#that flash of bilbo at the end is everyone i try to convince that a dead clone is alive | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

d3-iseefire · 4 years

Text

The Far Side of the Mirror Chapter One

Pairing: Fili x Female Bilbo Baggins (Bilba) Rating: T AO3 Archive Warnings: None Pairing: Fili/Female Bilbo Setting: Modern AU, Supernatural Universe Summary: Bilba is a hunter sent to take care of something killing off patients in an asylum. While there she meets Fili Durin, a patient accused of murdering his father. He insists he’s innocent which, even if it’s true, doesn’t really matter. There’s nothing Bilba can do to help him. She’s there for one reason and one reason only and it’s not him. Even if he is prettier than anyone has a right to be.

Note: I took ALL the liberties with asylums and whatnot. Just assume this is the sort of asylum you would find in the Supernatural universe (which is established to be a different one from ours) and not what you’d find here. :)

Bilba hated taking cases in asylums.

First, there was the fact of being effectively locked in and forced to rely on her contact for aid in moving about and, most importantly, getting out. Putting that much trust and faith in a veritable stranger was a fantastic way to get killed, and that was before she got to the thing that wanted to kill her.

Then there was having to split her attention between the reason she was there (also known as the thing trying to kill her) and the other patients (also known as the people she was trying to help). Not all of the patients were a threat obviously but, unhelpfully, the ones that were didn’t come with nametags.

Either way it meant she had to watch her back from multiple angles and ensured she wouldn’t be getting a good night’s sleep until she had completed the case.

Neither of those things, however, were the main reason she hated cases in asylums. That honor went to the guy sitting across from her.

"It wasn't me.” The words came from a man about her own age, with greasy dark blond hair and an unkempt beard. His eyes were shadowed and, when he spoke, his voice trembled with emotion. "I don't care how long I'm forced to stay here.” His hands dug into his knees and he leaned forward in his seat to punctuate his point. “I didn't kill my father!"

Dr. Towns, a middle-aged woman with short black hair and a tone that bordered on patronizing, smiled. “We’ve discussed this,” she said in the gentle but firm tone Bilba had heard mothers use to refuse their child a treat,” "the cameras--"

"I don't care what the cameras showed!" he cut in sharply, fingers bunching the cotton of the ratty sweatpants he wore. "And I don't care what the DNA said. I didn't do it!"

Bilba studied him with mild interest. He certainly seemed sincere, but Bilba had more than learned the lesson that sincerity did not necessarily equate to veracity. She’d met people who could be caught in the act and would argue their innocence with just as much passion.

Some of them even believed it, and usually wound up in a facility exactly like the one she currently sat in.

So he could be lying.

He could be insane.

There was a one in three chance he was telling the truth.

Bilba had seen people who belonged in that third class, over and over and over again. They sat rotting in prisons, hospitals and asylums. They were angry, traumatized, lonely, despairing.

Innocent.

The thing was, everyone always thought they knew what a monster was. It was the thing under the bed, the darkness in the closet, or the strange creak in an empty room. Monsters, they would tell you with all the confidence of the ignorant, lived in the shadows and were only a threat to the unsuspecting, the unprepared, or those stupid enough to stumble into their embrace.

Bilba supposed it helped them sleep at night to think all monsters were the same, that they all followed the same rules and could easily be avoided. Just…don’t look under the bed at night. Leave the closet shut. Stay out of abandoned places and, above all else, never, ever go check out the strange noise you just heard downstairs.

The truth wasn’t quite so cut and dry.

In reality, the so-called “rules” were arbitrary, and not all monsters chose to follow them.

Some chose not to live in the shadows.

Some had a desire to kill more than those who simply stumbled into their way.

Some actively sought out their prey and some…killed simply because they enjoyed it.

Some liked the suffering. Not just of their victims, but the people surrounding them as well. They got a kick out of causing pain to as many as they could, and of knowing that, somewhere, someone was paying for what they had done.

There was a long list of reasons why. Some believed they were getting revenge against a world they felt had wronged them. Others had a goal in mind and didn’t care who got hurt in their quest to achieve it.

And then there were the ones who were simply assholes.

No matter the cause, it always led to the same result. Pain, loss, and the broken husk of an innocent victim staring down at the remnants of a destroyed life.

She hated it. Hated it because there was nothing, she could do about it. If she’d been there before, known what was going on then, then she might have had a chance. Then she could have maybe, possibly stopped the darkness from taking another innocent.

But arriving after? After was too late. What could she do after? Tell the police or the doctors and nurses that “hey, you’ve got it wrong? That was a werewolf/vampire/revenant/monster of your choice. This person doesn’t belong here. They did see what they said they saw; they didn’t do what you’re saying they did. It wasn’t them. It was a monster.”

Yeah, that would go over well.

She couldn’t help them, had to leave them, decaying in a cell, staring vacantly at a padded wall knowing all the while they’d set foot in a world they could never understand, and she could never explain.

She hated it.

“Celeste? Celeste!”

Bilba barely flinched. She’d been staring, she realized, at the blond for more than a few minutes. He’d noticed and was staring back, a challenge in his eyes.

