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gwen-ever · 3 months ago

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Chapter 4: Still your right-hand man

Hey everyone! 😊 I owe you all an apology for not posting any new chapters the past few months. 🙇‍♂️ I've had a ton of work to get through, and it’s been tough to balance everything. 📚 But don’t worry, I’ve got a bunch of chapters written! ✍️ I’ve just decided to slow down a bit so nothing feels rushed. ⏳ The next chapter will be based on a super famous scene from the movies 🎬, but with a fresh perspective. I hope you’ll like it! 🤞 Thanks so much for your patience and support! You’re all amazing! 🙏💖 I promise more updates are coming soon! Catch you soon!

Summary: When Smaug arrived, he not only killed the dwarves of Erebor, but he also destroyed the lives of the few who survived… whether he did it on purpose or not.After a hundred years, a part of Thorin’s past will come back to haunt him in the form of a dwarf who last knocks on the door of Bilbo Baggins’ house, resurrecting old grudges and the pain of a life no one wants to talk about. Geira, daughter of Geiri, is anything but an open book, an exiled who no one wants around, a warrior who has no one to fight for, but only an oath she must fulfil.

Relationships: Thorin x FemaleOC Rating: M Warnings: none. AO3 LINK: HERE Taglist: @mrsdurin @lathalea

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“Are you alright? Gandalf, where are you going?” Bilbo asked worriedly, looking up at the wizard who strode past him without even sparing a glance.

“To seek the company of the only one hereabouts with a bit of sense,” muttered the wizard, quickening his pace.

“And who would that be?”

“MYSELF, MR BAGGINS,” he snapped, barely turning his head before continuing on his way back the way they’d come.

At the wizard’s outburst, Rosalie startled and backed away, forcing Geira to steady her by tightening the reins.

“I’ve had enough of dwarves for one day,” Gandalf was heard grumbling to himself.

Bewildered, Geira watched the tall figure of the wizard disappear swiftly behind a row of green brambles surrounded by small trees lining the path leading up the little hill.

Bilbo joined her and gave her a concerned look. “Will he come back?” he asked nervously.

She didn’t have time to answer; her words were drowned out by a voice much deeper than hers.

“Come on, Bombur, we’re hungry!” Thorin barked impatiently, drawing the company’s attention to him.

He stood under the charred roof of the farmhouse where they’d found shelter, watching the wizard leave with his hands on his hips, making no effort to stop him. It was clear that just as Gandalf wanted to leave, Thorin desired him to do the same.

Upon arriving on the small hill, the two had stayed back to talk in private beneath the burnt remains of the house. Geira hadn’t paid them much attention, but more than once, a shiver had run down her spine when she caught snippets of Thorin’s words: “elves” and “Erebor.” Within moments, their voices had risen to near shouting. Gandalf had likely realised that arguing with the King of the Dwarves was like debating an immovable wall.

“I think Thorin’s silence just now says enough about why Gandalf’s left,” she replied with a hint of irritation. “Welcome into a company of dwarves, Bilbo,” she added with pointed emphasis, making it clear she was referring to a particular dwarf.

She heard the rustle of a leaf before spotting Kili to her right, his hand near his mouth.

“Someone’s a wee bit touchy,” Kili whispered conspiratorially into her ear, snickering and giving her a meaningful look.

“You’ll have to be more specific. There are far too many candidates for that remark,” she retorted, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh well, just wait until Balin starts yelling, and Oin joins in—then it applies to the whole lot of ’em!” he chuckled warmly.

Geira forced a smile. “It seems you’ve enough words for three dwarves—and they’d cover also what your uncle doesn’t say.”

The sheer volume of words Kili could use in one breath was easily three times more than anyone else in his family managed in a day.

The young dwarf raised one dark eyebrow cheekily. “You’ve no idea who I grew up with, do ya? Supper at our place sounded more like grunts and sighs than anything resembling conversation. Ain’t that right, Fili?”

The blond dwarf smiled as he leaned over the head of his white mare, continuing to stroke its muzzle. “You mean those rare occasions when we weren’t speaking in just glances? Or gestures, with lips pursed and hands flailing?”

“Our mum’s always saying that with a personality like his, no dwarf maid would ever want him. Imagine marrying Uncle—poor lass would end up talking to the walls.”

Geira’s grip tightened around Rosalie’s saddle as that revelation hit her: Thorin had never married. Never taken a wife.

That’s why Fili and Kili were princes—because Thorin had no children. No queen. No one waiting at home for him in over a hundred and seventy years. No one.

A single voice, buried deep within her, stirred, relieved by this knowledge—wrongly and terribly so. But she shouldn’t feel relief. There was no reason for it. Those days were long past. His choices were his alone.

