dwarves accept Bilbo and I into their company easily, and I can accept theirs. They aren't so bad, for dwarves.
One person, however, does not seem to warm to either Bilbo nor I. Thorin, ever pleasant, barely acknowledges Bilbo, and continuously sends me dirty looks. I can't help but to bristle again, not fond of being treated as an interior. Something about the way he scowls gets under my skin.
"Stop it," I snap, after one glare too many. "Stop looking like that."
Thorin sends me an uncaring glance, before turning away. "Like what?"
I roll my eyes, unable to continue to where I can see this going. "Why do you dislike us?"
He doesn't react, though I know he knows exactly what I mean. "I don't know what you mean?"
"Don't." I warn, patience running thin already. "I know you know exactly what I mean."
He frowns. "What?"
"What?"
We exchange glares, but I refuse to back down. I will earn his respect, no matter what it takes. "The hobbit is not one of us," he states blankly. "And you are a thief." And an elf. Are the words he doesn't add, and doesn't need to.
"What's wrong with that?"
He laughs a little, not amused. "What's wrong- What's wrong with that? Everything!" He lowers his voice slightly. "You have no honour," His glare intensifies with every insult. "You have no loyalty. You have no home. You will never belong anywhere. You are a failure. Death follows you, and you have brought it with you on this quest. "
I'm stunned. It's true, sometimes I do feel that way. That doesn't mean that he can talk to me like that, though. "Maybe." I agree, feeling my horse tense, as if picking up on the atmosphere. "But at least I'm not leading these dwarves to their deaths." He flinches, and I know I'm right. Where he can see through me, my insecurities and faults, I can see his, and I may be the only person not to afraid to tell him. "You know that's what you think will happen, isn't it? You know this quest is doomed, so you're shifting the blame onto me to make yourself look like a king!"
"That's enough!" He shouts, glowering. Power erupts from him, an aura of black darkness. I don't flinch back. "I am king -"
"You're not my king." I hiss venomously, every muscle in my body contorting in rage. "You aren't their king -" I point to where the dwarves are riding, blissfully unaware of the battle of wills before them. "- what are you king of, again? It's not Erebor, is it? You wouldn't need to reclaim it if you hadn't lost it in the first place. You," I shove a finger into his chest. "Are nobody."
He flinches, and I glare back. Neither of us are willing to back down on this. Who will break first?
▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
It's late into the night when I wake, awoken by the familiar screams and cries of an orc pack. "What's that?" Bilbo asks, ever confused. "Orcs?
I shudder, remembering that awful massacre of my village. Orcs have always inherently terrified me, and the blood and death they bring everywhere only reminds me of all the mistakes I made. I do not regret running, for it saved my life. I regret not saving my mother, though. I could've saved her, I know that I could have.
"Throat-cutters. There'll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them."
"They strike in the wee small hours, when everyone's asleep. Quick and quiet; no screams, just lots of blood." That's not entirely true- some orcs choose to watch their victims burn alive, I remember. I don't speak up, though, as it will only lead to questions about how I know this.
Fili and Kili snigger quietly to themselves, as I roll over on my makeshift bed, not sure whether to cry or laugh with them. It isn't funny, but humour is a good coping mechanism. Maybe trying to laugh will help me.
"You think that's funny? You think a night raid by orcs is a joke?" Thorin storms up, forming, and for once I agree with him; it isn't funny.
Kiki suddenly looks ashamed, being scolded by his uncle. "We didn't mean anything by it."
"No, you didn't," Thorin grumbles, staring into space. "You know nothing of the world.
Fili and Kili exchange glances as Balin wakes too, explaining with his usual calm.
"Don't mind him, laddie. Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs. After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient dwarf kingdom of Moria. But our enemy had got there first."
Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs lead by the most vile of all their race: Azog, the Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began by beheading the King."
Thrain, Thorin's father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing, taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us."
That is when I saw him: a young dwarf prince facing down the Pale Orc."
He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armor rent...wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield."
"That's why his name is Oakenshield," I murmur, amazed. I had never bothered with the story before, never cared.
"Our forces rallied and drove the orcs back. Our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast, no song, that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived."
And I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow. There is one I could call King."
"And the Pale Orc?" Bilbo asks, ever cynical. "What happened to him?"
"He slunk back into the hole whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago." Thorin sounds so horrified that I can't help but to feel uncomfortable as Gandalf shifts, uneasy. He isn't so sure.
Thinking back to the story, I can't help but to feel even more ashamed. How can I accuse Thorin, a king like that, of not caring for his people? Am I really that self-centred? I should remind myself that I am not the only person with trauma, or with pain in my past. I did not mean what I said to him; I never do.
I get up, walking over to him as I gather my courage. It's been a while since I apologised to someone- had someone to apologise to.
Thorin doesn't look at me, as I'm open my mouth to speak. "I'm sorry." My voice comes out weak, and I'm honestly embarrassed for myself. What am I, a mouse? "I'm sorry." I say again, stronger. Thorin looks shocked, naturally. "I was wrong," I mutter. "You do care for your people. Everyone can see it. And you are a king. You would not be a king if you did not attempt to fight a dragon for your kingdom. I would never have the courage to do this; I do respect you for that."
He smiles slightly, a touch of amusement lining his face. "You are attempting it."
"I had a whole speech, and that is all you can say?" I demand, offended.
"I'm sorry, also." He offers. "I should not have said what I did. It was none of my business, and it wasn't right."
"And I'm sorry about your grandfather and father," I say, placing my hand on his arm consolingly. He doesn't flinch away, and I know he sees that action for what it is; a gesture of friendship. "Nobody should have their family killed by orc scum like that."
Thorin picks up on my tone. "You speak as if you know the pain."
I nod, looking away. The hills are beautiful, illuminated in the starlight, as they fade away into the distance. As the starlight falls into my face, I close my eyes, basking in it. "My village was burnt by an orc pack," I say, my voice heavy and drawn with the weight of loss. "I was the only survivor."
Thorin doesn't do the usual "pity-face" as he surveys me, perhaps re-evaluating my worth. His voice lacks sympathy, but not empathy, as he sounds almost sad. "You don't seem that saddened by it?"
"They hated me," I tell him, though the loss is still awful, I don't feel so guilty as I say the words aloud. "And it was a long time ago. My mother...I miss her."
Thorin nods, understanding. "You never forget it, though."
"Forget what?"
"Them. Everyone who died. How you failed them."
I can hear the guilt in his voice, as I open my eyes, turning to face him again. "It doesn't matter, though. All that matters is that you survived. And that you do something worthwhile with the life you have."
"Do you think that I am?" Thorin asks thoughtfully, gazing out towards the stars, "doing something worthwhile?"
I laugh a little, shaking my head. "There's nothing more worthwhile that you could do." I tell him.
Thorin turns to me, the respect in his eyes growing more. "You're a good person, underneath it all, I think." He says, pondering. "I misjudged you." He catches my eye. "Why does your eye do that?"
"What?" I ask, my brows furrowing in confusion.
"Your eyes. There's something off about them - nevermind." He decides, as I turn to face him again. "Just a trick of the light."
I grin. He's not so bad, either. "If you weren't a dwarf, I do believe we could have been friends."
He smiles, looking tired but kind. "Perhaps in another world."