She flashed a grin at him, and then allowed her head to tilt to the side, eyes shifting to Dr. Towns. “Yes?”

Dr. Towns’ lips twisted in exasperation. “Why don’t you introduce yourself to the group?”

Bilba rolled her eyes and slouched in her chair causing the cheap plastic to creak under her. “My name is Celeste Bennet,” she lied easily, “and I’m here because I supposedly have ‘anger management’ issues.” She used air quotes just in case her tone didn’t properly convey her supposed disdain over the supposed accusation.

“Now Celeste,” Dr. Towns said, studying her notes. “If you did nothing wrong then you wouldn’t be here, would you?”

Bilba shrugged. “I don’t know.” She pointed toward the blond. “He’s here and apparently did nothing wrong.”

Snickers came from one or two of the other participants only to quickly shut off as Dr. Towns sent pointed looks at them. Personally, Bilba thought the woman should be thanking them. They’d been sitting in a circle in a small, cold room on uncomfortable chairs for nearly an hour. According to the clock anyway, which Bilba was half convinced was simply wrong. It said an hour, but it felt like a few days. There were twelve others, counting the doctor, and, aside from the blond, they all seemed half asleep.

Dr. Towns called on someone else to speak and Bilba gladly slouched further in her chair. Her reasons for hating cases in asylums was rapidly mounting. She’d been forced to trade out her jeans, comfortable shirts, boots and leather jacket for a crappy t-shirt and sweats. There wasn’t room for more than a few weapons and it had been torture deciding which to bring and which to leave behind.

She studied the ceiling overhead, idly counting the large tiles. Maybe she should dye her hair, she thought idly. Tauriel had talked her into a layered pixie cut with a weird side bang thing but had threatened death if Bilba did anything to the chestnut color.

Chestnut. That was Tauriel’s word for it to try and spruce it up. Bilba was far more practical and called it what it was, mousy brown. Maybe she’d go lavender with silver highlights. That’d be pretty. Her hair wouldn’t stand out as much as Tauriel’s scarlet locks but at least they’d…

Someone cleared their throat and Bilba opened eyes she hadn’t realized she’d closed.

Mr. May-Or-May-Not-Be-A-Lying-Murderer was standing over her.

Bilba casually pushed up from her slouched position and then stood when she realized the rest of the room was empty. On her feet, the top of her head came to just under his chin, but she simply lifted her chin and gazed up at him with a defiant expression.

“You were going to get a crick in your neck sleeping like that,” he said. He had a deep voice. She hadn’t noticed it earlier. Now that she was closer to him it occurred to her that there was a second thing she hadn’t noticed, though she couldn’t very well be blamed given the layers of grime and general dishevelment.

He was hot.

Hot and fit to be exact. The lines of his body under his shirt and sweats were lean and fit and his arms – she’d always had a thing for arms and his had probably just because the standard by which she would judge all others.

He cleared his throat, pointedly. Bilba forced her eyes away from admiring the Lord’s work and up to his eyes…which were blue and piercing and down, girl. He might be a lying murderer. Remember. Lying. Murderer.

A really, really, pretty lying murderer.

Life was simply unfair like that sometimes.

She frowned at the empty room. “I wasn’t aware the session had ended.”

“Clearly,” he said dryly. “You’re lucky I woke you up. You could have been in here for hours.”

Which would explain quite a lot about this place, Bilba thought, including the fact that no one had apparently thought anything of leaving her alone in a room with a fellow, male, patient. “My hero.”

She started to leave but stopped when he spoke behind her. “You never did say why you were here.”

Bilba spun on her heel. “I did so. Anger management, remember?” She put her hands up to create air quotes again. Did he have the memory of a goldfish? Or maybe it was just a case of beauty and no brains, the universe’s way of balancing out someone who was clearly too pretty for his own good.

His eyes narrowed. “Anger management for what?”

Bilba smirked. “I set my boyfriend’s car on fire a time or two.”

At least that’s what her file said. She’d had fun coming up with that cover story.

One perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose, and she suppressed a sigh. She wasn’t twelve for heaven’s sake. Behave hormones, she ordered firmly. “A time or two?”

Bilba shrugged. She started to spin back toward the door, but stopped halfway, eyes focused on the far wall instead of back at him. She should really leave well enough alone. She knew that. Tauriel was always telling her that. Even so. “Where were you?”

“Excuse me?” he asked.

Bilba kept her eyes on that section of wall, away from him. “You said it wasn’t you, so, where were you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” She heard him move, but he didn’t come any closer.

“Who says I believe you now?” Bilba asked. She turned her head finally, toward him. “Where were you?”

He crossed his arms. “In the sewer,” he said flatly. “I went out to my car to go to class, someone hit me over the head, and I woke up tied up in the sewer. It took me awhile to get free and find a way out. By the time I got home –” His eyes darkened, and he shook his head. “The police were there.”

Bilba nodded. “Did you show them where you’d been in the sewers?”