Fili laughed, his gaze shifting back to her. “I’m not saying Uncle’s a bad sort, but even I’ll admit he’s always been better at deeds than words.”

Geira couldn’t help but nod. “I can imagine…” she murmured as she began unpacking the saddlebags from Rosalie.

Kili nudged her elbow playfully. “I’ll have to tell ya about that time on Mum’s birthday when he…”

“Kili, go help with the ponies! Unpack them and make sure they’re tethered for the night!” Thorin’s sharp voice cut through the air.

Kili froze for a moment, looking up at Thorin, who was now descending the small rise where he’d been unloading his pony like the others. Both brothers immediately stopped talking and resumed their tasks without a word, moving away again. Geira looked up at the Dwarf King and met his cold, steady gaze as he slung his bow over his shoulder.

Kili took the reins from her hands and winked briefly. “Told ya someone’s touchy,” he muttered slyly, throwing a glance at Thorin, who was now speaking with Dwalin while sorting his gear.

“Move along, or you’ll catch another scolding,” she teased, nudging him.

“Oh, as if I’d be afraid of—”

“Kili, go help your brother!” Thorin interrupted firmly.

Geira returned to undoing the saddle straps, ignoring the sting of being silenced yet again.

Finally, the saddlebags were dry. After two days of relentless riding, being able to stop felt like a gift, though the sight of the burnt-out, abandoned farmhouse gave Geira a sense of unease. Why was it left like this, deserted?

She pushed the thoughts aside. They were safe now. Rest was what mattered.

She stroked the white pony, handing its reins to Kili, who had already begun rounding up the company’s ponies with Fili. Before they moved off, Geira raised her eyes to Thorin. For a brief moment, his expression softened as he watched his nephews closely. Even Dwalin’s grumbles seemed far from his mind.

Yes, he’d always been better at deeds than words.

When the stew was ready, the company gathered around the fire. Bilbo, however, seemed restless, throwing nervous glances into the evening shadows. Even after sitting beside Geira for a moment, he quickly got up again, wandering back toward the ruins of the old house.

Gandalf hadn’t returned yet, and the darkening sky suggested he wouldn’t be back until dawn.

Geira understood Bilbo’s unease, though his anxiety was starting to fray her nerves. They had to remain calm. Fear couldn’t gain the upper hand now.

She stopped polishing her sword, her hand pausing as she drew the leather strap along its squared blade. With a deep breath, she sheathed it, her eyes fixed on Bilbo, standing motionless, lost in the forest’s darkness.

“Bilbo, sit down. There’s nothing to worry about. He’ll be back by sunrise,” she reassured him, her voice steady, though the flickering firelight revealed her own concern.

Bilbo didn’t respond right away, his gaze still locked on the engulfing night.

“Weren’t you the one saying he had a good reason to leave?” he finally asked with a shrug, his voice trembling slightly. The distant chirping of a cricket filled the silence, but his anxiety remained palpable. “I don’t like it… not one bit.”

Geira watched him for a moment before stepping closer, her tone calm but firm. “Don’t worry, Bilbo. Gandalf knows how to look after himself, especially when it comes to matters like these.”

Bilbo remained silent, his feet shifting nervously back and forth.

Another sigh escaped her. Even a dwarf wouldn’t fear spending a night under an open sky, but Bilbo wasn’t a dwarf, nor a man—he was a hobbit. That made his fears seem larger than they might otherwise be.

“I doubt any mythical beast will attack us tonight, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said with a faint smile, lowering her sword to rest at her side.

“Eh, what could possibly attack us?” Oin chimed in, his deep voice as calm as ever. “Frogs? Squirrels? That’s all you’ll find in these woods, lad.”

Bilbo studied him for a moment, as if weighing his answer, before returning to his nervous pacing.

“Fili and Kili were just joking earlier,” Geira added gently, masking the slight falsehood in her tone.

Bilbo turned to her, his voice now lower, almost a whisper. “What if there really are orcs out there—behind those mountains—and we don’t even know?”

“Well, if there are orcs, at least they’d end up in Bombur’s stew,” Nori quipped, having overheard.

His jest earned a round of laughter from the dwarves, though Dori, his face flushed with embarrassment, merely shook his head.

Despite the humour, Bilbo continued his nervous pacing. Geira observed him for a moment, her chest tightening with a concern she couldn’t quite place.

Bofur looked up, a playful grin spreading across his face. “Bilbo, lad, do us a wee favour an’ take these bowls over tae the lads, will ya?” He handed Bilbo two steaming bowls of stew.

Without a word, Bilbo accepted the bowls and walked off along the path towards the ponies, where Fili and Kili were still busy.

