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ravnarieldurin · 2 days ago

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The Hobbit: Fire's Revenge

Chapter 1 - The Burglar and The Fire Mage

Summary: A fateful meeting between one wizard and a dwarven king sparks the beginning of a journey that will change the course of many lives...but will it be for the better or the worse? And what in Durin's name is a 'fire mage'?

Word Count: 2.8k

Author's Notes: This is a friendly reminder that this fanfiction - despite ultimately having a happy ending - is going to get VERY DARK and NSFW in some parts. I will put trigger warnings when needed so please take care of your mental health.

Only this first chapter will be posted to Tumblr with the rest of the series posted to AO3 since my draft is already SO LONG. (97k words and I'm not even done with AUJ...yikes!) This might change later, but for now, I will post updates when chapters are posted to AO3. I have made everything open to both members and guests of AO3 so anyone can read or comment.

This is my first fanfiction ever so any and all feedback is welcome!

And with that, let's go!

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AO3 | Masterlist (will make this soon)

It seemed the whole town of Bree was gathered in the Prancing Pony that fateful night in spite of the downpour outside. Wind and rain battered the old building, making the windows rattle and the shutters groan against their latches. A flash of lightning brightly illuminated the smoke-stained wooden walls inside followed quickly by a thunderclap, the sudden boom muffling the chatter inside for a brief moment before the spirited conversations resumed. All manner of men, and even a few ladies, lounged and moved about the tables strewn around haphazardly. Occasionally, a hobbit or two would skitter between the tables, ducking beneath the humans to avoid knocking their head on a serving tray or an elbow in the cramped fire and candlelit room.

Even with the constant movement and merriment of the crowd, one figure stood out amongst the rabble.

Thorin Oakenshield Durin sat alone at a table too tall for his dwarven stature in the center of the tavern. Water clung to his long windswept dark hair, neatly trimmed beard, and fur-lined coat, having come in from the storm raging outside not long again. He chewed silently on his meager dinner of bread, cheese, and olives, lifting his mug of ale to his lips mindlessly between bites.

Unbeknownst to the pensive dwarf, he was being watched by a set of very keen, very wise, and very old eyes not far away.

Gandalf the Grey pulled in another long drag from his pipe, the fragrant smoke of tobacco wafting around him as he waited for the right moment to approach the unsuspecting dwarf. Dark circles stained the eyes of the much shorter man, and his mouth was twisted in a grim line. He was evidently none too pleased to be there.

“Probably wishing for dwarvish ale,” the wizard thought with a quiet chuckle.

Sweeping a glance around the tavern, an odd-looking man with one scarred blind eye and a bald head caught Gandalf’s eye. The strange fellow was sat under a window across the room, watching Thorin with unveiled aggression. With another slow turn of his head, he saw another scruffy man watching the dwarf, the same violent look in his eye as the first.

Clearly sensing the danger, Thorin’s sharp eyes flitted between the two men, tensing as they continued to stare at him. A moment later, the two suspicious men stood, stalking towards the lone dwarf. He slowly wrapped a hand around the hilt of his sword resting beside him propped on the table, clearly readying himself for the fight headed his way.

While the timing wasn’t ideal, he figured it would be best to prevent a bar fight between two humans and the future king of Erebor. Or perhaps more than a bar fight if the message in his robe held any true merit.

Quickly tucking his pipe back inside his robe, Gandalf strode purposefully across the room and dropped down at the table across from Thorin, startling the anxious dwarf.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, smiling reassuringly and leaning his wizard’s staff against the table next to Thorin’s sword.

Thorin glanced at the men again before he dropped his hand reluctantly from his dwarvish blade. The two men hesitated nearby, watching the new individual.

Gandalf paid them no mind as he tapped a serving girl on her shoulder on her way past their table.

“I’ll have the same,” he said, gesturing to Thorin’s plate. The girl nodded and walked off to get his meal.

Thorin sighed deeply before turning to stare at him, his piercing blue eyes focusing on him like a hawk.

“I should introduce myself. My name is Gandalf,” he said, trying to break the heavy tension in the air.

The dwarf blinked at him, clearly not impressed.

“Gandalf the Grey.”

Thorin nodded slowly. “I know who you are,” he said gruffly.

“Well now, this is a fine chance,” he said with a smile, clasping his hands together delightedly. It was, in fact, not chance, but Thorin didn’t need to know that. He’d been following the dwarf for the better part of the day, waiting for his chance to approach, but the message he intercepted earlier in the day had made him hesitate, waiting to see who was also tracking the dwarf. And it’s a good thing he did, judging by the two men that still stood glaring at him nearby.

“What brings Thorin Oakenshield to Bree?” he asked. Though he was trying to make conversation to help ease the tensely guarded man before him, he was also genuinely curious why the exiled king was away from his people in the Blue Mountains.

Thorin lowered his head, his eyes shifting pensively.

“I received word that my father had been seen wandering the wilds near Dunland. I went looking.” Thorin shook his head, discouragement shining in his eyes as his shoulders sagged. “Found no sign of him.”

“Ah. Thrain,” Gandalf said sadly, bowing his head respectfully. Thorin’s father, and his old friend, had gone missing many years ago. Despite the efforts and searching of many, the former Dwarf King remained missing to this day.

Thorin turned toward him, his eyes hard. “You’re like the others. You think he’s dead.”

“I was not at the battle of Moria,” Gandalf said stoically, nodding.

“No…” Thorin’s gaze turned from him, his eyes unfocused as the dwarf lost himself in his memories. A look Gandalf knew all too well.

