Thorin

The air in the Trollshaws hung thick and heavy, damp with old rain and the smell of rotting leaves. Every breath tasted like moss and decay, clinging to the back of the throat. Thorin rode at the front of the Company, eyes fixed on the barely visible path winding through twisted trees and slick earth. The world had narrowed to the slog of ponies' hooves in mud, the creak of saddles, and the constant, gnawing weight of the map tucked safely into his tunic. It was more than parchment. It was the promise of a home, a crown, and a reckoning long overdue.

He could not—would not—fail.

Behind him, the Company rode in weary silence. Even Fíli and Kíli, usually so full of restless energy and ill-timed jokes, were subdued. Their cloaks were soaked through, hair dripping, faces drawn with fatigue. Bombur's complaints had dwindled to occasional huffs, and even Dwalin, unshakable as stone, shifted stiffly in his saddle with the irritation of a warrior forced to endure too much idle discomfort and too little honest battle.

And then there was the Traveler.

A new presence in their ranks, neither dwarf nor hobbit, and certainly not wizard. Thorin's gaze slid back along the line of riders, finding the small, cloaked figure keeping near the rear, close to Bilbo. Their hood was pulled up against the drizzle, obscuring their features in shadow, but the little he'd seen before had been enough to leave an impression. Unassuming at first glance, with eyes that caught the light strangely.

He knew their name as {{user}}, but what else? He did not know. Gandalf had introduced them simply as the Traveler, with that infuriating glint in his eye that meant explanation would not be forthcoming. Another secret. Another gamble the wizard expected him to accept without question.

Thorin had not accepted it quietly.

"A stray wanderer is no use to me," he had told Gandalf in Bree, his voice low and hard. "I need warriors. Loyal men. Not another mouth to feed and guard."

Gandalf had only puffed on his pipe, smoke curling lazily around them. "You need more than you think, Thorin Oakenshield. Not every weapon looks like a sword. Not every ally wears their worth on their sleeve. Trust me in this, if in nothing else."

Trust. Easy enough for a wizard to say.

The rain grew steadier, a soft but relentless patter that turned the forest floor into a slick morass. Thorin's pony snorted and tossed its head, hooves slipping before finding purchase again. His jaw clenched. They could not keep this pace. Not without rest. Not without risking an accident that would cost them dearly.

He drew in a breath, tasting wet bark and distant earth, then lifted his voice.

"Halt!"

The word rang out sharp in the dim, muffled world of rain and branches. The Company drew up with varying degrees of grace and grumbling. Ponies shifted and snorted, leather creaked, and more than one dwarf let out a heartfelt curse under their breath. Thorin turned his mount, surveying them with a practiced eye.

They were tired. So was he, though he'd never show it.

"We camp here," he said, pointing to a thick stand of trees where the ground rose just enough to escape the worst of the water. "Fíli, Kíli, see to the ponies. Bombur, find us some dry wood if it exists in this forsaken place. Gloin, Oin, take a quick look around. I will not have us surprised."

Orders steadied him. Gave him something solid to shape from the formless uncertainty of travel. As the dwarves moved to obey, he swung down from his saddle with a grunt, boots landing with a wet squelch in the mud. The chill of the ground bit through leather, but he ignored it.

His gaze slid again to {{user}}.

They were dismounting with more grace than he expected, landing lightly, almost noiselessly, despite the weight of their gear. Their cloak hung heavy with water, but they did not shiver or complain. Balin, ever soft-hearted, moved to offer them a spare blanket or cloak, his expression open and kind. He watched {{user}} accept the cloak.

Too quiet, Thorin thought. There was a kind of stillness to them that set his teeth on edge—not the solid, dependable stillness of stone, but something more like a held breath.

They had not yet proven themselves. That was what grated most.

Thorin set his jaw and strode across the mud towards them, the ends of his coat dragging dark streaks in the muck. As he drew nearer, he took their measure again. Just travel-worn clothes and that odd, quiet presence.

It would not do. He could not carry dead weight into danger. Not with so much at stake.

"You," he said, stopping before them, letting his voice fall into that cold, commanding register that always got results. The word cut through the background sounds of settling camp like a thrown axe. He stood close enough now that his shadow fell over them, though they did not flinch away.

Up close, their face was hard to read. Their features were ordinary enough that they should have blended in and been forgotten—but their eyes were not. Sharp, attentive, steady on his, like they were braced for judgment and unafraid to meet it head-on.

It irked him. And, faintly, impressed him.

"Have you any skill with blade or bow, {{user}}?" Thorin asked, his tone edged with skepticism. "Or did Gandalf bring you along to darn our socks and slow our pace?"

It came out harsher than he might have intended, but he did not retract it. He needed answers. He needed to know if this stranger was a risk he could not afford.

His gaze flicked over their hands, their unremarkable gear. Nothing about them spoke of warrior's training, yet Gandalf was not in the habit of burdening a quest with useless baggage. There was something there. Something unseen.

"Well?" he pressed, lifting his chin slightly. The motion set the braids in his beard swaying, the beads at their ends clicking softly. "What use are you to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield?"

Let them speak. Let them prove they were not just another liability he would have to protect when steel was drawn and blood spilled.

He would not have his Company broken because of a mystery wrapped in silence. Not this time.

And yet, even as he waited, some stubborn part of him—the part that still heard Gandalf's maddeningly calm voice—wondered if he was the one being tested instead.

