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gwen-ever · 1 month ago

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Chapter 2: Cry me a river

HELLOOOOO, my favorite band of chaos gremlins! 💖 Guess what? We’ve got NEW CONTENT! Yes, finally, the wait is over—this chapter has some juicy new info about the oh-so-complicated past between Geira and Thorin. 🎉And oh, we’re not stopping there! Let me throw some questions your way (because I love torturing you all with mysteries): 1️⃣ What do you think the tattoo means? Is it just some cool dwarven ink, or is there something deeper at play? 2️⃣ What about the bracelet? Is it just a shiny trinket, or does it hold secrets that could change everything? 3️⃣ And seriously, what could Balin have done to make Geira hate him with the fire of a thousand dragons? 🐉🔥 Was it something petty, or is there a major betrayal lurking in their history? I NEED to hear your wild theories, folks, because honestly, your guesses fuel my creativity (and my endless need for drama)!Now, go on, dive in, and let me know what you think—your comments give me life! 💬✨

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

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The following days seemed to mirror the Company’s gloom: the relentless sky sent forth its dark grey clouds heavy with rain. Even the trees' canopies failed to shield them, allowing raindrops to seep through, drenching them despite the hoods of their cloaks.

Thorin hadn’t glanced at her even once, nor had he spoken to her since that evening. Bilbo always rode beside her, but aside from exchanging a few simple words, he remained silent, sneezing loudly or muttering unpleasant remarks about the rain or Gandalf. The wizard was perhaps the only one undeterred, continuing to ride and humming occasionally.

It didn’t take long for her to realise that their argument hadn’t just torn her own soul apart but had also wounded the entire Company. In the end, her aunt had been right about one thing when it came to the line of Durin:

"A kingdom reflects its king."

And at that moment, Thorin's kingdom was this Company. Like it or not, her presence and very existence had exacerbated the oppressive silences that had hung over her from the start.

Surprisingly, the rain vanished suddenly by mid-morning, replaced by a clear sky devoid of even a wisp of cloud. And as she had expected, the collective gloom of those days was swept away by the song of a handful ofswallows and the chirping of distant crickets under the warm spring sun.

"Stop, wait!" Thorin commanded loudly, raising his hand sharply and tugging Minty’s reins.

The dark mare reared onto her hind legs.

Geira pulled her reins and halted instantly, as did the rest of the line, taken aback by the sudden order. The only one who failed to stop—and she wasn’t surprised—was Dwalin.

The warrior had been riding directly behind her, but with a couple of nudges to his pony, he moved up alongside his leader as usual, positioning himself right at his side.

"What’s wrong?" Dwalin asked bluntly, leaning toward Thorin.

Puzzled, Geira turned her head to peer past the cluster of dwarves ahead. They were near the edge of the forest, just before a valley filled with small hills and thickets. Yet strangely, instead of leading them out, Thorin had come to a complete halt and remained silent.

A glance at the sinking hooves of Thorin’s pony in the mud was all she needed to understand the problem—and why they had stopped.

"A marsh. And it’s raining," she muttered to herself, a growing unease creeping over her.

Bad news.

Perhaps her words carried clearly, for around her arose grunts and sighs, along with a few accusing glances directed at her as the bearer of unwelcome news.

"You're joking, right?" Bombur sighed heavily from behind her, murmuring with a full mouth.

Gandalf, riding beside her, slightly turned his horse to look at the dwarf.

"I fear not, Master Dwarf... and this is not to our advantage, particularly given the hour," he murmured, casting an enigmatic glance toward the sun. She understood instantly, looking up.

It was low—too low. Sunset was approaching, and they could not stop here for the night.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bilbo draw closer, examining the expanse of mud and grass.

"What do you mean by ‘marsh’?" Bilbo asked, perplexed.

"It means we can’t proceed without risking the ponies drowning in the muck and losing our damned supplies in this swamp, Master Hobbit," Dwalin snapped, his stony face turning toward the end of the line.

"Oh no, no, no, no!" Dori cried out, his voice growing increasingly shrill, drawing her attention.

The dwarf gently tugged the reins of his dragging pony and shook his head, much to the bafflement of his younger brothers. "I’ve endured four days of rain, six days of riding, but this—I will not. I am not about to crawl through a filthy, stinking swamp. You’ll have to drag me!"

Gloin squinted, his mouth drawing into a firm line beneath his red beard. “As if we’ve got any other choice, Dori,” the dwarf retorted sternly.

“My alternative is to turn back and find a way around. There’s got to be some route that avoids this hellhole of mud and filth!”

“And add miles and miles to our journey? Brilliant idea, brother,” Nori said sharply from his side.

“Any other bright ideas?” Bofur chimed in with a wry grin, his accent lilting as he leaned forward on his pony. “Or are ya just lookin’ to moan us all to death, eh?”

Quickly, another round of bickering broke out over what should or shouldn’t be done.

Geira, however, couldn’t tear her gaze away from Rosalie’s hooves, noticing how short her legs seemed compared to Gandalf’s horse. Crossing the marsh would be a risk—not just for them but for the ponies as well. Yet turning back wasn’t an option. There simply wasn’t enough time.

The voices around her grew louder, overlapping and drowning out the cheerful chirping of birds. Even Bilbo attempted to chime in, stammering something incoherent amidst the racket. But then, a low growl cut through the noise.

“Enough! Silence!” Thorin roared, his eyes flashing as he glared at the Company. Instantly, all voices ceased, and every wide-eyed gaze turned toward him, including hers. Thorin gestured sharply toward Dwalin at the back of the line.

“Dwalin, move to the rear and ensure everyone stays in position! Fili, Kili—take the centre and do the same,” he barked, glancing at the two brothers before shifting his gaze to her.

Geira held her breath but met his eyes squarely, refusing to be intimidated. Thorin’s lips parted slightly as if he were about to give her an order, but he quickly closed them and turned away, ignoring her entirely as he had for days.

She bit her lip. If he wanted to pretend she didn’t exist, he was free to do so.

Gently, she tugged Rosalie’s reins and shifted into the newly ordered formation. Cautiously, she positioned herself in perfect alignment, ahead of Fili and Gloin, and preceded by Balin, Bilbo, Gandalf, and Thorin, forming a straight column where everyone would be covered.

“I don’t like this at all,” she heard Bilbo mutter with a resigned sigh.

“Nor do I, lad,” Balin replied unexpectedly.

Cautiously, they began trudging around the edge of the dark mire. As soon as the ponies stepped in, the muck rose to their calves, accompanied by a foul stench of mud, leaves, and rotting wood.

A shiver of disgust ran down Geira’s spine, but she bit her lip to keep still, while the others made no attempt to hide their revulsion. Groans, coughs, and colourful expletives echoed as each struggled with the foul conditions.

The brown mud clung to her hands; leaves, twigs, and tiny insects stuck to her clothes, crawling or buzzing as they went.

“Keep the ponies’ noses up. Don’t let them lower their heads into the mud,” Thorin ordered, marching ahead without looking back.

Geira leaned down, pulling Rosalie’s reins and placing a firm hand beneath her neck to steady her. The pony was far from pleased, shaking her head irritably.

“Stay still, that’s it… just a bit longer,” she murmured into the animal’s ear, stroking its neck soothingly.

Midway along the edge of the marsh, the mud had climbed nearly to their knees, and the ponies were quickly growing restless, nickering and pausing intermittently.

“By Durin’s beard…” Gloin grumbled irritably ahead of her when Bungo , Gloin’s pony, came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the line, blocking everyone behind him.

The pony whinnied loudly as Gloin tried to coax him forward with a tug, only for Bungo to shake his head stubbornly.

“Gloin…” Balin tried to interject, but the elder dwarf’s voice was drowned out by another loud groan.

“Why won’t you move, Bungo?” Gloin demanded insistently, giving the reins another sharp tug—harder this time.

The pony neighed again, thrashing more violently, clearly confused and frightened by its inability to move.

“If he keeps struggling, he’ll get stuck!” Geira shouted, raising her voice above the increasingly agitated cries of the pony.

But Gloin persisted, yanking the reins again. At that moment, Bungo reared, kicking his hind legs dangerously close to Rosalie, who began to panic in turn. The chain reaction spread quickly, and soon all the ponies were jittery and frightened, starting to move on their own.

A sharp gasp escaped her lips as Rosalie jerked forward so hard that the reins scraped painfully against the buckles of her bracer, reopening a freshly healed wound.

Dwalin growled loudly, wrestling to calm Myrtle with visible difficulty. “Hold still, you stubborn beast!” he barked impatiently at Gloin, whose actions were making matters worse.

“Mr Gandalf, do something!” Dori called out anxiously.

The wizard remained unruffled, murmuring something to his horse to settle it, sparing only a brief glance at Dori as he lifted his staff slightly to keep his own steed steady.

If this continued, they’d all sink into the mud, losing their supplies and nearly all hope of success.

Without thinking—or weighing the consequences—Geira acted: she leapt off Rosalie and waded into the swamp, sinking nearly to her neck in the filthy mire under Bilbo’s astonished gaze.

She held her breath as the stench reached her nose, a shiver of disgust running through her from head to toe.

“Gloin, Fili, dismount the ponies!” she ordered sharply, moving towards Gloin’s pony and throwing a glance at the prince. He looked at her in confusion but followed suit, plunging into the mud with a horrified expression.

Gloin’s pony bucked even more stubbornly at its rider’s insistence, nearly landing a hoofed kick square in her chest.

“I don’t take orders from you!” Gloin roared, refusing to spare her even a glance.

“I’m not giving you orders—I’m trying to help!” she shot back firmly, trying to grab the pony’s reins and keep it steady.

“If you want me off this pony, you’ll have to pull me down yourself!”

“If you don’t get off that pony, Gloin son of Gróin, the swamp will swallow us whole!” she pressed, growing weary, too weary even to check her acid tone.

For once, they had to listen to her!

The pony, distressed by their bickering, started to move in panick nearly unseating Gloin. Her attempts to grab hold of the pony’s halter became increasingly futile as she wrestled with its thrashing.

With a deep sigh and an even deeper effort, she silently sent a prayer—a damned prayer for help and a blessing to the only one who might knock sense into Gloin. Still trying to calm the pony with her hands, she cast a pleading look towards Thorin, who stood watching impassively. His cold gaze shifted between her and the pony without offering a word or command.

If they waited for his direction longer, they’d drown thanks to his pride.

“Uncle…” Fili called out to Thorin, approaching her through the mud and branches, looking bewildered and concerned by Thorin’s lack of direction.