Geira watched as his figure disappeared into the shadows, and the rumble in her stomach reminded her that perhaps it was time for her to eat as well.

The company was gradually settling by the fire, and Bombur was already ladling out second helpings. Approaching Bofur, who grinned at her knowingly, Geira held out her empty bowl.

“Fili and Kili aren’t back yet,” she remarked, trying to hide the worry in her voice.

“Ah, don’t be frettin’ yerself,” Bofur replied, pouring her a generous portion of stew. “They’ve probably run into a ferocious squirrel or two—and Bilbo’s their last hope, eh? But seriously now, a bit o’ fear does no harm, y’know? At least the wee lad’s brave enough tae wander into the woods on his own.”

Geira blinked, surprised by his perspective. He was right—perhaps she was worrying too much. After all, even Bilbo, with all his little fears, had shown a courage she might have underestimated.

Looking around, she noted how the company was slipping back into their usual routines. Some dwarves lingered by the fire, others tended to their own tasks in silence. Her gaze settled on Thorin and Balin, their heads bent together over the map. Her stomach sank as a chilling realisation struck her.

Bilbo hadn’t returned yet.

“The ponies weren’t far, were they?” she asked, looking up toward the forest. Bofur’s answer sent a shiver through her.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head solemnly.

“Then where on earth has he gone?” she murmured, her eyes darting uneasily toward the trees.

It was then that the cry rang out—urgent and desperate, piercing the stillness of the night. “Uncle! Thorin!”

Geira leapt to her feet, her heart pounding wildly. The company turned, alarmed, their eyes fixed on the forest. A dark foreboding seemed to settle over them all as the voice drew nearer.

From the depths of the forest, Kili emerged, his arms flailing, his breath ragged. He ran straight for Thorin, bypassing the fire and ignoring everyone else, stumbling over his words before finally managing to relay the dreadful news that made Geira’s heart plummet: Bilbo, in an attempt to recover two stolen ponies, had been captured by three mountain trolls not far from where they were camped.

“Why is he alone?” Gloin demanded, already standing and gripping the axe at his side.

Kili gasped for breath, bracing his hands on his knees. “We sent him… y’know, since he’s a burglar,” he explained, looking up at Thorin, who remained seated with an impassive expression. “We thought he wouldn’t get caught! It was all going fine, but then they surprised him! Uncle, I’m sorry—”

“And your brother?” Thorin interrupted sharply.

“He’s waiting for us, hiding in the bushes.”

Thorin’s jaw tightened, his face shadowed under the flickering light of the fire. Balin looked on, his own concern etched deeply in his lined features.

“In the name of Durin!” Thorin growled, clenching his fists against the earth.

In the tense silence that followed, Thorin grabbed the sword at his side and sprang to his feet.

“Let’s move before he gets himself killed,” he ordered brusquely.

For the first time since their journey began, Geira felt relief at following one of Thorin’s commands.

Without hesitation, she seized her sword, securing it to her side as she fell in line with Kili at the head of the group. Everyone moved with deliberate caution through the dense undergrowth.

Dry leaves crackled beneath their boots. The few remaining ponies, left in the shelter of the woods, neighed softly at the familiar sounds of their companions passing. Every member of the company kept their composure, knowing that silence was critical.

Geira stopped just a few steps short of the clearing, raising a hand to calm Rosalie. The mare was skittish, her heavy breaths betraying the shared anxiety rippling through the group. Geira’s gentle motion soothed the animal, who stepped back, revealing the scene beyond the trees.

A massive fire blazed at the centre of the clearing, its crackling filling the cold night air. Behind an ancient tree, Fili crouched, his face pale in the fire’s glow. He didn’t turn to acknowledge them but motioned for the others to lower themselves. Geira crept forward on hands and knees, weaving through branches and leaves until she reached his side.

There were three of them—huge, grotesque figures. The trolls’ monstrous shapes were distorted further by the dancing shadows cast by the fire. At their feet, Bilbo struggled in vain, held upside down by one troll gripping his legs. The hobbit appeared to be talking, perhaps trying to buy time, but every word was met with guttural, raucous laughter.

Geira turned back to the company, now assembled in the cover of the trees. Each face was hidden among the leaves and shadows. At the front, Thorin knelt, his sword clenched tightly in both hands. His gaze was fixed on the scene before them, his jaw rigid, his body still. He didn’t move. None of them did.

Geira’s heart pounded so loudly she feared the trolls would hear it. Every muscle in her body was taut.

Why aren’t they doing anything?

She could feel the heat of anger rising, her grip tightening on the hilt of her sword as her frustration boiled. She turned her gaze back to Thorin, willing him to give some kind of signal, some command—but he remained motionless, his expression grim.

And then the moment of stillness shattered.