“I couldn’t find it again,” he replied with a scowl. “I’d been more concerned with getting out, not remembering how to get back in.”

Bilba started to move slowly toward the door, stopping only when her hand was resting on the knob. Leave it alone, she mentally ordered herself. Nothing he said, or didn’t say, made a lick of difference. It was already too late for him. The most he had to look forward to was being declared mentally competent to stand trial. Having him answer her questions did nothing other than give her more guilt and regret to carry around and she already had that in spades. “Did you see anything strange when you woke up?”

“It was a sewer.”

“I know that,” Bilba said in exasperation. Her hand tightened on the doorknob. “Did you see anything you wouldn’t expect to see in a sewer? Anything that was just…weird?”

He was silent, for so long she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he shifted his weight onto his back foot and let out a short breath. “There were these…puddles or…piles of…I don’t know what it was. Like something spent ten minutes vomiting in one place and it’d all just…congealed. It smelled worse than the actual sewer did.”

Bilba chewed on her lower lip and idly tapped her fingers on the doorknob. Then, coming to a decision, she turned on one foot and walked back to him. As she got within arm’s length, she reached under her collar and tugged a necklace out. It had a long chain and the pendant at the end was in the shape of a large, ornate cross.

She unclipped it and held it out toward him. “Do you like it?”

He frowned in confusion but obediently held his hand out when she offered it to him. As he took it, Bilba slid her hand behind her, under her shirt and around the hilt of the dagger she kept pressed against the small of her back.

Blondie held the dagger easily in one hand, the chain wrapped loosely around his palm and fingers. “It’s nice, I guess? Does it mean something to you?”

Bilba studied him for a few minutes and then slowly released the hilt of the knife. She lightly plucked the necklace from his hand and clipped it back in place, dropping the silver pendant under her collar. “You should take a shower.”

He blinked in confusion. “What?”

“Shower,” Bilba repeated. “You know that small room with running water and soap—”

“I know what a shower is,” he broke in. “I haven’t been interested.”

“How can you expect anyone to take you seriously?” Bilba asked. “If you don’t even take yourself seriously?”

She gave a forced smile and, before he could respond, turned toward the exit yet again.

Don’t think about it, she told herself firmly. On the one hand it meant she wasn’t infatuated with a murderer, or a shapeshifter which would just be gross, and it also meant he wasn’t the one she was looking for on this case so yay on that.

On the other hand –

She shook her head.

Don’t think about it.

It was already done, had been done long before she’d arrived. There was no turning back time and beating herself up for not being able to save everyone did no one any good.

“What was that all about?” he asked from behind her.

“Shower, Blondie,” Bilba repeated, pulling the door open. “And a washing machine wouldn’t hurt. No one can hear you protest your innocence if they’re having to stand twenty yards downwind.”

“Fili.”

She stopped; eyes fixed on the hall outside the room. Her fingers tightened on the doorknob and she let out a sharp tsk. “Shower, Blondie,” she repeated again, finally.

Then she walked out without looking back. There was no reason to know his name. She’d be leaving and he’d be staying, and that was that.

She had a job to do, and the faster she got it done the sooner she could get out of this place.

***

Bilba lounged against the back of the elevator. It stopped with a shudder and the door slid open to reveal an older man with craggy features and salt and pepper hair. He wore the white coat of one of the staff members and had a name badge on identifying him as Dr. Timothy Chambers.

He stepped on and the door closed, leaving the two of them alone. For a few seconds there was silence as the elevator started to slowly move upward again, creaking gears and grinding machinery suggesting the car was in desperate need of maintenance.

“You know one of your patients is innocent, right?” Bilba finally asked. “The blond one who keeps insisting he didn’t kill his father.”

“Fili Durin,” Dr. Chambers said. “I’m aware.”

“And?” Bilba asked with a raised eyebrow.

“And,” Dr. Chambers said with a frown, “I ensure his medication is replaced with placebos and he’s kept safe from the other patients.” He scowled at her. “You know there’s nothing else I can do.”

“I know,” Bilba grumbled. “It just sucks to see it.”

“Agreed,” Dr. Chambers said.

The elevator slid to a slightly jerky stop and Bilba pushed off the wall. The door opened to reveal construction tools littering a hallway covered over in plastic sheeting. The smell of sawdust and fresh paint hit her nose and caused her eyes to water.

Cold washed over her and Bilba’s limbs locked in place. Her breathing grew harsh and she reflexively began to open and close her hands into fists at her sides. “You didn’t tell me the place was being renovated.”

“Does it matter?” Dr. Chambers asked.

Yes, Bilba wanted to scream.

“No,” she lied. “Of course not.”

She pasted a sick smile on her face and forced her feet to take her forward and out of the elevator.

Go back, her mind ordered. Go back, go back, go back, go back.

A laugh, low and sinister echoed through her mind and she fought the urge to simply curl up in a corner and cover her eyes.

“Stop it,” she whispered. “You aren’t twelve anymore, and this isn’t that place.”

“I’m sorry?” Dr. Chambers asked as he stepped off the elevator behind her.

“Nothing,” Bilba managed. “Where is it?”