Thorin pressed his lips together, his jaw tightening before fixing his stern gaze on Gloin.

“Gloin, do as she says,” he commanded sharply, holding her gaze briefly before turning back to Gloin.

The red-haired dwarf seemed unconvinced but obeyed nonetheless. He dismounted the pony with great difficulty, grumbling in irritation as his beard sank into the brown muck.

No sooner had Gloin left Bungo than the pony calmed enough for Geira to grasp the straps at its head in a quick motion.

She turned to Fili beside her, gesturing towards the two unaccompanied ponies. “Fili, take Daisy and Rosalie’s reins and make sure they follow,” she instructed with a grunt as Bungo tried to free himself from her grip.

Then she looked over the pony’s neck at Gloin. “Gloin, go behind Bungo and push steadily. I’ll pull from the front. Let’s try to keep him calm, or he might get stuck.”

Though visibly irked at the thought of taking directions from her, the dwarf nodded silently, casting a glance upwards in search of further orders from Thorin—which did not come.

Once both dwarves were in position, she moved in front of the black pony, gripping the sides of its bridle tightly to steady it as much as possible.

“One… two… push!” she shouted at the top of her lungs, beginning to pull on the straps.

She clenched her teeth, groaning with the effort as her muscles trembled under her skin. She threw her head back, pulling with all her strength.

“Come on, Bungo, move…” she muttered through gritted teeth, glancing back to see the other ponies had made it to the far side of the swamp.

Before she realised it, the reins suddenly became lighter to pull. Astonished, she looked to her side and saw Thorin, as mired in mud as she was, pulling the pony by the reins from the opposite side.

A lump formed in her throat as she found him beside her. His white teeth flashed as he pulled harder on the reins, his gaze fixed straight ahead, ignoring the mud that smeared his blue cloak and half of his dark hair.

The shock of his gesture froze her briefly. Only when Thorin frowned, ready to pull again, did she follow his lead.

Bungo continued to resist, though Gloin tried to soothe him with murmured words. But after a few more attempts, she felt the ground beneath her shift as the pony’s hoof stepped forward. Thorin noticed it too, and as she stepped aside to let the pony pass, he did the same, wrapping the reins around his wrist and continuing to pull.

When they finally reached the far bank, Geira felt as though the ground would give way beneath her. Taking a few steps, she freed herself from the mud, leaning both arms against a tree trunk and pressing her forehead against it in exhaustion.

It was perhaps the most arduous and absurd thing she’d done in years, but they were safe—every one of them, along with their supplies.

“What a mess…” she heard Dwalin mutter behind her, followed by the thud of someone likely stepping off a mud-caked steed.

“Many claim mud is good for the skin and works wonders on beards, you know?” Bofur teased.

“Shut your mouth, Bofur,” came the retort, followed by a disgusted grunt and the muffled sound of coughing as Bofur’s laughter rang out, joined by a few others she couldn’t identify.

Bilbo’s groan grew louder, accompanied by gagging noises. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he murmured weakly.

“Oh, come now, Mr Baggins—a bit of mud never hurt anyone,” Kili jested.

“A bit of mud? I look like I’ve emerged from a dung heap—or worse, my bath! Damn it all,” Bilbo snapped shrilly, provoking more laughter and jests from the company.

As soon as Geira felt she’d recovered some strength, she tried to lift her face from the moss-covered trunk. Her heart was still pounding furiously, not just from exertion but also from what Thorin had just done.

He had helped the company, not her, she told herself. Don’t dwell on it.

She glanced down at her clothes, completely covered in muck. The filth clung to her shirt, black leather vest, and trousers, even seeping into her boots. She didn’t dare imagine what her face looked like. With a shrug, she let the heavy fur cloak drop to the ground, though the sticky sensation and stench clinging to her nostrils didn’t diminish in the slightest.

Her gaze shifted to Gloin, who stood with his face close to Bungo’s head, speaking to the pony as though addressing another dwarf. He responded in a low voice while stroking the animal’s muzzle with both hands. Her eyes wandered to Thorin, standing a little further ahead. He had just removed his cloak and laid it over Minty, his brown mare. Balin assisted him by holding Deathless , Thorin’s sword, which he had carried for as long as she had known him.

Almost involuntarily, she ran her fingers over her own sword, brushing a layer of mud from its pommel and clearing the sticky foliage from the grip with her thumb. She would have to clean the blade as soon as she found a place to wash—a necessity for everyone at this point. Both ponies and dwarves were caked in filth, and even those who hadn’t leapt into the swamp to help Gloin were covered in sticky brown muck up to their waists.

In the distance, Dori’s beard braids were smeared with mud, and with a disgusted expression, he tried wiping them clean on his shirt sleeve, muttering indignantly all the while.

“Well, Master Dori, at least we’re out of the swamp! Surely you’d have preferred this over more rain?” Gandalf teased, riding his horse near him.

Dori scrunched his nose, looking down at his soiled clothes and hands. “It’s a pity we now smell worse than goat dung!”

Gandalf chuckled heartily, giving his horse a gentle nudge with his heels as he rode towards the edge of the forest, disappearing briefly behind it while humming a little tune.

Geira shook her head.

Wizards and their mysterious ways.

Bifur was riding nearby, muttering to himself as he tried to clean his axe on a leaf as large as his head. “ Ei Nai’rikhi jalaibsêk inîn !”

“You’ve got a point, cousin,” Bofur chimed in, waving the hat he always wore in front of his face. “Finding a nice spot to clean up would be a miracle right about now. We’d need to find a…”

“A river?” Ori cut in suddenly, his tone surprised.

The young dwarf was standing at the forest’s edge, peering through the bushes and trees ahead.

“Exactly, Ori, a river!”

“N-no… no…. a river…” he stammered, still pointing towards a small gap between the trees.

Curious, Geira looked over at the youngest member of the company, as did everyone else. Ori pushed aside a cluster of branches with his arm, revealing how the grove ended abruptly, opening into a small clearing. At its centre flowed a narrow river, with small rocky hills rising in the background—hills that had seemed so far away only moments ago.

In astonishment, Geira blinked several times, wondering if it was a mirage.

“A river…” she murmured to herself, a spontaneous smile forming on her lips.

“Could we not take advantage of this and have a bath?” Balin suggested to Thorin, who was still gazing at the small passage. “Given our condition, lad, it seems an ideal opportunity.”

Whether it was the advice of a friend or Balin’s own desire, the decision was made before Thorin could protest.

“Oh, praise great Durin! I’ve never been so happy to see water in my life!” Dori exclaimed enthusiastically, throwing his arms into the air. Without waiting for approval, he grabbed his pony’s reins and hurried towards the small path Ori had indicated.

There was barely time to head towards Rosalie before they all followed one by one, making their way through the bushes.

Gandalf observed them with amusement from his horse as they passed, cutting through the undergrowth and sparse trees that separated them from the clearing, taking the ponies with them. Judging by their whinnies, the animals were delighted to smell water.

This was all too perfect—too perfect to be real.

They should have heard the sound of rushing water, yet there was none. In that moment, Geira remembered how Gandalf had slipped away earlier, ignoring Dori’s questions and humming as he vanished.

The answer to all her questioning dawned on her.

She watched as everyone followed Ori’s directions unquestioningly, under the watchful eye of the wizard, who was busy packing tobacco into his pipe. She picked up her cloak from the ground and placed it over Rosalie’s back, the pony nudging her cheek in gratitude.

“A little rest for you too, at last,” she whispered into Rosalie’s ear, receiving another gentle nudge in response.

As Geira passed Gandalf at the entrance to the narrow path, she gave him a knowing look.

“You had something to do with this, didn’t you?” she asked bluntly, a smile of amusement tugging at her lips.

The wizard widened his eyes in mock innocence. “Me, my dear? Absolutely not! Whatever gives you that idea?” he replied slyly, giving her a quick wink and clearing the path ahead of her with the tip of his staff.

“Thank you,” she nodded in appreciation.

The wizard didn’t reply, only widened the path further with an enigmatic smile.

Holding Rosalie’s reins, she made her way through the light brush, weaving between branches and broken tree trunks. Once she emerged, she had to take a deep breath, though opening her mouth wide was difficult. This was Gandalf’s handiwork. In her entire life, she had never seen anything in nature as perfect as this clearing. A small waterfall tumbled from a hill into the clearing, encircled by clusters of trees. A well-trodden path of smooth, round stones led to the river, across which a ford of large flat rocks led to pastures on the other side of the crystal-clear, almost transparent stream.

The entire company was already inside the clearing. Many had tossed their soiled clothes onto the short grass, leaving a trail leading to the water. They splashed about in the stream, laughing boisterously and pouncing on each other like children, though most were well past that age—far, far past it.

Others, mostly the older ones, sat on the rocks beside the river with their eyes closed, savouring the moment. A few who had not yet entered the water were busy undressing. Geira spotted only the black curls of a certain dwarf in the middle of the water and had to make a conscious effort not to let her eyes linger on him.

After freeing Rosalie, she settled on the riverbank and began removing her boots, placing them neatly beside her. She did the same with her sword, unfastening it carefully from her belt and setting it next to her after cleaning the blade lightly with her palm.

Next, she tackled the intricate laces criss-crossing her chest. With a sigh of relief, she finally managed to free herself, breathing deeply for the first time in what felt like an eternity after removing the infernal contraption. In moments like these, iron armour would have been a dream compared to the torture of leather bodice.

“Geira?” her name was called hesitantly.

Distracted by her thoughts, her hands, which had been fiddling with the ties of her shirt collar, paused as she looked up.

Bilbo stood beside her, still fully dressed except for his pink jacket and blue waistcoat. His fingers fidgeted nervously, and he was deliberately avoiding her gaze, his eyes dramatically fixed skyward.

“Bilbo, is something wrong?” she asked, noting his reluctance to speak.

“W-what are you doing?” he stammered, refusing to meet her eyes.

“I’m undressing. I need to wash too, you know?” she said with a chuckle at his embarrassment.

“Yes, yes, of course, you need to wash,” he muttered in a deeper voice, “but… here? With us?” he asked, scratching his chin nervously.

Confused, she raised an eyebrow. “Of course, I’ll bathe here with you… where else would I do it?”

“But… but… don’t you see the… the problem?” he asked, glancing at the river and then quickly back at the company already splashing about, blissfully unaware of their conversation.

Geira couldn’t understand why she shouldn’t bathe there. “What problem?”