The largest troll swung Bilbo into the air, roaring, “Dinner’s ready early tonight!” His voice thundered, shaking the trees, as the other two doubled over in laughter. Geira’s blood froze, and then boiled again, a furious fire surging through her.

She didn’t wait.

With a fierce cry, she broke from cover and charged forward. Her voice shattered the tense silence, rustling the branches as the trolls spun to face her, startled. Geira didn’t falter. She closed the distance to the nearest troll and slashed at its calf with all her strength. The beast howled in pain, bending down to swat at her, but she ducked, narrowly avoiding its grasp, and struck again, this time aiming for its massive wrist.

Chaos erupted.

Behind her, the rest of the company surged into action. The clash of steel filled the clearing, joined by the bellowing battle cries of the dwarves and the trolls’ enraged roars. Somewhere nearby, Dwalin’s hammer met its mark with a sickening crunch. The chaos was deafening, the firelight flickering wildly as figures clashed and stumbled.

Geira fought to stay focused, her eyes darting between blows.

Where’s Bilbo?

Amid the blur of dwarves and trolls, the hobbit’s small figure had disappeared.

To her right, a massive shadow loomed. One of the other trolls had noticed her. Geira tensed, readying her stance, but before the beast could strike, Thorin stepped into its path. With calculated precision, the Dwarf King parried its blow with the flat of his blade, the metallic clang echoing sharply. Thorin didn’t glance her way as he pressed the attack.

Geira caught her breath, watching for an instant as Thorin moved—swift, decisive, deadly.

Her grip tightened on her sword as anger flared within her.

Of course, this is what you do. Wait. Watch. Act only when it suits you.

She repositioned herself, moving to the troll’s other side. Together, without exchanging a word, Geira and Thorin struck alternately, their blows complementing one another as though choreographed. The troll roared, staggering under the onslaught. Finally, with a guttural wail, it collapsed to the ground.

Geira staggered back, gasping for air, her arms trembling with exertion. She barely had time to recover before an enormous shadow hurtled into her side, throwing her to the ground.

The impact knocked the wind from her lungs, and she hit the dirt hard. Pain flared through her lower back, sharp and unforgiving. She struggled to move, but every breath felt like a knife twisting in her ribs.

No. Not now. I can’t stop now.

With immense effort, Geira managed to kneel, her fingers desperately searching for her sword. She spotted it not far off, grasping the hilt with trembling hands. She pushed herself up to her feet, wobbling unsteadily, and turned toward the battle.

The sight stole her breath.

Two trolls had Bilbo. They held him aloft by his arms and legs, like a prize. The booming laughter of the monstrous creatures echoed through the clearing, and everything seemed to grind to a halt.

The dwarves froze, their weapons still in hand. Geira felt the blood drain from her face. She couldn’t look away from Bilbo—so small, so fragile, so defenceless. A scream was trapped in her throat, stifled by helplessness.

I won’t let him die. Not like this.

With a shudder, she tightened her grip on the sword. This wasn’t over. Not while she could still stand.

“Drop yer weapons, or we’ll rip his arms off!!” roared one, his voice deep and guttural.

Bilbo was pale and trembling, his grey eyes wide with terror, silently pleading for help. Thorin was furious, and in the end, with a burst of anger, he drove his sword into the ground. The others reluctantly followed his example.

Geira nearly collapsed under the weight of the pain as another sharp stab radiated through her lower back. She struggled to remain upright, her chin held high, even as the trolls roared with laughter.

One of the monsters grabbed a few sacks from a pile near the pony pen—though the ponies had fled—and another rubbed his massive hands together, satisfied.

“Tonight we’ll have a proper feast! Get the spit ready, we’ll roast ’em!”

“Aye, aye! Slow-cooked meat’s the best!” growled another, shoving Bilbo to the ground.

The force of the push sent him sprawling with a groan. Geira extended her hand as far as she could, helping him up. He looked at her hesitantly before grabbing her hand and rising to his feet.

“All right, you two! What’re ye waitin’ for? Grab a few dwarves and tie up the rest!” the largest troll barked, limping toward the bushes and dragging out two enormous logs along with a tangle of thick ropes.

The camp exploded into chaos. The dwarves kicked, punched, and struggled to escape—but it was useless.

In just a few minutes, Geira, Ori, Dori, Nori, Bifur, Bofur, and Dwalin found themselves tied to a thick wooden spit. Beneath them, a large fire crackled and spat sparks, as though eager to roast them.

Shouts and curses filled the air, Geira’s included, as they were slowly turned on the spit like game animals. Sweat poured from them in the suffocating heat.

The others had been tied up and stuffed into sacks, thrown into a pile. They shouted and screamed, demanding the trolls set them free, while the monsters argued about how best to season them.