He motioned and she wordlessly followed him down the hall. Plastic crackled under her feet and each step seemed to echo through the hall, alerting anything and everything to her arrival. Bilba drew her knife and held it in one hand, fingers curled so tight around the hilt it hurt.

“How did they get up here?” she asked, fighting back a flinch at how loud her voice sounded to her own ears. The silence in the corridor was heavy, almost as if something were listening. Bilba had no doubt something was.

That was the problem with her line of work. She wasn’t being paranoid, and there were things in the shadows. There were always things in the shadows.

Waiting.

“There’s a service elevator that runs up from the kitchen,” the doctor said as they stopped in front of a small room. “We think they must have snuck in through there.”

“Idiots,” Bilba muttered. “They never learn.”

“In this case,” Dr. Chambers said solemnly as he shoved the door open. “They didn’t live long enough to get the chance.”

Bilba grimaced. The room past the door was splattered with blood. It ran up the walls, splashed across the ceiling and coated the ground so thick in spots it was nearly black. Bits of broken metal and pieces of shattered furniture were scattered among torn bits of clothing and a cracked flashlight, testifying to the level of sheer violence that had taken place in the room.

“Were they all killed?” She stepped over the threshold and crouched to study a wide streak of dried blood, evidence of someone being dragged across the floor. There was no sign of what had done the dragging and Bilba felt her disquiet increase.

“Yes.” Dr. Chambers stayed in the doorway, unwilling to come any further. “The police decided they must have gotten into a fight and killed one another.”

Bilba raised her eyes to study the room once again. It always impressed her how people had the ability to simply ignore or outright deny whatever didn’t fit into their narrow view of the world. Three best friends, unarmed, with no history of violence or anger issues brutally slaughtered in a room with no evidence of anything else being inside?

Must have been a fight.

What else could it have been?

She started to stand, only to freeze as her eyes caught on something on the other side of the room. Crap. Her mouth ran dry and her hands suddenly felt clammy. Slowly, she pushed to her feet and, in an almost trance, moved to a small table splintered in a darkened corner.

Please don’t be what I think that is, she thought. Be something else, anything else.

Her fingers, almost on their own, reached out and lightly brushed the black substance coating one of the broken legs of the table. The substance moved under her fingers, sticking to them and coating them like tar.

In Bilba’s mind, an old door she hadn’t opened in a decade shuddered. An ancient, guttural laugh that haunted her in her dreams crawled out of her memory.

“Well?” Dr. Chambers asked from behind her. “Do you think it’s something supernatural? Was I right to call you?”

“You were right,” Bilba whispered, eyes fixed on the ectoplasm still stuck to her fingers.

The laugh sounded in her mind again and Bilba let her eyes slide close with a sigh.

She really hated cases in asylums.

Follow on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22765585/chapters/54399856

#My writing #Writing #Fanfic #Fanfiction #Fili #Modern AU #LOTR #Hobbit #Tolkien #Supernatural Universe #Romance #Female Bilbo Baggins #Horror Elememts #angst #Happy Ending

18 notes · View notes

joyfullynervouscreator · 7 years

Text

Bruises and Questions

Chapter 2 of Inshêt Zahrar

There was pain. Thorin wondered if dying was really supposed to hurt this much. In fact, seeing the blade-wielding orc coming to cut his head off had reassured him that he would feel little. He had had time only to spare a thought for his nephews and lament that they would watch him slain as he had watched Frerin – helpless to stop the coming death and screaming in denial. Dwalin’s face swam in front of his eye and he smiled at his fierce scowl. Dwalin would never forgive him for his reckless sacrifice, but he would understand the need for vengeance for the fallen. Orcs had killed Thrór, sparking the war that killed so many of their already diminished kin, orcs had been responsible for his brother’s death. Bright happy Frerin, who resembled Fíli so closely that it hurt to look at the nephew at times, remembering the one who should have been with them. A flash of red crossed his vision, but Thorin paid it no mind among the black spots that were already dancing there. He knew that his lungs were not working right, the lack of oxygen making him see things. That was the only explanation for the hallucination of their sweet little hobbit standing over him, snarling fit for an orc and waving his small shining blade. Distantly he heard the roar that could only be Dwalin in the grip of battle-rage, and he smiled. So often, that sound had been the sweetest music on the field, knowing that the one he called amrâlimê was near. Dwalin’s wild eyes, his fierce snarl, his loving smile, followed him into the darkness.

“Shosh, mahabbanûnith[1].” The words were soft as a whisper, and Thorin thought he could hear the voice of his amad. More words followed, gentle as ripples across a pond, but they meant nothing to Thorin. Warmth spread through his body, making the pain recede slightly. A hand was on his forehead, the other pressing softly against the side the warg had chewed. The darkness drew back, leaving brightness behind. The figure shone, chasing away the shadows.

Thorin blinked.

Around them, the Company drew a collective sigh of relief as their leader’s eyes focused on Gandalf, kneeling at his side. Bilbo’s strange elf girl removed her hand from the dwarf, moving across the flat plateau to speak lowly with the eagles. Her hands scratched into the neck-feathers of one of them, making the grand bird preen and nudge her happily.

