gwen-ever - Tumblr blog

gwen-ever · 6 days ago

Text

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! 💕

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

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

10 notes · View notes

gwen-ever · 7 days ago