“No need t’cook ’em. Just sit on ’em and squeeze ’em into jelly,” exclaimed the tallest troll impatiently as he paced around the fire.

He licked his lips, staring at Geira. She felt the heat of the fire under her, burning against her skin as the spit turned.

If they don’t find a way out soon, luck won’t save her.

“They should be fried up and grilled with a sprinkle of sage,” one of the trolls said, continuing to turn the spit.

“Sounds good to me,” replied another, his eyes fixed on Geira.

The largest troll stepped forward to help turn the spit. “Doesn’t matter what seasoning we use. We don’t have all night. Dawn’s not far off. I dont like to be turned to stone.”

Geira tugged at the rope binding her shoulders, but it didn’t budge. She twisted her wrists, trying to loosen the bonds, but that didn’t work either. Then an idea struck her.

Despite the discomfort, she bent her back awkwardly, lowering her head toward her bound hands. She began gnawing at the rope, trying to tear it apart with her teeth.

“What are ye doin’? Hold still, for Durin’s sake!” Dwalin growled, glaring at her as they continued to rotate.

“I’m trying to free my hands so I can untie this knot!” she snapped, her voice muffled as she bit into the rough fibres, the taste making her gag. She tore at it, managing to rip off a small section.

“WAIT!” Bilbo shouted suddenly, drawing everyone’s attention—hers included—and making her stop chewing on the rope. “You’re making a terrible mistake!”

His voice interrupted the trolls’ chatter. They turned to look at him, confusion evident on their grotesque faces.

“I mean… with the seasoning,” Bilbo added, still standing awkwardly inside his sack and hopping closer to the three trolls.

In Durin’s name, what was he doing?

“Seasoning?” one of the trolls repeated, stepping closer to Bilbo, visibly curious.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, his expression a mixture of feigned exasperation and indignation. “Have you smelled them? You’ll need something much stronger than sage to serve this lot!”

What did he just say?

Curses and shouts erupted from the dwarves, even Dwalin—who had told her to stay still—began thrashing wildly, trying to break free.

“Traitor!”

“Bloody liar!”

“When we’re free, you’ll regret this!”

Everyone except Geira seemed too furious to speak, trying to process what Bilbo was attempting to do.

“And what do you know about cookin’ dwarves, eh?” asked the troll who was turning the spit, interrupting Bilbo’s rambling.

“Shut up!” snapped the one wearing an apron. “Let the wee flurgburburhobbit talk!” he said, first glaring at them, then turning his attention back to the hobbit.

“The secret to cooking dwarves is…” Bilbo trailed off, his mouth hanging open as if he were stalling.

The trolls prodded him with questions, demanding he explain. It wasn’t until he suggested they be skinned that an uproar ensued, and every single dwarf began struggling harder against their bonds.

“You’ll pay for this!” Dwalin shouted at Bilbo, pointing a bound hand toward him.

Bilbo glanced at Geira and gave her a small, hesitant smile. She could see his lips trembling, and even through the sack, his hands fidgeted nervously.

She was confused. Deeply confused.

He’s stalling, but why? What could he gain from this? The extra time will only prolong this hateful situation.

The situation escalated when one of the trolls, impatient, grabbed Bombur by the legs, preparing to eat him raw.

But luck had it that the hobbit stopped him. “No, not that one—it’s infected!” Bilbo blurted out quickly, making both Bombur and the troll turn towards him. “It’s got worms… in its… tubes…”

One of the trolls fell back with a resounding thud, looking at Bombur in utter disgust.

“Actually, they all do. They’re infested with parasites! A terrible case, I wouldn’t risk it—truly, I wouldn’t.”

At those words, it was as if a lightning bolt struck her. While the others continued to shout, she turned her head to the side, noticing the first rays of dawn creeping over the horizon.

Dawn.

Geira tried to silence Dwalin beside her and Nori above her with a pointed glance, but they ignored her, failing to grasp Bilbo’s plan.

More angry cries erupted from the dwarves, and she looked up at Thorin. Like her, he had realised the truth and began kicking the dwarves closest to him. She saw him kick Kili hard enough to make him look back. Thorin stopped shouting, and with one sharp glance between uncle and nephew, Kili caught on—soon followed by the rest of those in the sacks.

“I’ve got parasites as big as my arm!”

“My parasites are even bigger! Huge ones, massive!”

What followed was a bizarre competition over who was the most infested, listing every kind of vile creature or disease imaginable coursing through their veins or guts. The trolls, caught off guard, glanced back at Bilbo, clearly uncertain what to do.

“So, what do we do, then? Let ’em all go?”