“The…the Hobbit?” Thorin’s voice was halting, as if he expected his lungs to fail at pressing the words across his lips. He winced slightly. No longer suffering broken ribs and his lungs were in working order, but Thorin ached. There were definitely still cracked ribs beneath the heavy bruising that made itself known with each move he made.

“He’s fine, Bilbo is just fine.” Gandalf smiled, waving towards the little creature in his stained red dinner jacket. Thorin got to his feet gingerly.

“Zantulbasn mazannagûn.[2]” The growled Khuzdul reached Bilbo’s pointy ears at the same time as the injured King.

Gandalf led them along the stream that ran alongside the Carrock until it widened into a shallow river, where they spent a few hours bathing and tending injuries before bedding down for the night. As the only one who had managed to keep hold of her supplies, Ilsamirë shared what lembas she had left with the dwarrow around her. Glóin and Ori looked at the leaf-wrapped breads suspiciously, but were eventually convinced by their rumbling stomachs to at least try a bite. The young princes ventured to share a slice, and then darted back to the company of their Uncle, swarming around him like worried chicks. Gandalf’s magic – plus whatever the strange peredhel had done – had helped some, but the dwarf was still in poor shape.

Thorin stalked along the riverbank until he reached Geira, washing her face and splashing cool water on her neck. He wanted answers.

“Who are you?” he asked harshly, reassured when he felt Dwalin’s solid bulk take up position at his back.

“A friend,” came the soft reply. “I have many names, Thorin Oakenshield, but for now, accept that I wish no harm to you or yours.” And once more, Thorin found himself gaping at the audacity of one of his travel-companions, watching her walk away from him, mithril braids swaying with each step. He growled, but Dwalin’s hand on his arm stayed the harsh words he would have shouted after her.

“I want to know who she is Dwalin and how she came to be here. Why is she following us?” Thorin ranted, something about her deeply unsettling to him.

“I don’t know, Thorin, but she does not seem to want to hinder our purpose. She fought the Orcs alongside us, and she saved Bilbo from Goblins. For now, I think she may be right to call herself our friend…” Dwalin trailed off. Thorin remained unconvinced. The Guard-Captain sighed. “I’ll get Nori to ferret out some answers for you, my King.” Thorin nodded, but he was not appeased, and he cast about for another source of the answers he sought. The safety of the entire Company was his responsibility, and allowing a complete stranger to travel with them for an unknown length of time did not seem wise.

When Thorin finally managed to corner Gandalf by the riverbank, his temper was roiling in his blood and all he could think about was demanding some answers about their newest travel companion

“Tharkûn! Who is this dam? I’d call her dwarrow except she’s clearly an elf! She’s got Elf ears.” He hissed in low tones, the accompanying gesture aborted with a wince of pain.

“Her story is not mine to tell,” the wizard said calmly, stuffing his pipe and looking pensively at the spectacle that was Kíli trying to dunk his brother under the water. “She is Lady Ilsamirë of Lothlórien. She would be your friend if you let her, but if you want to know more you will have to ask her. I will promise you that she bears you no ill will, however, and she could be of great aid to your quest. I had not thought to ask for her aid, for Lothlórien is far out of our way.”

“How does a dwarrowdam become a Lady of an accursed Elf forest?! For that matter, how did she end up looking like one?” Thorin felt a little woozy still, only sheer stubbornness had allowed him to get down from the Carrock without fainting from lack of air, and he could still only breathe shallowly. He did not have broken ribs, but a few were definitely cracked if he was any judge, and the bruises marking most of his torso did not make breathing any easier. He scowled at the wizard, whose face gave away no answers.

“As I said, Master Oakenshield, you will have to ask her for her story.” With that, Gandalf apparently felt the conversation had ended, for they grey-robed Maia got to his feet and left Thorin by the water’s edge to gape incredulously after him. Someone he didn’t know was moseying her way into his Quest, and the dratted wizard would not even tell him who she was? Thorin was not pleased, and his frown only grew when he caught sight of their newest member chatting lively with Bilbo.

The river had provided an opportunity to wash and take of their most pressing wounds, but the howl of a warg soon had them moving again. The Eagles had taken them far from the cliffs by the Misty Mountains, but wargs were fast and the Company had no desire to tarry over-long. Dwalin was never far from Thorin’s side, a mighty scowl pasted on his face. Thorin wisely focused all his conversation on the wizard. When the Guard-Captain had that expression on his face, everyone – from the newest guard recruit to the oldest noble – left him alone. Thorin hid the minor winces his painful wounds produced, trying to deflate Dwalin’s anger by playing down his injuries. When the haze of rage had left him and he’d caught sight of the grey pallor to his beloved’s face, Thorin could feel only shame for his actions. He had not even considered what his death, which had been a certainty if not for a certain Hobbit, would do to the Company, let alone the Dwarf who loved him. The thought of his nephews’ worried face and their present need for comfort only added to the shame.