Bilbo’s face grew redder as he darted his gaze briefly to her chest before jerking it away again. Clearing his throat, he raised a hand to his mouth. “You know… you…” he gestured vaguely, pointing first at her and then at the dwarves in the water. “And them…”

“You mean… the fact that they might see me without clothes?” she asked, starting to grasp his point.

“Y-yes, that they might see you without clothes… others… I mean…” he stammered, gesturing wildly towards Fili and Kili, who had just launched themselves at Nori and Bofur with splashes and laughter, only to be thrown into the water amidst roaring guffaws.

“You’re worried the company might see me naked?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

“Exactly…” he confirmed, still refusing to look directly at her.

Geira had to resist laughing at the sight of his trembling hands. His naïveté stirred a deep sense of affection in her.

He truly knew nothing of the world, it was true. He knew even less about his companions.

She stood up abruptly, and even then, Bilbo refused to glance her way, despite her being fully clothed. Instead of reaching for his hand, she placed her own gently on his shoulder. He flinched at her touch, his wide green eyes finally meeting hers.

“Don’t worry, Bilbo,” she reassured him. “They’ve already seen me naked… more than once, actually,” she admitted, barely stifling a laugh as his eyes widened further in shock.

“What?!”

His startled exclamation only made her smile. “Most of them, at least. And I’ve seen them naked too.”

“How?!” he exclaimed again, gesticulating wildly.

Geira searched for a suitable explanation, or at least a half-truth, to avoid revealing too much. She wasn’t ready for Bilbo to know her past—not yet.

“When travelling like this, as we are now, we have to make compromises. One of them is deciding what we can and can’t do,” she began, gripping his arm gently. “For us, a body is just a body—nothing more. We don’t feel shame or embarrassment about it. It’s like… it’s like being clothed, in a way,” she explained in the simplest terms she could.

Bilbo’s expression shifted from embarrassment to curiosity. Tilting his head slightly, he squinted at her. “So, you’ve travelled with them before?”

Her jaw tightened, and she felt her breath catch. She had said too much, betrayed herself.

Nodding stiffly, she released Bilbo’s shoulder. “A long time ago. I travelled with… with some of them… a long time ago,” she murmured, her gaze drifting towards Dwalin, who was reclining among the water and stones, basking in the sunlight. Her eyes traced scars across his abdomen and chest and the thick muscles of his arms. She still remembered how he had gotten those scars. She had been there.

“So… what you did… what they hold against you… it happened while you were exiled…”

“If you like, Bilbo, I can move further away from you if it makes you uncomfortable to see me,” she interrupted with a smile, unwilling to continue the conversation, especially about those terrible days.

Bilbo pressed his lips together, then offered her a gentle smile. He had clearly realised this wasn’t a subject she wanted to discuss. She felt guilty, but she wasn’t ready—not yet, and perhaps she never would be.

Bilbo shook his head. “No, it’s not fair—I’ll turn around,” he muttered, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender before shrugging nervously.

“As you wish,” she murmured softly, more to herself than him. She quickly shed the remaining layers of her clothing—the trousers and her red shirt—placing them with the rest of the pile near the riverbank.

The moment she was naked, a slight chill sent goosebumps across her skin.

As the soles of her feet touched the smooth but firm pebbles, her face twisted into a grimace, though it softened the moment the cool, clear water enveloped her. A sigh of relief escaped her lips as she sank into the river up to her neck, tilting her head back to let the water soak into her hair.

She stayed like that for a while, basking in the sun’s warmth on her face and the river’s coolness, which eased her weary, aching muscles. The sunlight painted small spots on her closed eyelids while the water’s currents brushed softly against the scars on her arms and legs.

Dipping her head fully underwater, the sounds of the forest and joyful cries became muffled. She could hear only the faint hum of the riverbed as her breath slowed. When her lungs began to burn, she surfaced quickly, gasping and rubbing the water from her eyes, pushing her hair back from her face.

With a few strokes, she reached a rock in the middle of the river. She leaned against it, crossing her arms and resting her head atop them, exposing her back and letting the water soothe every fibre of her body.

She deserved a moment of peace.

For long minutes, she lay there, listening to the birdsong and the rustling of water, along with the distant chatter and laughter of the company. The droplets on her skin dried under the gentle warmth of the sun. It was so tranquil that she felt as though she had travelled back in time, wandering through forests as she had in the past. How many streams and rivers had offered her respite during her journeys, witnessed the same melancholic and wistful expression she wore now?

She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. Every time she opened an eye and glanced towards the company, no one seemed to be looking at her. Yet as soon as she closed her eyes again, that strange sensation returned.

“Geira?”

Bilbo’s uncertain voice made her open her eyes and turn to her left. The hobbit, still wearing his shirt and trousers, was swimming nearby, trying not to look directly at her.

“May I?” he asked, motioning towards a rock close to hers, clearly hesitant.

“Of course,” she said with a nod, inviting him to join her. Without hesitation, he settled onto the nearby rock, leaning back as she had, letting the cool water lap around him.

They sat in companionable silence, listening to the wind whistle through the trees, the river’s gentle flow between them, and the noisy chirping of birds. Her unease lessened, knowing Bilbo was nearby. It’s brief whistle further eased her spirit, calming the storm within her.

“What does the tattoo on your back mean—the two ravens?” he asked suddenly. A terrible pang struck her chest as she straightened in the water, placing a protective hand on her scarred shoulder.

“Why do you ask?” she whispered, her fingers brushing the outline of the bird’s wing.

“They were talking about it earlier,” he explained cautiously, gesturing vaguely behind her. “I’d tried to approach the others, making my way through the chaos, and as I got closer, I overheard them mentioning your tattoo. It seemed important to them, so I wondered…”

“Thorin?” she interrupted, gritting her teeth as pain stabbed through her chest.

Bilbo nodded silently, staring at the water lapping his stomach. “Fili and Kili were asking questions… then he and Balin…”

Geira’s gaze drifted to Thorin, seated on the opposite riverbank, talking with Balin. The older dwarf’s eyes were fixed on his king, but for a moment, she swore Thorin glanced her way. She could only see his broad back, yet it was enough. That back, sculpted like pure marble, bore scars and a tattoo she knew by heart. His tattoo was similar to hers—a single raven, crowned.

Old anger stirred within her chest, and the more her fingers touched the permanent mark on her back, the more it begged her to unleash her wrath. But she restrained herself; she had to. She had promised.

Enough of the past—her last confrontation with Thorin had been enough.

She dropped her hand from her shoulder, crossing her arms over her chest and lowering her gaze. Rising from the water, she headed for the shore.

“It means nothing, Bilbo,” she said hastily, grabbing her clothes from where they lay near the river. She clutched them to her chest, determined to wash them and rid herself of these intrusive thoughts.

“From the way they spoke, it didn’t seem like nothing,” Bilbo countered softly.

She must have shown too much vulnerability, even to Bilbo.

Trying again, she spoke firmly, as if issuing a warning. “Please, Bilbo, it truly means nothing…” She hesitated. “Please, let it go.”

Bilbo didn’t respond further. She only heard him sigh as he let the matter drop. Perhaps he had realised the situation was far more complex than he had anticipated.

In silence, she scrubbed her clothes in the river, washing away the dirt, as though trying to cleanse her mind of negative thoughts. Soon, she would do the same for her sword.

“For what it’s worth,” Bilbo said after a long pause, shaking his head as if banishing unwanted thoughts, “I… well, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened to you, but whatever it was—if it’s any comfort—I think Thorin or anyone you might have wronged will forgive you, in time.”

“And what if I don’t want to be forgiven? Or if it’s I who must forgive?” she snapped, scrubbing the last layer of mud from her trousers and leaving Bilbo no time to reply.

Yet, as before, she immediately regretted her outburst. Her emotions would be her undoing.

With a heavy sigh, she lowered her gaze to the water, brushing her fingers over the intricate metal bracelet always fastened to her wrist. “You don’t know dwarves. You don’t know Thorin.”

“And you…?”

A faint smile graced her lips as her fingers traced the delicate craftsmanship of the bracelet. Its links were as light and strong as dragon scales, precious enough to construct a palace.

“I thought I knew him, a long time ago… a very long time ago,” she murmured, her voice fading.

“What happened between you two? I mean… before… before the exile?”

“There are events that leave a deep mark on you. The coming of Smaug was no different. It changed us—both him and me,” she said, pausing to take a steadying breath. “He used to smile more,” she murmured, a painful ache tightening her chest as she fought back a tear she had sworn never to shed again.

She heard Bilbo inhale, preparing to ask another question, but before he could speak, the voices of the company rose. Many of them began emerging from the river, signalling to both that it was time to move on.

Geira left the water quickly, eager to put distance between herself and the emotions Bilbo had stirred within her. Gathering her dry clothes in her arms, she left the wet ones near the sacks and sheathed her sword. With brisk steps, she walked towards the forest.

The grass brushed against her toes, the leaves of low-hanging trees grazed her skin, and the approaching sunset warmed her gently. Its rays dried the tips of her short hair, curling them slightly at the ends.

The grove grew denser, with oaks and shrubs increasing with every step she took, as did the silence enveloping her.

She was retreating again, needing those few minutes of privacy only a cluster of trees could provide. She didn’t want to see anyone’s face—not for a while.

She stopped after a short distance, unwilling to wander too far and risk making them search for her.

Scanning her surroundings for any uninvited visitors, she eventually felt assured of her solitude, though not entirely at ease. With a huff, she draped her clean clothes over a curved branch and began dressing quickly, piece by piece.

She secured her trousers, covering the two rune-like stripes tattooed on her thighs, and slipped on her white shirt, hiding the tattoo on her back and ensuring no one—not even herself—could see it again.

Tense as a bowstring, she reached blindly for the leather corset on the branch, but as she grasped it, her wrist caught on two small twigs.

Geira tugged her hand free, but the green wood didn’t break immediately. She was forced to look at it again, and her gaze fell on the bracelet of pale metal glimmering like moonlight in the waning sun’s rays.

Until the last breath.

“No, no, no, no!” she muttered aloud, yanking herself free and looking away immediately. “Let it rot! Let it all rot, him and everything else!” she growled, fumbling with the clasp that kept the cursed thing secured to her wrist.

She wanted to throw it away right then and there, in the middle of nowhere. She didn’t even want to sell it—she just wanted it gone, never to be seen again. She didn’t want it near her or on her, didn’t want to see it anymore. It was the last reminder of what she had been—not for Erebor, not for herself, but for him. What he had once meant to her.