Bilbo shrugged nonchalantly. “Well…”

“DON’T THINK I don’t know what you’re up to!” the largest troll thundered, jabbing a finger furiously in Bilbo’s direction. “This weasel’s taking us for fools!” he growled, trying to convey his anger to the other two trolls.

“Weasel?”

“Fool?”

“THE DAWN WILL TAKE YOU ALL!”

A booming voice echoed through the valley, and all—including her—turned to the end of the hollow, their faces lit with astonishment. Standing tall on a boulder, leaning on his long staff, was Gandalf the Grey.

“And who’s this, then?”

“No idea.”

“Shall we eat him, too?”

What happened next took mere moments.

Gandalf struck his staff against the rock beneath him, splitting it apart to reveal the sun’s first light.

Bilbo, you are a genius!

The dawn’s light poured into the camp like a golden cascade, engulfing everything in its path. The three trolls, caught completely off guard, desperately tried to shield their faces with their massive hands, but it was no use. The sunlight struck them, their guttural, agonised screams filling the air.

Geira stood frozen, breath caught in her chest, as she watched the giants transform before her very eyes. Their rough, leathery skin began to crack and change—first a bruised, pinkish hue, then greying and hardening, splintering like fire-worn stone.

Their cries alternated with the eerie screech of breaking rock until, in a single surreal moment, all sound ceased.

The trolls were still. Three grotesque, hulking statues frozen in desperate poses, their hands forever raised in vain defence.

It took a few moments for Geira to process what had happened. The silence was nearly deafening, broken only by the distant birdsong, oblivious to the chaos that had unfolded. Relief washed over her like a tidal wave. Her knees buckled momentarily, and a raw laugh escaped her lips.

It was a sound rough and broken, but genuine. And once it began, she couldn’t stop. She laughed loudly, almost hysterically, leaning slightly forward as the weight of fear and dread melted away. The others turned to her in disbelief, but within moments, the relief became contagious. One by one, laughter erupted around her, wild and untamed, filling the air with a sense of triumph.

It was over. They were alive. They were all alive.

Geira placed a hand on her side, trying to steady her breathing as she lifted her gaze toward the others. Bilbo remained still, a few steps from the fire, staring at the three statues. He seemed incredulous, almost bewildered, his eyes wide, hands nervously clasped together.

The scene had a surreal quality. The little hobbit approached the centre of the clearing hesitantly, observing the statues with curiosity. Each step was slow, almost tentative, as if he feared the giants might come to life at any moment. For a brief moment, Geira smiled to herself. Bilbo looked like a curious puppy discovering the world for the first time.

Yet, despite his small stature and awkward movements, there was an incredible strength in that small being. Geira realised they wouldn’t have made it without him. All those dwarves, hardened warriors, had been saved by a hobbit. The thought was so absurd she couldn’t help but shake her head and smile again.

It was a story to tell. Oh, it certainly was. Thirteen dwarf warriors saved by a hobbit. If that wasn’t a tale fit for a tavern, she had no idea what was.

Getting down from the trolls’ contraption wasn’t easy for Geira. The dull but constant pain in her back made her bend forward slightly with each step, as if someone had driven a dagger into her lower back. When Bofur approached to untie her hands and free her shoulders from the ropes, she tried to keep a neutral face, but a groan escaped her as soon as her arms were free, and the weight settled back on her.

“Are you alright?” Bofur asked, giving her a worried glance.

“Yes, of course,” Geira lied, trying to mask the discomfort with a strained smile. “Just a bit stiff.”

However, as soon as her feet touched the ground, a sharper pang than the others made her stagger briefly. She tried to disguise the movement by bending down to pick up her boots lying nearby.

“If that’s your version of being alright, I dread to imagine when you’re not,” Bofur murmured, shaking his head, but he walked away, sensing it would be useless to insist.

Geira stood still for a moment, slowly inhaling to control the pain, then straightened up with difficulty and looked around the camp. Fili and Kili were gathering the items scattered by the trolls under a willow, while Bombur and Bofur helped a bewildered Bifur get dressed. The brothers’ giggles were muffled, a mix of relief and exhaustion.

Without wasting more time, Geira headed towards the pile of recovered items. Each step was a torment, but she gritted her teeth, ignoring the stinging pain in her back. She bent down, grabbing her leather corset from the ground. It was torn on one side but still usable. She straightened up slowly, trying to hide the strained expression on her face.

As she tightened the straps and secured the scabbard cord to her belt, her eyes roamed the camp, searching for someone. She found him not far away, by the extinguished fire.

Bilbo was brushing off his red velvet jacket with almost comical concentration, smoothing the collar and shaking off leaves and dust as if the world hadn’t been on the brink of disaster moments before. Geira watched him for a moment, a mixture of disbelief and relief painted on her face.