The newcomer had spent most of her time in the company of Bilbo, discussing the merits of different Hobbit pipe weed and ale, something that could easily take up hours. Bilbo almost felt like he was back at home in the Green Dragon. The rest of the dwarrow seemed to take their cue from their leader and avoided her as much as possible. Bilbo was beginning to see how they had done the same to him, when the Quest had first started. She did not seem to care overmuch, however, content to walk in silence if no one spoke to her or sing softly to herself in words Bilbo did not understand. He thought his mother had managed to teach him passable Sindarin – and he had tried out a few phrases successfully in Rivendell – but this girl did not speak recognisable Elvish, Bilbo thought. It was obviously some form of Elvish, he could tell, but nothing more than that.

As the group walked ever onwards, Ori lost his hesitant shy-ness and began asking questions of their newest travel-mate. She freely told stories of her home in Lothlórien and even a few tales of Mirkwood and her friends in both places. Ori soaked up the tales like a sponge; a few of them might make for nice reading in the official Book of Erebor’s Reclamation – which would need a catchier title, Ori realised – even if she only travelled with them until they reached a crossway where she could return to an Elven Realm. His fingers itched for his quill-pen and ink-bottle, but unfortunately those had been in his pack and were probably broken by the Goblins. He still had the sketches he had already made, as well as his notes, saved from wanton destruction only because he kept the pages tucked under his tunic, even while he slept. In return for her stories, Ori wove the tale of their Journey from the Shire and up to the point where they had killed the Goblin King. Ilsamirë was a good audience, gasping at the right places and chuckling at the parts he made seem far funnier than they had been to experience. The story of Bilbo’s role in the Troll Incident – definitely deserving of capitalisation in Ori’s mind, as a defining moment of the Quest – was taken over by the Hobbit himself, who proved to be a gifted storyteller. Ori wondered if Master Baggins might like to help edit the rough drafts of their story some day, though it would have to be the Westron version, as outsiders were not permitted to learn Khuzdul.

The day warmed slowly. The Dwarrow, who had to admit that the silly Elf-bread did stave off their hunger – after the night of Stone-Giants and a full day inside the warren of Goblin Town, hunger had more than set in by the time Azog’s band of Orcs caught up with them. It did not mean that they trusted the one who provided the odd food, but it meant that Nori did not interfere while Ori was asking questions, simply remaining in the background gathering observations and bits of insight into this Ilsamirë’s character.

Ilsamirë pointed out various plants to the attentive eyes of Ori and Bilbo, teaching them the uses of herbs that were unfamiliar as they walked. This led to a lively discussion with Óin about healing arts in general and Elven skills in particular. Their debate was made more entertaining – in Nori’s watchful but silent opinion – by the lack of Óin’s ear trumpet. Eventually, the healer resorted to a fairly rude sign in Iglishmêk, making Dori huff with disapproval. The elleth simply laughed and signed back an even ruder miner’s sign. At that point, Bofur intervened with a lecture to the interested Bilbo about miner’s sign language and the strange girl – by far the least injured – disappeared into the trees and bushes, returning with a selection of early summer berries and a few plants which Óin had particularly lamented the loss of. The old healer anticipated great need for pain- and fever-reducing teas once they finally got to a place safe enough to tend to their injuries properly. The treat was shared equally and the herbs were tied into bunches and stored in her pack. A few quick steps had her walking at the head of the group, next to the wizard and the Dwarf Prince.

“You’re bringing them to Beorn’s lands, Mithrandir?” She eyed the old wizard shrewdly, glancing with a slight frown at the dwarf beside him, who was – successfully with regards to Dwarven eyes, but not so to her Elven sight – trying to mask just how injured he truly was. Thorin bristled at her scrutiny, taking it as disdain. He was used to being disrespected by Men and the few Elves he had met in person had not improved his view of that race either, but it galled him that someone who claimed his kinship would hardly even acknowledge his existence.

“Yes. Radagast mentioned him to me once.” Gandalf replied lightly.

“And did Radagast tell you anything about the man?” Mirth was flashing in her eyes, but the old Maia shook his head. “You do know that Beorn has very little fondness for Dwarrow…perhaps it’s best if you let me talk to him. As much as he dislikes the Children of Mahal, he is usually happy to see me when I come by on my journeys. When he hears that you killed the Goblin King, he may be more sympathetic to your quest. Beorn has no love for orcs or goblin and hunts them ruthlessly when they trespass onto his lands. He will expect fair payment for his aid, if he chooses to give it.” Thorin scowled again, thinking of their rapidly diminishing coin purses. Most had lost their purses along with their packs in Goblin Town, and he would be surprised if any of the Company had more gold than that which they had sewn into their clothes as insurance.

“I did know that he doesn’t like Dwarrow, I was planning on only arriving with Bilbo at first. Lead up to the full Company, so to speak.” The wizard revealed, with a motion that Thorin would have called a negligent shrug on anyone else.

She laughed.