Her hands began to tremble, her breath came in uneven gasps, and her throat tightened, making even breathing painful.

She tried to remove the bracelet, but the more she pulled at its clasp, the more the indestructible metal seemed to cling to her arm like a vice. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed at it, yanking it with such force that it hurt, but it refused to move.

With a despairing groan, she gave up, slumping against the branch in front of her, resting her elbows on it and burying her face in her hands.

Tears threatened to fall again, but she forced them back, clenching her eyes shut. She couldn’t keep reacting this way—she had to be strong, as she had always been taught, as she always had to be.

She needed to be like she was in battle—unfeeling, unemotional. Even now, she had to remain hard, unable to cry any longer.

Blowing out a sharp breath, she ran a trembling hand through her damp, tangled hair. Suddenly, a rustling sound different from the others made her ears perk up. Something had stepped on fallen leaves.

She straightened immediately, her senses on alert, scanning the area for the source of the noise. She knew exactly what it was.

“Go away, Bilbo,” she said wearily, rubbing her temples with the tips of her fingers. “I’m not in the mood to talk.”

Her head throbbed as though a hammer was repeatedly striking it, adding to the exhaustion weighing on her body.

“You still have the habit of making assumptions without first being certain, lass,” came a rasping voice, making her lift her head from her hands. “You’ve always been so impulsive.”

At the sound of that voice, Geira hastily pushed the bracelet back under her shirt sleeve.

“Some habits are hard to break, Balin, and flaws are even worse,” she replied coldly, not even turning to face the older dwarf.

Hearing his voice alone made her skin crawl. Looking at him would only worsen the turmoil within her. Instead, she continued dressing, grabbing the corset she hadn’t managed to don earlier and wrapping it around her shoulders and waist.

“I’m sorry. I never intended for this particular trait of yours to be considered a flaw,” he said calmly.

“It’s always been treated as one, though, if I remember correctly,” she retorted acidly, fastening the straps around her waist. For days, he hadn’t given her so much as a glance, and now he wanted to talk as though nothing had happened, as though the years between them didn’t exist. As though everything that had transpired was a fleeting memory. And he wanted to talk about her faults.

He had no right. He could go back to scheming with his king.

The older dwarf chuckled softly. “Not when it came to taking charge. You’ve always been the most capable in that regard. It’s one of the reasons you were always the best.”

“It was only training,” she interrupted tersely.

“I didn’t mean the best at fighting—I meant the best overall…”

Geira stayed silent, hoping in vain that time had made Balin less intrusive, that he would leave her alone without trying to twist the situation to his advantage, as he always had.

He was, after all, a politician. He had always been one. She remembered when he would visit her home with her father, sitting in his study for hours, filling out documents and preparing speeches for the king. She didn’t want to be yet another page for him to analyse.

“Why are you here, Balin?” she asked bluntly as she finished fastening her corset. “If you wanted me to hurry up, you could have just left. I would have caught up in a few minutes.”

“I came to apologise for what my brother said to you a few days ago. It wasn’t fair of him, and I wanted to thank you for what you did today.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips.

“Dwalin does what he wants when he wants, as he always has. Your apology, like his, isn’t necessary. And your gratitude isn’t either. I did what needed to be done to ensure everyone survived,” she explained, kneeling to pull on her boots and avoid letting the situation spiral further. “I can handle things on my own without anyone’s thanks.”

The older dwarf sighed, remaining silent for a few moments. “I know, I know, and so do the others…” He paused, taking a heavy breath. “Even Thorin. Though he’ll never admit it, he knows.”

At the mention of that name, she felt her back burn as though the tattoo beneath her shirt flared to life. Her eyes itched to glance at her wrist where the bracelet lay hidden.

“I don’t care what he knows or doesn’t know. He has nothing to do with my decisions anymore. I do what’s right, not under his orders—and certainly not for him!” she snapped, nearly growling as she bent to tighten the straps on her boots.

Balin took a small step forward. Instinctively, she stepped back, clenching her teeth.

“You’ve taken the hobbit under your wing. For that, I think a thank-you from all of us is warranted. He wasn’t quite the companion we’d expected,” Balin continued, his tone measured.

“I don’t want your gratitude, Balin. I don’t want gratitude from any of you!” she shot back sharply. “Bilbo deserves the same chance to survive as the rest of us. He deserves it. He was thrown out the door with nothing but a push and nothing to guide him, without so much as a clue how to cross the threshold.”

Balin remained quiet, offering no reply. The birdsong filled the silence, and she had no intention of adding to her earlier words. She had told him what he needed to know.

She secured the leather strap around her calf, then repeated the motion with the other, waiting for Balin to leave.

“Your father… where is he?”

Her hands trembled, and she kept her gaze firmly fixed on the ground, clenching her fingers with all her strength.

“He’s dead. A hundred years ago, near the banks of the Adorn,” she murmured, her voice as controlled as she could make it, stripped of all emotion. “He’s buried there, at the base of the highest hill I could find,” she added, recalling the small cairn she had built with her bare hands and the runes she had carved in mere hours. “The closest thing to a mountain for miles,” she muttered to herself, rising to her feet despite the sharp ache in her chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, you’re not sorry, Balin. So don’t waste your breath on these empty platitudes,” she snapped, her voice low but cold. “My father died in exile, and his grave is in exile. Nothing can change that—not your sorrow!” she spat, glaring directly into his eyes.

“What happened, Geira,” Balin began cautiously, “what happened to you… it wasn’t an easy decision for anyone to accept—or to make, for that matter. On either side.”

“Don’t speak as though you opposed it, Balin. No one did. No one said a word that day!” she shouted, stepping closer and jabbing a finger at his chest. “We were cast out like wild animals, forbidden from speaking to any of our kind for the rest of our lives! Everything was taken from us!”

Her voice rang out, echoing through the small grove. The fury she had suppressed for years finally poured out.

He had been there—Balin, like so many others, had watched silently as Thorin, Thráin, and Thrór had exiled her and her father. They had seen, they had heard her pleas, and yet no one had done anything then, nor in the 120 years that followed.

Balin’s lips quivered beneath his white beard, his face clouded with sorrow. “No one could have said anything in the face of such a verdict. It wasn’t easy, Geira—not for anyone,” he said softly, emphasising the word anyone to make his meaning clear.

“It wasn’t easy?” she shouted again, her voice raw, almost breaking into tears she refused to let fall. “For whom? It didn’t seem hard for him—or for anyone in this company!”

A shadow passed over Balin’s eyes, and his expression darkened.

“It was a very difficult time, Geira,” he murmured, lowering his gaze.

He couldn’t even look at her.

“... far too difficult.”

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, laced with pain and words left unsaid. It was laughable, how Balin still believed Thorin might have cared, might have suffered for her, when he had been the one to order her banishment.

With a wry smile tugging at her mouth, she stepped closer to Balin, her eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “Look me in the eye and tell me you think I’m not a traitor. That I didn’t deserve what happened to me—or what my father endured. Tell me he doesn’t think the same.”

“That day was terrible, and the years leading up to Smaug’s arrival were even worse. What happened to you is…”

“Answer the question!” she hissed, her voice as cold as ice. “Look me in the eye and tell me, Balin!” she then shouted, her voice erupting with all the strength she could muster.

Balin flinched at her outburst but continued to gaze at her with sorrow, his mouth slightly open as if ready to respond. Yet no words came. His eyes met hers, searching her soul, but he could not offer the answer she already knew.

“See? Your apologies, your regrets—they’re meaningless to me, just like all the other lies,” she whispered icily.

Without waiting for a reply, she brushed past him, leaving the old dwarf and all her anger and pain behind her. She headed back to the others—and inevitably towards the source of her suffering.

------------------------------- TAG LIST: @mrsdurin

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

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gwen-ever · 1 month ago

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now avec gif

((how long after i originally posted it???))

anyway, if anyone has any questions regarding my process, i’m more than happy to answer ｡◕ ‿ ◕｡

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gwen-ever · 1 month ago

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On The Hobbit page of the LEGO site, you can play a game that allows you to “arrange” music for the Dwarves. I lost it at Thorin rocking out his harp solo.

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gwen-ever · 1 month ago

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Frerin son of Thráin in the green valley of Azanulbizar

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gwen-ever · 2 months ago

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She is such a precious baby ❤️

The stew scene in 4k

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gwen-ever · 2 months ago

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Chapter 2: Axe or Sword

Hello, my beloved hobbits! 💖 Another chapter is here, and oh boy, this one is something. But before you dive in, let’s stir the pot a little, shall we? 😏 What do you all think happened between Thorin and Geira in the past? I swear, Thorin is the king of emotional constipation, but Geira? She’s not exactly innocent here either! 😘 So, are we getting a heated argument, a moment of soft vulnerability, or both? Who knows, maybe something entirely unexpected will happen… 😏 Let me know your thoughts—I live for your wild guesses and theories! Now, go on, enjoy the chapter! 💕

Relationships: Thorin x FemaleOC Rating: M Warnings: none. AO3 LINK: HERE

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Sunlight filtered through the treetops, forcing Geira to close her eyes. The day had turned out warmer than expected, and despite it being early spring, her shirt clung to her back with every step of Rosalie, her pony.

“You’re not too warm, are you, under all that fur?” Geira asked, stroking the pony’s grey mane with her fingertips.

In response, Rosalie let out a soft whinny and twitched her ears, signalling that the summer heat was Geira’s problem, not hers.

Rosalie was a very calm pony, her temperament so steady that for a moment, Geira could almost forget the heavy atmosphere still hanging over the Company. The pony’s serene nature helped keep her from glancing too often towards the head of the column.

From the rear, she could see every dwarf in the Company.

Occasionally, Balin would pull out a piece of parchment from his bag, examining it through his small golden monocle.

Just as the years had passed for Geira, they had passed for everyone else.

The only difference was that they had someone to remember them.

“My hobbit back isn’t exactly suited to long rides, and neither are my poor legs!”

Bilbo’s voice rose above the birdsong around them, snapping Geira out of her foolish, childish thoughts.

She cast a glance at the two horses trailing behind Gloin at the column’s forefront, her eyes landing on the hobbit, who was pressing one of his hands against his lower back.

“Oh, dear Bilbo, you have a long journey ahead of you. Make yourself comfortable and enjoy the wide horizon!” Gandalf sang, gesturing ahead with his staff.

“The very thought of standing is agony for my shoulders,” Bilbo shot back, craning his neck backwards. “I should have brought a cushion!”