“In the end, you really did fight three enormous squirrels,” she stated sincerely, appearing behind him. Bilbo almost tripped over his feet, startled by her sudden arrival. His green eyes, at first frightened, softened, and his chubby cheeks flushed crimson.

“Oh no…” he stammered, offering her a weak smile, “nothing like that, I’m not a warrior, I don’t fight.”

“Well, you did brilliantly, not all warriors use their heads to strike someone on the forehead, you know?” she insisted, standing beside him.

She meant it, and Bilbo deserved every word.

The hobbit lowered his gaze, smiling slightly as he continued adjusting his scarf around his neck. “I read a lot, and I did win a contest on Middle-earth races as a child, and I remembered a few things,” he admitted, tilting his head.

“A quiz on Middle-earth races, huh?” she asked, crossing her arms. “So, you should know that dwarves express gratitude differently,” she teased, glancing behind him and pointing at his backpack, neatly placed atop a couple of rocks near the other items, along with his travel staff.

Bilbo looked up at the spot she indicated, blushing even more, his hands trembling as he struggled to tie his scarf properly. She decided to take charge, removing his hands and quickly retying the knot herself.

“We’re a complicated race, Bilbo Baggins, I’ll admit it: loud, irritable, and… particularly proud,” she acknowledged without managing to suppress a smile.

Perhaps too proud.

“But we know when we’re wrong, and even if we don’t admit it openly, we know it’s for the best. We’re not stupid.”

Bilbo nervously bit his lip, awkwardly avoiding looking at her for too long, focusing instead on her hands near his neck.

“I don’t think that’s a trait common to all of you, unfortunately,” he muttered, gesturing to their right.

Geira looked up as she tied the knot at Bilbo’s neck, understanding who he was referring to.

Thorin stood behind the stone figures of the trolls, talking to Gandalf. The dwarf’s face was anything but pleased, and amidst the indistinct words they exchanged, she thought she heard Bilbo’s name.

“He’s never pleased with anything,” she admitted, turning to Bilbo with a smile.

Bilbo said nothing, simply lowering his head with a sigh.

She tried to comfort him, even though she had often sought the dwarf’s approval herself and knew how difficult it could be.

Not that it mattered now, but she knew what Bilbo was feeling.

“I’m grateful to you,” she admitted, giving his scarf a final pat. “You did a great job, Bilbo, truly.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Of course, I do. If you studied Middle-earth races, you’d also know we’re inherently sincere.”

A playful smile escaped Bilbo’s lips. “I thought many of those were stereotypes not to be relied upon.”

“It’s a fairly common trait,” she replied with a shrug, “though I’ve always heard that hobbits love their homes, a good cup of tea, and their gardening books,” she teased, smiling despite the pang in her lower back.

“I must admit that ‘Courgettes and Sunflowers’ by Madoc Brandybook is the book in my library with the fewest annotations and scribbles, and it’s even signed by the author,” he whispered guiltily, with a glint in his eye that made her smile.

“I’d read a book written by Bilbo Baggins—‘Fourteen Dwarves, a Wizard, and a Hobbit!’” she commented, gesturing with her hands to indicate the title’s length.

“I’d give you a signed copy if it ever happens!”

She chuckled, covering her mouth. “I’d be deeply honoured, Master Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo’s eyes sparkled like they had when she first spoke to him in his home, or when he gazed at the silhouette of the Misty Mountains, glowing with such innocent, carefree light it almost hurt her chest.

She heard someone clear their throat, followed by several low grumbles, prompting her to turn. Dwalin was approaching them from a small path behind some bushes in the distance.

She turned her gaze towards the group of dwarves.

"Gloin, Bofur, Nori, hurry up. We’ve found the trolls’ cave. Thorin wants you there," he said in his gravelly voice.

The three dwarves immediately turned their attention to him and followed as he gestured towards the cave, curiosity driving their steps.

Geira let Bilbo continue tidying himself up while she heeded her back’s unrelenting protests. She needed to sit down, even if only for a moment, to gather her strength and assess how bad her injury was.

The rest of the company, curious as ever, followed the four dwarves in turn, including Bilbo.

Suddenly alone, she finally managed to seat herself on a smooth, weatherworn boulder.

A groan of pain escaped her lips as she brought a hand to her lower back, where she’d been hurt during the fight. She squeezed her eyes shut as her fingers brushed against a swollen lump.

Wonderful. A bruise was all she needed.

She rubbed at the spot, hoping to ease the pain and wondering how many days it would take to subside. She would have to grit her teeth as much as possible to keep the others from noticing that something was wrong—she had no intention of being the group’s weak link.