“You have always been wily, my friend, but I doubt Beorn would appreciate that.” Once again Thorin felt the eyes of the Elf-girl roam across his battered body. He did not appreciate the sensation. “He is not a man who accepts dishonesty in any form. It’s part of the reason he secluded himself here rather than join a settlement of Men somewhere. Beorn prefers the company of his animals.” Gandalf nodded, considering her advice.

“Perhaps you are right, dear one. I shall bow to your superior knowledge of the man.”

Ilsamirë smiled, “Thank you, Mithrandir. I would also recommend you cause no harm to any of Beorn’s animals. Even the bees are under his protection.” She shot Thorin a look and continued, “I know your Company are hungry for meat, but you will find none here, and I recommend you do not hunt any beasts who roam these lands, unless you wish for a swift and painful end. It is unwise to antagonise Beorn.”

Thorin’s deepening scowl convinced the flighty elleth to re-join the hobbit at the back of the group. Her reappearance sparked a whole new series of questions from Ori, who had had ample time to come up with new thoughts about the stories she’d told earlier as well as finding a few flowers that hadn’t been pointed out.

Thorin glowered all the way to Beorn’s house, where his annoyance was ramped up further by the skin changer happily greeting this Ilsamirë girl and practically adopting Bilbo, while the rest of the Company were barely tolerated until Beorn had verified their story about the Goblin King.

“Mellon-nîn. I am afraid I must trespass upon your hospitality.” Ilsamirë stopped outside the gate and spoke softly to the giant man who was copping wood in front of his house. The giant turned slowly, grasping his axe firmly. His eyes roamed across the Company, who were standing behind the elleth.

“Pethril.” The giant Man spoke slowly, his deep voice oddly soothing, “You have brought dwarrow to my lands. And a bunny, it seems.” He looked to Bilbo, “That is not a Dwarf. The rest of your party are Dwarrow. I don’t like Dwarrow. They’re greedy creatures, and blind. Blind to the lives of those they deem lesser than their own. They care nothing for those weaker than themselves.”

“These dwarrow are good people.” Ilsamirë replied with equal calm, looking at the Company and gesturing broadly towards their exhausted and rather grimy appearances. “I give you my word they will cause no trouble in your lands, old friend. They slew the Goblin King. Orcs are hunting them. Will you grant them sanctuary so they may rest and heal before the next step of their journey?”

The man growled and took three swift steps until he was looming over the elleth. He reached out one massive hand and grabbed her arm. The dwarrow gripped their weapons in readiness, shaking off their fatigue and taking a step towards the two. The giant man growled again, but Ilsamirë just smiled and reached her hand towards his face. His free hand grasped hers, bringing her palm to his nose. He sniffed loudly. The Company gaped. The elleth laughed, obviously expecting such treatment. A few of the Company looked askance at each other; just what was this giant?

“You smell of fire and blood and Orcs,” he growled menacingly, “you bring dwarrow to my land who are hunted by orcs, yet you claim they will bring me no trouble? For you, Pethril, I will not kill them, but you will owe me a tale or three,” he rumbled loudly. She nodded. The man let go of her hand and picked her up in an easy hug that brought her over the low gate. “So be it. They may tell me their story, and I will decide if they can stay. If they truly killed the Goblin King, I will even feed them.” He set her down gently and opened the gate. The dwarrow slowly traipsed past the foreboding giant. Even Gandalf seemed nervous, a reaction that wasn’t helped when Beorn stopped him easily with a hand wrapped around the wizard’s arm. “Who is this.” The question was not directed at Gandalf, though the wizard replied, slightly shakily. Beorn’s grip was not crushing, but it had potential to be so, which was clearly felt.

“Gandalf. Gandalf the Grey.” The wizard chuckled nervously.

“Never heard of him.” Beorn scowled.

“I’m a wizard. Perhaps you’ve heard of my colleague, Radagast the Brown? He lives in the south of what was once the Great Greenwood.” Gandalf tried, but the mention of Radagast did nothing more than let Beorn release his arm without reply.

The bear of a Man looked at the Company. “And who are you all?”

Each dwarf introduced himself, but Beorn showed no reaction until Thorin said his name. Recognition sparked in the man’s eyes.

“My story, Pethril,” he said, while herding the Company closer to his house, “how did you get involved with the one they call Oakenshield? Him I have heard of.” The giant gestured towards the house, where his dogs had laid out a meal on the long table. Beorn took his seat at the head of the table, waving his large hand towards the seat beside him. Ilsamirë sat gracefully, accepting a heaping plate from the animals and began to spin her tale of meeting Bilbo under the Misty Mountains. The least injured dwarrow joined them for the meal, and Óin took himself off to look at those who needed tending. Nori’s tender ribs were rewrapped and Thorin’s bruised and battered torso was revealed.