“You’re right, Master Bilbo,” Dori agreed from directly behind him. “This saddle’s harder than the marble floors of the Emeralds’s Marketplace in Nogrod,” he grumbled, trying to shift into a better position.

“With this heat, brother, I’d much prefer a frosty golden ale from old Olaf’s tavern. Maybe two, if that thick-skulled dwarf would take copper coins for once!” Nori dreamily replied, leaning his neck back against the horse.

“ Kann barathgalt i’zuhu! ”

Bombur nodded, glancing over at his cousin seated just in front of him. “You’re right, cousin, that wouldn’t be half bad right about now!”

Despite the small talk, which briefly distracted her, Geira noticed Bilbo shifting and moving restlessly, still ignoring Gandalf’s advice. She barely managed to stifle a sour smile when she heard his neck crack yet again. And just as on the nights before, she felt a hidden side of herself ignite—one she hadn’t allowed to surface for years.

“Straighten up your back, Bilbo!” she called from the rear of the line, catching not only his attention but also that of several dwarves, shocked to hear her speak.

“W-what?” Bilbo asked, craning his neck to peer through three rows of dwarves to find her.

“Your back—keep it straight,” she repeated, tilting her head to the right so she could look him in the eye. “Otherwise, by the end of the day, you’ll feel like a pack mule if you keep hunching forward!”

Bilbo said nothing, merely furrowing his blonde brows as he turned around. Suddenly, he straightened his back, tilted his neck, and extended both arms forward in the most awkward posture imaginable.

Geira gave Rosalie a gentle nudge with her heels, urging the pony to pick up her trot. Quickening her pace, she wove past the dwarves until she reached Bilbo’s side.

“Like this—see?” she asked, keeping pace with him and demonstrating the correct posture by gesturing with her chin towards the alignment of her back. “Head and neck upright, arms in front of you,” she explained with a smile, ensuring her upper body was as straight as possible for him to mimic.

Bilbo gave her a confused look. “Well...” he began, examining his arms and locking his elbows slightly. Then, he straightened his back, lifting his chin high enough to see the sky but still low enough to look at the ground if needed.

“Like this?” he asked, holding the position.

She nodded approvingly. “Exactly.”

“Well, it’s not comfortable at all!”

“It’s not comfortable now,” she explained. “But you’ll thank me later, Master Baggins, when your bones aren’t cracking like broken branches.”

She swore she saw a faint blush form beneath his golden sideburns on his beardless cheeks. “Oh, well, I... thank you...” he stammered, embarrassed, but he maintained his posture.

She smiled again before turning her gaze back to the green hills just beginning to emerge beyond the dense oak grove that surrounded them.

“How much have you travelled? If I may ask?” Bilbo suddenly asked, his tone visibly curious.

The question made her lips part slightly.

How much had she travelled?

How long had she been making the same simple motions without even realising it? How many ponies that didn’t belong to her had she ridden? How long had she been wandering, not at the orders of a king, but simply because she couldn’t stay still? Too long.

The impulse to retreat to the rear of the line struck her again, as did the urge to leave Bilbo’s question unanswered. But she found a shred of strength when she saw the hope in the hobbit’s eyes.

“Enough to know how not to exhaust yourself after a day’s ride,” she answered quickly, unwilling to elaborate.

“With men, I suppose? I can smell them on you since last night,” growled Dwalin’s voice from behind, sending a chill down her spine and up, all the way to the tips of her hair.

She bit her tongue to keep from snapping back.

Turning her head slightly, she met the stern, shadowed face of the warrior dwarf. His dark brows were furrowed, a scar arching downward through one of them. His thick black beard barely hid his scowling mouth.

As the night before, she couldn’t help but want to rip that grimace off his face with her bare hands.

“Most of them, yes—men. They pay well,” she replied, shooting him a sharp look before turning forward again.

“They paid for that fine bow, I suppose, and that coat of yours as well,” Dwalin continued sarcastically, making her grip the pony’s reins tighter in her hands.

“They pay me well, Master Dwalin. Well enough to survive without asking too many questions about me,” she retorted, keeping her voice calm as her gaze drifted to the bow hanging at the pony’s side. Its pale wood made it clear it hadn’t been crafted by her kin.

And how could it have been? She hadn’t spoken to a dwarf in nearly a century and a half, and Dwalin knew it—he knew it all too well.

“Because if they asked, they’d know you’d turn your back on them the moment you got a better offer. That’s why you don’t want them knowing who you are?” he spat angrily. The dwarf quickened his trot to come alongside her. “Maybe it’s because they’d find out why a dwarf warrior roams the Wild Lands alone?” he taunted.

“When they start asking questions, I move to another settlement,” she replied quickly. “I trade my weapons for a roof over my head. Isn’t that what you do? The last time I saw you, you were escorting their caravans from east to west. I just get paid to fight for them,” she reminded him, throwing him a sharp glance.

“That’s not the same thing,” Dwalin growled.

“Oh, it’s not? So that coat wasn’t paid for with their gold, was it? Or those boots? And you didn’t pay the smith with their silver coins, did you?” she shot back, turning her head fully towards Dwalin.

Dwalin’s brows furrowed deeply, his eyes blazing with pure fury. Before she realised it, he surged forward and tugged on her pony’s reins, forcing her to stop and nearly crashing into him.

Bilbo flinched slightly beside her as Dwalin stopped them both in their tracks, glaring at her as if she were an orc with a mouthful of blood.

“We do it to help our people—you do it for yourself!” he spat in disgust. “You’ve always done everything for yourself! You’ve never cared about your people! You’ve no right to speak of us!” he shouted at her, his rage boiling over.

Each word struck through the iron armour Geira had built around her chest, around those memories.

She could feel her blood boiling in her veins and her hands tingling with the temptation to grab her sword and hold it to the dwarf’s neck, forcing him to take back every word.

He knew nothing. Nothing!

“Don’t you dare, Dwalin, speak of my life as though you know it, as though you’ve ever known it!” she hissed.

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a knife. The birds had stopped singing, and the warmth around her had been replaced by an icy chill. No one in the Company dared speak or even breathe.

Dwalin clenched his jaw, leaning in closer to her. “What I do know is that you’re a traitor, filth who can’t make amends even with her hair shorn short. You—filthy—”

“Did I ever tell ya I used to own a goat named Rind?”

Bofur’s voice broke through the ranks, interrupting Dwalin’s words. “She was all white with a black mark shaped like a crescent moon over her left eye,” he continued from the back of the line, chuckling softly.

Geira didn’t turn, but she heard the birdsong resume, the warmth return, and a series of grunts rising from the rear of the column.

It was as if the entire world had started breathing again, yet she still felt the world behind her burning.

She continued locking eyes with Dwalin, and in his green eyes, she saw unspoken words hanging heavy.

Can you ever make amends for what you’ve done to him?

And what did he do to me?

She wanted to answer him, but Bofur had decided this was a conversation that shouldn’t take place—and perhaps, for now, it was better that way.

The ponies resumed their trot, leaving only her and Dwalin in the middle of the path. Several seconds passed before Dwalin, with an irritated glance, tugged his horse around and rode ahead, leaving her behind.

When his gaze left hers, she exhaled a heavy sigh, trying to ignore the confused and worried look Bilbo cast her way as he passed.

“…She used to sleep under me bed, y’know. Did I ever tell ya about the time I came home and found half of me furniture covered in her slobber?” Bofur’s cheerful voice reached her ears again, along with the inevitable groans that followed.

“Oh, in Durin’s name, Bofur, not again...” Nori muttered.

“So one day I went to the workshop, like I do every day, and I bought some cheese and milk for the next day...”

Geira didn’t hear the rest of the story as she stood motionless, letting the entire caravan of dwarves pass by.

It wasn’t until Fili and Kili passed her that she raised her gaze again, and her breath caught in her throat.

Thorin remained as still as she was in the middle of the path, letting the rest of the Company move on while he stayed behind, watching her with an unreadable expression.

They both stood in silence, neither of them speaking, as though Thorin’s silence was shouting at her.

And yet, it was only at that moment, hidden from the eyes of all, that she finally took a proper look at him and noticed how much he had... aged.

Thorin’s black hair had lightened, streaked with silver strands. His once-soft profile had sharpened like a blade, a myriad of fine wrinkles adding to his regal bearing in a way that hadn’t been there 120 years ago.

Yet all she felt looking at him was unease and anger—too much anger.

Only when he turned and resumed riding, his back to her, did Geira force herself to remember why she was there. All she needed to do in this place was complete her mission.

She just had to not even look him in the face.

Geira dropped her sword and stretched, raising her arms and glancing around the rocky outcrop where they had found shelter for the night. The site was surrounded by small hills covered in fir trees and evergreens.

The iron pot was already over the fire, and the typical pile of blankets and backpacks lay scattered nearby. In a few hours, they would be claimed by the luckiest among them, those who had managed to dismount their ponies and toss their belongings to the ground before the others.

The two brothers, Bombur and Bofur, were hunched over the copper pot from which a mouth-watering aroma emanated, instantly awakening her appetite; she hadn't eaten a thing since that morning.

She glanced around, searching for Gandalf, who was sitting by the fire, puffing on his pipe and listening to Dori. Dori, the eldest of Nori and Ori's brothers, was chatting idly, mostly complaining about Nori's inefficiency. Gloin and Oin were busy cleaning themselves up, while Fili and Kili were already chuckling quietly.

The only one excluded from that joy seemed to be her.

Her argument with Dwalin that morning appeared to have left no impression on anyone—and why should it? It was Dwalin’s problem, and more precisely, her problem. She certainly didn’t expect anyone to say a word; they hadn’t even looked her in the face, and she definitely wasn’t going to start a conversation.

Grumbling at the slight soreness in her thighs caused by hours of riding, she tried to follow the others' example. She knelt on the ground and pulled out her bedroll from her bag, unfurling it in front of her with a single motion.

"Pick a spot to sleep; Nori, gather the ponies while Bombur finishes cooking," Thorin ordered as he strode through the small campsite, his satchel slung over one shoulder and his sword firmly gripped in hand.

Nori nodded in approval before getting to his feet, brushing his hands against his jacket, ready to carry out his leader's command without question.

She caught Thorin in the corner of her eye as he arranged his things on the opposite side of the campfire from her. She knew it wasn’t a coincidence.

"Master Baggins, mind you don’t lean too far over," Thorin called sharply, addressing an unseen point behind her.

It was only then that she noticed Bilbo standing at the cliff’s edge, hands clasped behind his back, gazing downward. At the sound of Thorin’s voice, the hobbit’s pointed ears seemed to perk up, and with two slow steps, he moved away from the precipice, nodding at the dwarf as he did.