Of course, it would be a challenge, considering she’d struggled to walk earlier. The sharp, piercing pain in her back and shoulders felt as if blades were still lodged there.

What made it worse wasn’t just the wound but the circumstances that had caused it, and everything that had happened in the hours since.

Her gaze dropped to the hilt of the sword at her side, falling on the two runes engraved upon it: Thorin’s royal seal encircling the rune of her name.

What had happened only hours ago, while she and Thorin had fought side by side, was exactly what she was staring at now.

How long had it been since she’d felt this way? How long since her heart and someone else’s had seemed to beat in unison? Since she’d felt understood with just a glance?

The answer was simple yet so difficult, so painful. And she knew it: it had been one hundred and twenty years since she had last seen Thorin.

What had he done in all that time? What had he become? Had he felt what she had felt, even for a fleeting moment? Had his heart skipped a beat when their paths had crossed again?

Of course not. Of course none of that had happened, nor should it have.

She had a vow to herself keep: to accompany him to the mountain, to help him reclaim that pile of stone and riches, and then to leave again, letting him fade back into a shadow in her mind for the next one hundred and seventy years.

Yes, that was what she was supposed to do—and nothing more.

She tore her gaze away from the sword’s pommel, dismissing the doubts and questions clouding her mind.

Those thoughts only returned because of what Fili and Kili had said to her the night before. But what Thorin chose to do with his life was no business of hers.

Hearing voices in the distance, she removed her hand from her back and rested it on her knee. Within moments, several heads emerged from the narrow path leading to the cave, including those who had gone inside.

Bofur was carrying a barrel, while Nori and Gloin clamped several gold coins between their teeth, likely to test their authenticity.

When she saw Thorin and Dwalin step out of the cave and approach her, she lowered her gaze, unwilling to think about what had just passed through her mind.

But as Thorin walked past, a chill ran down her spine. Her gaze lifted slightly, drawn to the strange hilt in his hand. It belonged to a long sword she was certain he hadn’t owned before.

The shape and engravings made it clear: it wasn’t of dwarven make, nor forged by any human smith.

She kept her head lowered, waiting for Dwalin to pass her by as well—but he didn’t.

Instead, she caught sight of him approaching out of the corner of her eye.

She bit her tongue, holding herself back from standing and walking away, the pain still burning through her bones and muscles.

"You shouldn’t have done it," the dwarf growled, looming over her with his arms crossed over his hammer.

Geira raised an eyebrow as she looked up. "May I ask what it is I shouldn’t have done this time?" she retorted, her patience wearing thin.

Now he was sarcastic as well.

"You shouldn’t have thanked the hobbit. He’s the one who got us captured," he replied, gesturing sharply towards Bilbo, who was muttering something to Gandalf by the cave entrance.

Geira shot him a fiery glare, biting her tongue in frustration.

Now I don’t even have the right to speak.

"He only wanted to help. He didn’t do anything wrong!" she shot back firmly. "He went to the trolls because Fili and Kili told him to save our ponies."

Dwalin held her gaze, entirely unfazed by her tone. "He went unarmed to save the ponies, without cover, without warning, without thinking—and we were nearly killed because of it! The entire company could have been destroyed by his mistake!" he said harshly, leaning closer.

"He saved us. He bought us time. He made amends for his mistakes. If it weren’t for him, those trolls would have been feasting on Bombur by now!"

"It was the wizard who saved us, not the halfling," Dwalin retorted, enunciating every syllable.

"Bilbo saved us! He used his head and got us out of that mess!"

Dwalin’s mouth curled into a tight, mocking smile, his nostrils flaring in anger. The muscles in his arms tensed, and the tattoos on his hands seemed to come alive.

"‘Using his head’—something you’re still incapable of doing," he murmured smugly, leaning in close. "You’ve proven, by leaping into that bush, that you haven’t changed at all. You still follow your emotions more than the orders of your king. And do you know what’s most amusing? You say you betrayed for love, chose love over duty—but you betrayed the one who cared most for you."

That blow shattered her in every way possible.

A strike so low that she had to force herself to think of words instead of drawing her sword and driving it into the dwarf’s chest.

She drew in a breath, leaning closer to the dwarf she had once called a brother—perhaps the only one in Erebor who had never judged her but now condemned her based on lies.

She slowly opened her mouth to reply, but a rustling sound in the distance froze her. Dwalin straightened, his ears pricked as he turned his head towards the noise.

His hand shot to his sword, gripping its hilt tightly as a flurry of panicked bird calls broke through the air, and branches in the distance snapped with an unnatural force.

"SOMETHING’S COMING!"

#thorin oakenshield #richard armitage #the hobbit #lotr #lord of the rings #the hobbit fanfiction #thorin x y/n #thorin #middle earth #middle earth fic

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