“I have medicines in my pack that will help.” The elleth had moved silently behind Óin, staring over his shoulder. She flitted across the room and returned with a small earthenware pot. Handing the salve to the old healer, she bounded back to Beorn’s side, quickly taking up the thread of her story once more. Óin carefully sniffed the salve, before deciding to use it. After all, the girl had proven knowledgeable and he had lost his own kit in Goblin Town, so he didn’t have much choice. The old healer knew that his King would not complain of his pains, even if he should, but anything speeding up his recovery would be appreciated. He slathered a goodly amount across Thorin’s chest, making the dwarf hiss in pain. The company spent the night quietly mending whatever gear they had left, and snacking on the large spread Beorn’s sheep and dogs had provided. When Ilsamirë – or Pethril, as Beorn called her – had finished the tale of her meeting with the Company, Balin had taken the task of relaying the story of their journey since Bree, assisted by Ori’s many sketches, which the lad had somehow managed to keep hold of.

“What were you thinking!” Dwalin began angrily. Thorin could only shrug, knowing better than to interrupt the irate Dwarf. “You would have been killed, Thorin! What did you think would happen to our family if you died?! Not to mention the Quest. Mahal’s beard, you know you’re needed for that if nothing else!” Dwalin’s temper was so frayed, he could hardly keep his thoughts organised, let alone the disjointed rant that came out of his mouth. “And the lads… Thorin, you have scared me that badly before, but think of what you would have done to Fíli and Kíli! And Dís! M’imnu Durin! She would have my beard, if not my head, sending me off to the Halls myself to scold you for such utter idiocy!” The bald Dwarf paced in the large bedroom Thorin had been allotted. The Dwarf-King could only sit on the tall bed and watch as his Kurdel’s temper found release. He idly wondered if it was wrong to think a Dwalin angry beyond words was as sexy as Thorin was currently thinking. His foggy thoughts – no doubt influenced by Óin’s medicine if not by the Elf’s salve – could just sing with admiration for his fierce lover. This had been building since the Carrock, where Dwalin had been too consumed by worry to brood on his anger. Thorin winced as Dwalin’s voice reached hitherto unknown levels of volume.

“Amrali astû, amrâlimê.” Thorin felt a little loopy. Dwalin simply stopped speaking to stare at him incredulously. “Afsâlul,” Thorin mumbled, “Dwalinimê.” He nodded.

Dwalin’s rant came to a sudden halt when Thorin began speaking. His words were slurred and Dwalin could see a line of drool making its way down his chin. Thorin just grinned loopily at him. “Óin!” Dwalin bellowed, panicking, proving that the Company had been listening at the door when Óin came stumbling through the door within seconds. Dwalin pointed at the lolling King, who was now talking to the ornately carved bedpost. The wooden bear did not answer.

“Halwmugrê…” Thorin mumbled, patting the bear carving. Óin’s long years of experience was all that let him keep his composure. Thorin had never acted like this on poppymilk nor on any of the other common pain medicines he could dispense.

“What’s wrong with him!” Dwalin pleaded with his eyes for Óin to tell him that their King’s mind was not permanently addled.

“Dwalin… c’m’ere.” Thorin slurred, reaching for a point slightly to the left of Dwalin. “Two of yes and no kisses for me,” The King’s mien was turning decidedly pouty. Dwalin gaped, but made the mistake of moving in range of Thorin’s grabby hand. “My Dwalin. My bear. Not that bear. That bear doesn’t kiss me. You should kiss me,” Thorin said solemnly…to the carving. He kept pulling on the speechless Dwalin, however, and the burly warrior followed. Óin finally lost the battle with his laughter, but managed to make it outside the door before he let loose with a barrage of great guffaws that almost scared the rest of the Company. Óin was laughing so much he began wheezing before he could manage to explain his amusement. From behind the door, the sound of Thorin’s increasingly childlike demands for kisses could be heard until Dwalin managed to shut him up. None of the other Dwarrow were brave enough to go find out how. Instead they all turned to stare at the elleth who was still sitting at the table talking to Beorn in a low voice.

“What was in that salve, Mistress Geira,” Óin asked. A grimace crossed her fair face, but she replied in a friendly tone.

“Please just call me Geira or Ilsamirë, Master Óin. The medicine is one of my own making, it renders the patient unable to feel pain almost completely. Far more effective than poppymilk, though harder to dose.” She explained. Óin paled slightly underneath his beard.

“And what happens if you… overdose the patient?” he asked in no more than a whisper. No one spoke, however, so his question was heard by all, as clearly as the happy voice of Thorin behind the closed door.

“Ah…” Ilsamirë flushed slightly. “In Elves it tends to produce a predilection for speaking in verse, as well as fixation on colours. In Dwarrow? I would hazard a guess at a spike in the amorous inclinations of the patient. This is the first time it’s been used on a Dwarf.” She kept a straight face, even when Thorin’s soft moan ended her sentence. Silence reigned in the main room.

“So…Who is hungry?” Beorn asked, breaking the spell. Each Dwarf was instantly busy with some task or other, speaking loudly enough to drown out any possible sounds from the King’s sickroom.

[1] Hush, little avenger.

[2] Courageous Hobbit. (Zantulbasn is the common for hobbit(not rude) and mazannagûn means he who continues to show courage)

you can find the rest of the story here

#Dwelf-'verse #thorin #dwalin #beorn #bilbo #hobbit #long-fic

4 notes · View notes