Oin was standing next to him, peering over the cliff with his ear trumpet in hand. "It’s quite the drop, my boy—are you sure you fancy tumbling off this cliff?" he asked dryly.

Bilbo began shaking his head, raising a finger to object, but before he could respond, Nori approached, leading two ponies by their reins.

"We could always send Bombur to fetch him," Nori said with a chuckle.

"And then who’ll fetch Bombur?" Gloin retorted, sparking a round of laughter in which even Bombur himself joined.

Bilbo remained silent, staring into the void, his small hands restlessly fidgeting.

She pushed herself off the ground and approached Bilbo, who still had his back to her. Passing the blazing fire, she ignored Dwalin's gaze as he rose from his bedroll to tend to the pot brimming with food.

"How’s your back?" she asked Bilbo, folding her arms across her chest.

The hobbit startled slightly, stammering nervously. "Ehmm, it’s—fine, really. I thought it would be much worse."

She nodded, moving to stand beside him near the ledge. "I told you, even the leg pain will ease over time," she said, referring to her own aches, which continued to cause mild spasms in her thighs.

Bilbo glanced around briefly before leaning closer, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Sleeping like this won’t help the pain at all," he said.

"Not at all, but it’s something you get used to," she replied with unvarnished honesty.

Just like the night before and the morning of that same day, she felt as light as a flower petal and as vulnerable as a child.

She knew what was going through his mind and envied Bilbo—deeply and shamefully, but she envied him.

That fear, that yearning to leap into the unknown and never look back.

It had been her dream, always her dream since she was young: to be free, to wander through the forests and valleys of Middle-earth, to gaze at the stars in the night while lying on the grass, to watch the snow falling and glistening in the twilight, and to feel the wind tousling her hair as she twirled her sword in the air. That had been her dream, until loyalty had triumphed over her desires and selfishness, until that same loyalty had taken everything away from her and condemned her to solitude.

Until her oaths, her devotion to what she loved and deemed right, had left her living as an outcast, accepting everything she once desired—but alone.

"It's so beautiful…" Bilbo exclaimed after a long pause, snapping her out of her dark and sorrowful thoughts. "But it's a beauty that fills me with a fear I've never felt before," he admitted, stammering with embarrassment while continuing to gaze at the horizon.

Geira nodded and looked at the mountain ridges, observing how they overlapped to form a small wall that blended with the wisps of clouds above them, tinged pink and lilac by the sunset's end. The evening breeze caressed her face, brushing strands of brown hair behind her ear and under the red shirt she was wearing.

She closed her eyes, savouring this brief moment of peace she hadn’t granted herself in ages.

"My aunt always used to say that the fear of the unknown is simply your body asking you to explore it," she murmured under her breath.

Bilbo drew a small breath, letting out a soft chuckle. "Your aunt sounds fascinating."

"She was… fascinating, I suppose you could say," she replied absentmindedly, unable to hide a thread of melancholy in her voice.

Bilbo’s green eyes widened slightly, and his mouth turned downwards at this realisation.

"I'm sorry, I didn’t…"

"Don’t be," she interrupted. "She left this world on her own terms, just as she always wanted. She gave her life for someone she cared deeply about."

"Your uncle?" he asked, curious.

Geira lowered her gaze slightly and glanced over her shoulder at the sword resting a short distance away from her, following its rigid lines, the black and golden engravings along the blade.

"Something like that, Master Hobbit," she replied curtly.

Before Bilbo could respond, two bowls entered their line of sight, interrupting their conversation: Bofur stood beside them, holding out the two dishes with an excited flourish and a huge grin peeking out from under his comical black moustache.

"And these last ones are for you two!" he exclaimed, extending his arms wider towards them.

Geira took the wooden bowl filled with hot stew and thanked him with a slight nod, to which the dwarf responded with a small tip of his hat before turning to Bilbo, who had taken the bowl in his hands, turning it around in his palms.

"What is it?" Bilbo asked, gesturing to the stew.

"Venison stew with carrots and celery, the finest stew east of Eriador!" Bofur proclaimed confidently, planting his fists on his hips. "Go on, have a taste," he urged, gesturing at Bilbo’s bowl and spoon before shifting his gaze to her. "Ya too! Don’t be shy!"

She couldn’t help but hide her surprise at the gesture, flinching slightly and looking at the dwarf with a touch of confusion. But he was undeterred, repeatedly glancing from the bowl to her.

"Come on, I want to know what ya think!"

She smiled and grasped the spoon in her fingers, scooping a piece of stew and bringing it to her mouth. As soon as it touched her palate, it melted instantly and slid down her throat without needing to chew.

Oh yes, it was probably the finest stew she’d ever tasted in all of Eriador.

She might have let out a small moan, quickly stifled with her hand, but the dwarf noticed and laughed softly.

"Told ya," Bofur said cheerfully. "It would’ve been divine with potatoes and dark ale!"

Geira took another bite, savouring the warm meal, satisfying her stomach’s demands and her palate.

Yes, Bofur was right—if she had a good mug of ale, this stew would have been worthy of a royal banquet.

She could even picture it if she squinted: the coloured fabrics adorning the ceiling, the bonfire in the centre of the hall, the shouts, the music, the dances—all things she hadn’t seen or experienced in a long time.

Suddenly, a low growl distracted Bofur, who gestured towards the blazing fire and Bombur, who, with his plate still full, was heading back to the pot..

"In Durin’s name!" Bofur muttered under his breath before spinning on his heel and marching towards the fire. "Bombur, stop that! That’s for everyone, you daft lump!" he scolded, throwing his arms in the air.

Bilbo chuckled quietly beside her before resuming his meal, tearing his gaze away from the now starry horizon.

She, however, stayed and watched the scene unfold before her: Bombur darted back and forth, trying to dodge his brother’s grasp while attempting to dip his spoon into the pot. Meanwhile, Bofur, amidst a chorus of background laughter and genuine shouts betting on one of the two, chased him around the fire. What had just happened was strange—very strange—but she had to admit, it was pleasant. She never would have expected such a gesture under the eyes of everyone from a dwarf she barely knew. Twice in one day, Bofur had shown her the bare minimum of kindness due to any living being. And yet, she marvelled, as if a dwarf talking to her was a rare or even impossible event—although it was rare and impossible.

"Thank you, thank you so much," Bilbo's voice drew her attention.

Geira turned to look at him, noticing how he was gazing at her with a friendly, faint smile on his bearded lips.

Confused, she tilted her head slightly. "For what? There’s nothing you need to thank me for," she said.

The hobbit shook his head, raising a hand to stop her. "I thank you, Geira, daughter of Geiri, for helping me," he whispered.

Geira shivered slightly, doing her best to conceal what a simple thank you had stirred within her. She offered him a sweet smile, lowering her head to hide how much it was widening.

Perhaps kindness towards her was no longer such a rare and impossible occurrence.

Soon enough, more or less everyone had devoured every single morsel of stew from the pot. The echoes of laughter and the background chatter had faded completely, leaving only the howling wind through the trees and the faint crackle of the fire, interspersed with the light snores of the dwarves huddled around it.

The light chill in the air had intensified and sharpened, enough to make Geira curl up against the rocky wall and wrap the cloak she had loathed that morning tightly around her shoulders.

In Durin’s name, she absolutely needed a smoke! Perhaps it would clear her head enough to let her sleep, at least for a couple of hours.

She sat up, pulling the fur blanket along with her, and began rummaging through the bag next to her. She pulled out her pouch of tobacco and the pipe within it. Squinting, she leaned her back against the rock, feeling her leg muscles begging for mercy.

She opened the pouch, inspecting the finely shredded orange and brown leaves. She then searched her pack again, muttering in frustration. Damn!

She opened it wide but found nothing at all: her pipe cleaner was missing. She had used it the last time she smoked… on Bilbo’s bench.

She brought both hands to her face, shaking her head. Things were going from bad to worse. Her flint and steel were miles away, probably never to be seen again, and now she was stuck with a clogged pipe and stale tobacco from the entire journey.

She turned the pipe over in her hands before glancing toward Fili and Kili, who, thank Mahal, were still awake. Kili, in particular, was cleaning his pipe with a pipe cleaner—so they had one.

Even though the idea of talking to either of them was far from appealing, she had to ask for the favour. Her sanity depended on it.

"Kili?" she called softly, leaning toward the fire.

The young dwarf stopped cleaning his pipe and looked at her, tilting his head to the side, waiting for her to continue.

"Could you lend me your pipe cleaner, please? I… I don’t have one, unfortunately," she asked, holding up her pipe to show him.

Kili looked at the pipe, then at his brother seated beside him, giving him a small nudge on the shoulder to grab his attention, making the gold embroidery of his blue shirt catch the firelight. "My pipe cleaner, you say?" he asked, dangling the small wooden object teasingly in front of her face.

Children.

Letting out a heavy sigh, she nodded. "Yes, your pipe cleaner, Prince Kili."

Kili’s grin widened even more, and with a swift movement, he closed his hand around the pipe cleaner and hid it behind his back in mockery, all the while keeping his gaze fixed on her.

"Only if you come here and smoke with us!"

She had to resist the urge to roll her eyes—after all, she had asked for it.

"Kili…" she muttered, sighing.

"Forget it then!" he cut her off, slowly raising himself to his feet and hiding the cleaner even further behind his back.

Reluctantly, she sighed heavily, placing the pipe stem in her mouth. Using both hands for support, she moved closer to the fire, taking a seat not far from Fili, who was watching her with satisfaction. Picking up her pipe again, she extended her other hand toward Kili, who still had the cleaner tucked behind him.

"May I borrow your pipe cleaner, Kili?" she asked, observing how the younger prince’s bright eyes lit up slightly.

He smiled at her and handed over the small wooden tool, but suddenly jerked it back at the last moment, making her flinch and start to lose her patience.

Now she was certain—they were the princess’s children. That insistent, mischievous character could only be inherited from her.

"How old are you?" Kili asked slyly, resting his elbows on his knees as he leaned toward her.

"You talk too much for my liking, young prince," she replied sharply.

"I’m curious as well, to be honest," Fili chimed in, exhaling a puff of white smoke from his pipe into the air as he watched her from above. "I’d like to know how old you are."

This was becoming blackmail, and she’d had enough of Durin’s sons mocking and teasing her all day. She was too tired—too tired even to be angry, or to stand up and snatch the cleaner from Kili’s hands.