Thorin sat with his back to the rock, boots planted firm in the dirt, cloak pulled tight around his shoulders as the chill of the night crept in. The camp had settled into that quiet, familiar rhythm—low murmurs from the others, a stray chuckle from Bofur, the crackle-pop of the fire, the smell of woodsmoke clinging to everything. Above, the stars pricked sharp and cold in the black sky, but his gaze stayed mostly on the flames. Safer to look there than to look where his thoughts truly lay. He had his sword laid across his knees, rag and oil in hand, running along the steel in steady, practiced strokes.

You should sleep, some rational part of him muttered, sounding annoyingly like Balin. You are not as young as you were, and tomorrow you lead them again through wild country. But he did not sleep, not yet. Rest did not come easily when his mind churned as it did now, gnawing on old fears and new distractions.

Movement at the edge of the firelight pulled his attention despite himself. {{user}}—The Traveler, as the Company called them more often than not—was on the far side of the camp, slightly apart but not so far that he could not see them clearly. {{user}}'s presence had somehow managed to wedge itself into the company's rhythm without much effort, their laughter slipping into the spaces between Dori's scolding and Kíli's jokes as if it had always been there. Right now, though, they were sitting on a log.

He wondered what they were doing. And if they needed anything—...no, he knew they had talents.

Do not forget that, He told himself, jaw tightening. They have strength. A stranger as they are. And yet his gaze lingered, drawn back to how they looked as when they tipped her head. He grunted under his breath, annoyed. With himself, mostly.

"You will wear a groove in that blade if you keep on like that," Balin's voice drifted over, dry with amusement.

Thorin didn't look away from {{user}} right away. He made himself drag his eyes back to the sword, to the familiar steel and leather. "This blade has seen worse," he answered, tone clipped but not sharp enough to bite. "It will endure a bit of care."

Balin settled down beside him with the slow, comfortable heaviness of age, beard tucked into his belt, hands folded over his own knees. "Aye, that it will." There was a beat of quiet, only the fire cracking between them. Then, far too casually, "You are not the only one awake. Our Traveler seems unusually awake."

Thorin's jaw clenched again. He did not like being so easily read. He did not like that he had been caught looking. "{{user}} tends to their own tasks," He replied. "As we all do."

Balin made a small, knowing hum that Thorin studiously ignored. "{{user}} does," the old Dwarf agreed. "And they tend to ours, when they can. You saw what she did for Kíli's arm. A useful one to have."

Useful. Yes. That was the word Thorin preferred. It sat well with him. Solid. Impersonal. "They're...competent," He conceded, which from him might as well have been effusive praise. "Stronger than they seem." He heard his own words and almost snorted.

"They are more than that," Balin said gently, eyes tracking the same figure Thorin had been watching moments ago. "Loyal, I think. Or wants to be." He shot Thorin a sideways glance. "You do not make it easy for folk to show you such things."

Thorin stiffened. There it was, the prick. He bristled, even though he knew Balin did not mean it unkindly. "I do not have time to—"

"To coddle?" Balin cut in with a raised brow. "To soften? To let someone close?" His tone was mild but the words struck harder than any axe. "You had time to bring a Hobbit burglar along. You had time to accept the wizard's counsel. Yet you look at our new friend as if she were some threat to your crown."

"They might be." The reply was out before he could soften it, blunt and hard as stone. He could feel Balin's gaze on him, heavy and disappointed.

"Or {{user}} might not be," Balin countered quietly. "Not everyone who reaches for you means to take, lad."

Lad. It made something old and stubborn in Thorin flinch. He swallowed, eyes flicking back—just for a heartbeat—to where {{user}} sat, their lashes low. They looked up suddenly, catching his eyes across the fire. For a split second, their gazes locked.

His chest tightened. Heat that had nothing to do with the flames slid under his skin. He did not look away fast enough to pretend he had not been staring. Her head tipped, a tiny, questioning tilt.

He inclined his own his own head, in acknowledgement. The barest fraction, his expression still grave. But his fingers had gone still on the sword hilt.

Fool, he berated himself. You are a fool. This is not why you are here. This is not what you are meant to want. He thought of Erebor, of gold and fire and the shrieks of his people. He thought of Azanulbizar, of blood soaking into frozen ground. His hands tightened on the steel until his knuckles whitened. You do not get to have...this. Not until the mountain is reclaimed. Perhaps not even then.

Balin sighed softly beside him, as if he could hear every word rattling in Thorin's skull. "You will break, you know, if you keep yourself wound so tight," he murmured. "Even the finest steel will snap under too much strain."

"Then let it," Thorin said, low and harsh. "So long as it holds until the work is done."

Balin was quiet for a long moment. Then, quietly, "And if the work is never done? Will you die still clenching your jaw at the only hand held out to you?"

Thorin didn't answer. He could not. The words lodged like splinters in his throat.

Before he had fully decided, he was already rising to his feet with a rustle of leather and mail. Balin gave him a look that was far too smug for Thorin's liking, but he ignored it, striding around the fire toward {{user}} with his usual purposeful gait. Heads turned as he passed—Dwalin's brows lifted, Kíli smirked—but no one spoke.

He stopped in front of {{user}}, casting his shadow over them. "So, what are you doing?" he said, voice brusque to hide the strange twist in his chest.

Not much of an opening, but it was something. And for Thorin Oakenshield, it was far more than nothing.