"I don’t want to smoke anymore," she declared, raising both hands in surrender, preparing to return to her resting place.

"Oh, come on," Kili interrupted, raising his voice slightly and earning a glare from Fili. "Just answer the question, and I’ll give it to you!"

"I don’t want to answer that question."

"And why not?" Fili asked this time, ignoring her refusal. He gripped his pipe tightly between his fingers. "Either you’re really old, or you’re really young and you’ve tricked us. Is your age such a big secret?"

That simple sentence silenced her and made her heart pound, confronting her with the truth: was she truly afraid of them knowing?

They weren’t fools. They had seen the engraving on her sword, and perhaps now all they needed was the final piece of the puzzle to confirm their suspicions. Then they, too, would view her as others had—a traitor, without knowing her side of the truth.

Fili remained silent for a long time, studying her face, illuminated by the interplay of orange light and shadow created by the fire. "How old are you?" he finally asked bluntly, removing the pipe from his mouth.

"One hundred and ninety-one," she replied just as swiftly, turning toward him and locking eyes with the piercing blue gaze so typical of his lineage, awaiting his reaction.

She waited in silence, bracing herself for judgment, a word, or even a glance toward her sword, still resting nearby against the rocky wall. But nothing came.

Fili and Kili exchanged sidelong glances, speaking to each other in a way she couldn’t hear. After a few looks and subtle nods, the dark-haired dwarf finally unclasped his hands.

"Seems fair to me!" Kili exclaimed, tossing the cleaner into her hand with a cheeky grin.

Geira took it with resignation and sighed, finally beginning to clean her pipe while leaning her back against the rough but warm stone of the small bay.

Suddenly, a sharp cry echoed through the darkness of the night, sending chills racing down her spine and raising the hairs on the back of her neck. Geira clenched her hands and quickly sat up straight, scanning the dark landscape before her and the thin veil of mist settling over the mountains.

"What was that?"

It was only when she heard Bilbo's voice that her focus shifted from the shadowy horizon to the hobbit, who was moving towards them, pointing nervously over his shoulder.

She was about to answer, setting the pipe and cleaner aside, but someone beat her to it.

"Orcs," Kili said, his expression serious and concerned.

"Orcs?!" Bilbo repeated, quickening his pace towards them.

"Throat-cutters. There’ll be dozens of them out there," Fili added, puffing on his pipe and lowering his voice dramatically. "The Wilds are crawling with them."

Bilbo’s eyes widened.

"They strike in the dead of night, when everyone’s asleep. Swift and silent, no screams. Only blood," Kili concluded, lowering his voice even further while theatrically glancing around.

But Bilbo, evidently missing the irony, gaped in terror, glancing over his shoulder while the two brothers began to snicker, their gazes falling to the ground as they gave each other playful nudges.

If their goal was to terrify Bilbo for weeks, they had succeeded.

Geira let out a heavy sigh, fixing the two brothers with a piercing glare as they continued chuckling under their breath.

"Don’t you…" she began.

"Do you think this is funny?"

Geira stiffened when she recognised Thorin's voice, cutting through the air with anger. Rising from his seat to pose the question, he now towered over the two princes. Previously sitting apart, he now loomed over them not far from her. His sharp profile cut through the firelight as he advanced, still glaring at the princes.

"Do you think a night raid by orcs is a joke?" he asked again, his voice gravelly.

Kili lowered his gaze in guilt. "We didn’t mean anything by it," he murmured weakly.

"No you didn’t!" Thorin barked. "You know nothing of the world!"

Geira gripped her pipe tightly in her hand, her body tensing immediately upon hearing those words. But even just hearing his voice angered her so much that she continued to follow him with her eyes, watching as he turned his back and strode heavily towards the edge of the rock, which overlooked a steep drop.

"Don’t mind him, laddie," Balin interjected this time. Geira lifted her gaze slightly as she noticed the elder dwarf approaching the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. He was addressing Kili directly. "Thorin has more reason than most to hate the orcs," he continued, leaning an arm against the stones behind him.

Geira noticed Bilbo watching the older dwarf in confusion, while she knew exactly what he was referring to.

"After the dragon claimed the Lonely Mountain, King Thror sought to reclaim the ancient kingdom of Moria…"

Upon hearing those words, Geira’s grip on the pipe tightened as memories came flooding back—stories told by travellers, passed from man to man, from merchant to merchant, over the years. Tales of death, despair, and everything that had afflicted her people, all of which she had only heard about second-hand because she hadn’t been allowed to take part. She had been forbidden to save her people or reclaim her ancestral home, where she would never set foot again.

In an instant, the meadow before her transformed into dust. Her hands no longer gripped a pipe but the hilt of a sword. Her face was not streaked with sweat but smeared with drops of enemy blood. In an instant, she was transported—thanks to Balin’s words—100 years into the past.

"But our enemy got there first."

"Moria had been overrun by legions of orcs, led by the most vile of their kind: Azog the Defiler."

From the mass of bodies and swords emerged a white orc. Swinging his mace rhythmically, he easily swept aside every warrior in front of his fur-covered eyes. Commands in the Black Speech spilled from his mouth like the darkest of curses as he slaughtered anyone in his path.

"For years, he prowled those corridors, turning those mines into his lair. He knew that if he wanted complete control, he needed to make one final move. The great orc of Gundabad had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin," Balin said.

Amidst the smoke and flames of the pyres emerged four figures, each close to the other, covering each other’s backs. King Thror, with his gleaming crown, advanced through the ranks of orcs. Prince Thrain blocked arrows or blows aimed at his father, covered in blood from head to toe. And behind him… Thorin. Sword in hand, shouting and protecting his younger brother from every danger, while the dark eyes of Frerin glistened with tears.

"It began… with the beheading of the king," Balin continued.

Geira clenched her teeth.

My aunt gave her life to protect someone she was deeply devoted to.

But she wasn’t there when she was needed once more.

Thror’s glittering crown fell to the ground, into the mud and filth, as his head was raised high in the orc’s fist—a grim trophy of victory over the dwarves.

"Prince Frerin charged the orc alone, but he was slaughtered before he could even reach him."

Geira felt a sharp pang in her chest as the scene playing in her mind dissolved. She raised her gaze to Balin, who continued speaking to Bilbo, his eyes veiled with grief.

Frerin… was… dead?

In a flash, she lowered her gaze in disbelief, then lifted her eyes back to Thorin, watching his silhouette bend forward against the night.

Frerin had died at Azanulbizar, and she hadn’t known. She had never known. For all these years, she had believed he was safe with his family—with his brother, his sister, his father—but he was gone.

"Driven by grief, Thrain, Thorin’s father, led a charge towards the Dimrill Gate. It was a slaughter."

A line of dwarves broke away from the rest of the army, raising their shields high to create a passage through the orcs. They ran relentlessly, cutting down every enemy in their path. But with every orc they killed, three more fell from their own ranks. By the time they reached the gate, less than half of them remained.

"Thrain was driven mad by his sorrow. He vanished—whether taken prisoner or slain, we did not know. We were leaderless."

At those words, Geira’s thoughts turned to one person and one alone. Her heart began to race in her chest. She could picture the figure clearly: a line of silver amulets and long blue cloaks, one darker than the others, streaked with black iron veins. A square circlet on the forehead held back a long, blonde braid.

No, it couldn’t be true.

"Herja?" she whispered, raising her gaze to Balin.

The old dwarf nodded silently, looking at her as one might look at a wounded animal.

She immediately cast her gaze downward, clutching her cloak tightly around her shoulders. In that moment, everything became clear: this was why Fili and Kili knew nothing. This was why Gandalf had called on her, and not someone else.

If Thrain had disappeared, Herja was dead. Her aunt was dead. She was… the last one left.

"Our defeat and deaths were inevitable, but it was then that I saw him—a young dwarven prince—facing the pale orc."

On his knees, Thorin rose from the ground, his teeth gritted. His black hair clung to his face, tears streaming down his cheeks. But in the depths of his blue eyes, there was no fear—only rage, honour, and vengeance. A vengeance that burned with pride, the spirit of his ancestors filling his body and taking over, making him stronger than any earthly calamity.

"He was alone, facing this terrible foe."

Through the mist, Thorin leapt at the massive orc, sword drawn, and began fighting with all his might, shouting from the depths of his chest. She could see him struggling to strike, limping, hunched under the orc’s powerful blows. Yet every time he was knocked to the ground, he rose again.

"His armour was torn, and he wielded only an oaken branch as a shield."

Thorin’s hand reached for the branch lying on the ground and seized it, shielding himself from the relentless force of the orc’s strikes. She could hear his cries and groans as the bones in his arm fractured.

"Ready to make the ultimate sacrifice for his people."

More real than ever, she saw Thorin kneeling, blood on his face and dripping from his mouth. Groaning in pain, he fought on, shielding the front lines behind him and allowing them to advance towards the main gate.

"Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be broken so easily."

Thorin let out a piercing battle cry, summoning the last of his strength to sever the pale orc’s arm completely. Black blood sprayed across his face as the orc collapsed in agony, falling to his knees before the triumphant dwarf prince.

"Our forces rallied and drove back the orcs. Our enemy was defeated."

The dwarves behind Thorin stared in awe, inspired by the final act of strength from the son of Durin, who stood tall, mighty, and legendary on the hill before their ancestral home. He shone like the Seventh Star, unstoppable as Mahal’s hammer on the anvil. He was the king of all dwarves, the lord of all the Children of Aulë.

Victory was theirs.

"But that night, there was no celebration, no songs, for our dead were beyond counting. We, the few, had survived."

And yet, amidst the joy, the bodies of the fallen remained fallen. The pyres continued to burn, and Frerin’s body lay lifeless on the ground, beside his grandfather’s shattered armour. Warriors clung to each other, foreheads pressed together, doubled over with grief. The bloodshed had given way to tears and the relentless awareness that the massacre of that day would echo through all the ages to come.

"And it was then that I thought: there is someone I could follow. There is someone I could call king," Balin declared, his tone filled with hope and love.

Only then did Geira raise her gaze and realise that the rest of the company had awakened. Now, they were staring at Thorin with wide eyes. Some placed a hand on their chest, while others simply remained silent, admiring their… king. She, however, felt an abyss open beneath her, swallowing her whole as Thorin turned, silently observing all his companions—except her.

Geira lowered her head, hiding her face as a storm of conflicting emotions rose in her chest: pain, anger, pride, and guilt, all consuming her like a fire.

"And what of the pale orc? What happened to him?" Bilbo asked curiously, drawing his knees to his chest.

"He crawled back into the hole he came from!" Thorin growled, striding back towards the fire, his heavy steps grinding into the dirt. "That filth died of his wounds long ago and he will not return," he said.

Dead.

Geira stiffened at the certainty with which Thorin had spoken. Among the villages of Men, in recent years, there were whispers of a massive white orc, of wargs and orcs pillaging every settlement they came across, leaving only bones and ashes in their wake.

In the silence, she glanced at Gandalf, who was watching Thorin with a frown. Thorin didn’t know. And no one had had the courage to tell him.

Another battle was raging within her: it was essential to tell him, it was only right that Thorin knew. But was it her place to do so? And why? Why should it fall to her? His companions ought to take care of him, just as he had taken care of them. She owed him nothing.

And besides, he wouldn’t believe her. He would shout at her, call her a liar.

Biting her trembling lip, she finally let the words escape, carried by something she couldn’t quite define.

"There are rumours in the East that say otherwise," she muttered, fixing her gaze on her black boots, avoiding meeting the dwarf's gaze, which now bore down on her again.

"No one asked for your input in this conversation or your opinion," Thorin replied coldly, turning towards her bed with a harsh glare that, if it could, would have set her aflame on the spot.

"I don’t need to be included in the conversation to dispel one of your certainties!" she retorted, the first stirrings of anger rising in her chest.

"My certainty?" he scoffed, stepping slowly towards the fire. "I watched it happen before my eyes. I was there while they massacred my people. I was there to see them die. And you... where were you?"

Geira remained silent, unwilling to answer, for whatever she said, she would always be seen as a liar. Always seen through his eyes as a traitor and a pawn of his kingdom. It was better to stay quiet and tend to her own affairs.

But her silence only enraged the king further.

"I asked you a question. Answer me!" Thorin barked, his voice rising.

"I wasn’t given the chance to be there. I wasn’t allowed. And you brought this fate upon me! If only I had known about the battle before it happened!" she shouted back.

She stood up quickly, and now only the fire separated them.

With some apprehension, she noticed the others were watching silently. Even Bilbo, sitting cross-legged on the ground with his knees drawn to his chest, stared at her, stunned.

Here, everyone would side with their sovereign, whether he was right or not.

"You were the architect of your fate, and yours alone! You chose your side. I did not make your choice for you!" he hissed, his voice filled with fury.

"And it was you who denied me the opportunity, who denied my father the opportunity to..." She bit her lip, cutting the sentence short.

No, she couldn’t say it—not aloud. It hurt too much. After all this time, it still hurt too much.

She took a deep breath, trying to hold herself together, trying to stop the trembling in her hands.

She decided to make one last attempt to prove her innocence. "I only ask..." she struggled to get the words out, "...that you trust me."

She realised how foolish she had been when she saw the icy look he gave her in response.

"I did trust you, if you remember. And I remember well where it got me—where it got all of us," he snarled.

He turned his back on her, walking with heavy, deliberate steps towards the edge of the rock, which opened onto a deep chasm, ignoring her completely.

It felt like a slap on her face. Geira felt a sudden urge to scream at the top of her lungs, to unleash her frustration and fury. Did he think he hated her more than she hated him? Oh, that cursed dwarf understood nothing—nothing at all.

"I remember too. I remember an exile that should never have happened! I remember a blind king, deaf to the truth, ignoring the pleas of one of his most trusted counsellors. I remember the despair and shame. I remember when you made me kneel and cut my hair, condemning me to exile. I remember wandering the Wilds, forbidden from speaking to anyone of my kin. And I remember the pain and death that followed—all of my world erased!" Her voice, strong and resolute at first, wavered, too much pain still lingering in her heart from those memories.

Breathing heavily, she spoke quickly, hoping no one would interrupt her. A long silence followed, none of the dwarves daring to make the slightest sound. Their eyes flicked between her enraged and distressed face and Thorin’s broad back.

Everyone, more or less, was aware of the deep divide and discord between them, and they knew better than to interfere. Even Dwalin kept silent; this wasn’t something for them to meddle in.

"Exile is a just punishment for those who betray their people. It was just for someone who turned their back and chose to consort with the enemy, conspiring behind their king's back, and watching their city burn!"

"That never happened! I came back! I came back, hoping that you, of all people, would understand and listen to me!"

"There was no reason to listen to more lies from your mouth! To hear your selfish excuses for why you weren’t there that day! For how you put yourself first above all else! For how your father conspired with the enemy!" Thorin roared, refusing to turn and face her, as if she were unworthy of his attention.

That was too much. He had no right to speak to her like that, to treat her as if she hadn’t tried to explain herself, as if all the pain and tears she had shed for him that day so long ago meant nothing.

"For once in my life, I put myself first. Yes, I lied. Yes, I betrayed. Yes, I put love above everything else. But I also put my love for Erebor above all else. I put my love for my family above all else! Just as you put everything else first—your pride and your blindness to what was happening in that mountain!" she snapped back, pointing a finger at him.

"Do not speak to me of love for Erebor. You know nothing of love!" Thorin bellowed, furious.

She flinched at the sharp pain that pierced her chest, as though his words were a dagger driven into her heart.

Her muscles tensed, like a predator preparing to pounce on its prey.

"You fled!" he spat, his voice laced with disdain. "You covered for a traitor, despite swearing before Mahal, and while you were gone, our people burned in their homes!"

Geira opened her mouth, stunned but trembling with rage. Unexpectedly, she laughed—a bitter, sorrowful laugh, utterly devoid of joy.

"You want me to say it’s all my fault, don’t you? That if not for me, our people would still be alive? That if not for me, everything that led to this moment would never have happened? That if not for me, Erebor would still be ours, you would be king, and everything would be perfect, wouldn’t it?" she whispered, though her tone carried like a scream in the frozen silence that hung between them.

Thorin didn’t move an inch.

"Answer me!" she snapped in anger, unable to control herself. She was too tired, far too tired for this. "Say it to my face, damn it!"

At an agonisingly slow pace, Thorin turned, his piercing gaze meeting hers.

She trembled, her hands clenched into fists so tight her nails bit into her skin. She couldn’t calm herself, not now, not when the dam of her pent-up hatred had broken.

Thorin, in contrast, betrayed no emotion, as though the argument didn’t concern him at all. He remained silent, save for a furrowed brow and lips pressed thin, barely parted. Geira knew he would never be fooled by the sight of a few tears—tears he would never see her shed in his presence again.

Oh no, she swore in that moment, he would never see her cry.

"The love of Durin’s line for gold and wealth far exceeds your love for the people around you, leaving you blind. Your pride, your blindness, will lead you down the path of darkness, one way or another. And know this: I have no intention of giving my life for you just to see it wasted," she declared.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and stormed off along the steep, rocky path they had taken to the cliff, disappearing into the forest’s dense shadows. She stumbled more than once over protruding roots, running clumsily in the oppressive but oddly comforting darkness.

Geira wished the darkness would swallow her whole—a prayer she had repeated for years.

She fell onto the uneven rocky surface, tearing her trousers and scraping her knees. The sting in her palms as they hit the hard ground reminded her that even this time, the darkness had not taken her. She picked herself up, limping a few more steps ahead before finding a fallen log. She collapsed onto it, exhausted from both her flight and the despair that overwhelmed her.

Sharp pain came from her palm, and as the darkness made it impossible to see, she felt around with her fingers. A small, pointed stone was embedded in her skin, likely lodged there during her fall. She held her breath, trying to steady herself. It was hard even to suppress her sobs, and her trembling wouldn’t stop. She pulled the stone out of her hand with a sharp tug, gasping, and flung it far into the trees. The dull sound of it landing among them joined the eerie, unsettling noises of the forest, where it always felt like something was watching from between the tall trunks. But truth be told, at that moment, the strange sounds weren’t Geira’s biggest concern.

Tearing a strip from her red shirt, long enough to wrap around her palm twice, she made a makeshift bandage. With no water to clean the shallow cut or the blood trickling from it, she tied the fabric tightly around her hand, knotting it despite the stinging pain.

Every attempt to hold back her tears had failed miserably the moment she hit the ground. She didn’t care about the blurry vision—she had no need of her eyes. The tears poured freely now, as though she hadn’t cried in years. And in truth, she hadn’t.

She vividly remembered the last time she cried, and why.

It was, after all, the same reason she was crying now. It was always the same reason. And yet, despite the years that had passed since that day—during which she hadn’t shed a single tear, hardening her heart—here she was, back where she had started. All it took were Thorin’s accusations and the hatred she had silently endured during her years of exile to resurface, consuming her mind and heart. No matter how hard she tried to forget the past, she could never escape it. It always came back, eventually.

All she wanted was to fulfil her oaths, to live her life in peace. But like this? It was impossible.

She didn’t know how much time had passed—maybe hours. But the moon was now high in the sky, and the pain in her hand had dulled. For the first time in ages, she wanted to be truly alone, with no one around. She wanted to drown in the darkness.

Alone.

Geira clenched her fists, ignoring the small silver bracelet that slipped out from beneath her sleeve. She had cried enough over the past that night, and she wanted it to stop.

After a few minutes of walking through branches and broken trunks, she was the first to return to the camp where the others were sleeping soundly, their snores and calm breaths steady. She quickly surveyed the scene, counting to twelve: one was missing. Geira didn’t need to think twice—she knew exactly who it was.

Returning to her spot as quietly as possible, she knelt before her blanket. On it, she found her pipe and a handkerchief—the handkerchief Bofur had given Bilbo. Her hand trembled as she touched it, and even more so as she glanced over at Bilbo, sleeping not far from her.

A small smile escaped her lips.

She lay down slowly. Despite her exhaustion, sleep was slow to come. Every sound pricked her ears, and many hours later, one finally caught her attention. Heavy footsteps were approaching from the opposite direction of where she had fled. They came closer, stepping into the perimeter of the firelight, then stopped.

With a jolt in her chest, Geira felt Thorin’s piercing gaze land on her back. She thanked the heavens she was turned away from him, so he couldn’t see she was struggling to feign sleep.

She felt his eyes on her for a long time, leaving her restless and uneasy. Finally, she heard him lie down in his place.

More time passed, and eventually, Geira felt the pull of sleep envelop her, her limbs heavy, her eyelids closing in the comforting embrace of oblivion. The last thing she heard before drifting off to sleep was a low, deep sigh.

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gwen-ever · 2 months ago

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I will have war.

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gwen-ever · 2 months ago

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