“…but I was. My grandfather, Thror, was slain. My father led a charge toward the Dimrill Gate. He never returned,” Thorin said thickly, his voice catching in his throat and his eyes shining hauntedly. He cleared his throat, his jaw clenching before he continued his tale, his voice biting.

“Thrain is gone they told me. He is one of the fallen. But at the end of that battle, I searched amongst the slain…to the last body.” Thorin shook his head emphatically. “My father was not among the dead.”

Gandalf shook his head slowly. He knew why Thorin still searched, but he feared his efforts were in vain. Losing a loved one, especially a parent, was always a hard thing. For mortals and immortals alike.

“Thorin, it’s been a long time since anything, but rumor has been heard about Thrain,” he said gently.

“He still lives! I am sure of it,” Thorin insisted, his eyes flashing.

The wizard and the dwarf stared at each other for a long moment. He sighed heavily. He wouldn’t be able to convince the dwarf tonight, but he still had a question that burned in his mind.

“The ring your grandfather wore, one of the Seven given to the Dwarf Lords many years ago…what became of it?” he asked, tilting his head.

Thorin shook his head, his brow furrowing in thought.

“He…gave it to my father before they went into battle.”

“So Thrain was wearing it when he d- …when he went missing?” Gandalf corrected himself, trying not to provoke the dwarf’s anger.

Thorin nodded stiffly.

“Hmm. That’s that then,” the wizard said with a tight nod. A missing ring of power was never a good thing. He just hoped it hadn’t found its way into the hands of the enemy like so many of the others.

“Here you are,” the serving girl said, returning to set down a mug of ale and a plate of food before him. Gandalf nodded his thanks and grabbed the pint, lifting it to his mouth for a drink.

“I know my father came to see you before the Battle of Moria,” Thorin accused, glaring at him.

Gandalf quirked a brow, putting down his ale.

The dwarf leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “What did you say to him?”

Ah, so they were officially onto the topic of the evening. It was better that Thorin brought it up first. He doubted it would have been well received if he started this particular conversation.

“I urged him to march upon Erebor,” Gandalf declared. “To rally the seven armies of the Dwarves. To destroy the dragon and take back the Lonely Mountain.”

Thorin stared wide-eyed at him, his mouth slightly parted in shock.

“And I would say the same to you,” he said boldly. “Take back your homeland.”

Thorin’s eyes narrowed, then his lips quirked up into a smirk as he reached for his own mug of ale.

“This is no chance meeting, is it Gandalf?” he asked darkly, lifting the mug to his lips.

Gandalf met his pointed look stoically.

“No, it is not,” he admitted. “The Lonely Mountain troubles me Thorin, as well as another I know. That dragon has sat there long enough. Sooner or later, darker minds will turn towards Erebor.”

“Darker minds that long ago should have been vanquished,” he thought darkly.

But lately, darkness had been stirred in the north in forces and numbers that he couldn’t understand. Numbers that, given the increased frequency of messages he kept receiving from the north, he could no longer ignore.

Thorin stared at him, his eyes shifting as he mulled over the wizard’s words.

“I ran into some…unsavory characters whilst travelling on the Greenway. They mistook me for a vagabond,” Gandalf said with a smirk, reaching inside his robe.

“I imagine they regretted that,” Thorin said, grinning at him before tipping his ale back for another drink.

The wizard unrolled a tattered piece of cloth with strange markings on it.

“One of them was carrying a message.”

Thorin set his mug down and leaned closer. His brow furrowed, clearly confused by the strange slashes.

“It is Black Speech,” he clarified.

Thorin’s eyes met his before glancing back down at the dirty cloth.

“A promise of payment,” Gandalf said nodding down at the writing.

“For what?” Thorin whispered, his eyes flitting over the parchment.

“Your head,” he stated bluntly.

The dwarf’s head snapped up, staring at him.

“Someone wants you dead…Thorin, you can wait no longer. You are the heir to the throne of Durin. Unite the armies of the dwarves! Together you have the might and power to retake Erebor. Summon a meeting of the seven dwarf families. Demand they stand by their oaths,” he insisted.

Thorin leaned towards him, his voice hushed. “The seven armies swore that oath to the one who wields the king’s jewel. The Arkenstone.”

Gandalf nodded, knowing this fact to be true.

“It is the only thing that will unite them and, in case you have forgotten, that jewel was stolen by Smaug!” Thorin hissed, before his heated glare suddenly shifted behind him.

The wizard followed his gaze, catching a glimpse of the two hostile men from before slinking their way out of the tavern, glaring at the dwarf and himself.

“Good,” he thought. “One less thing to worry about.”

He turned back around to face Thorin and asked, “What if I were to help you reclaim it?”

Thorin’s eyes widened, his mouth parted slightly in disbelief.

“How? The Arkenstone lies half a world away…buried beneath the feet of a fire-breathing dragon,” he declared, his baritone voice booming rather finally around them.

“Yes, it does.” Gandalf smiled. “Which is why we’re going to need a burglar and a fire mage.”

Thorin stared at him, his eyes flaring wide and his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. No words came out of his gaping mouth for a long moment before he finally managed to find his tongue.

“Fire mage? Fire mages are not real! They’re nothing more than the stuff of myth and legend. Old tales for mothers to tell their children. If they ever existed, they have long since died off.”

“Oh, I assure you. They were and are very much real, but unfortunate circumstances forced them into hiding,” Gandalf explained. A few tense moments of silence passed before Thorin spoke again.

“Alright wizard. Say I believe you. Say fire mages do exist. Where do you suggest we find your proposed fire mage and burglar?” he asked, narrowing his eyes to glare at him.

Gandalf breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t much of an agreement, and it certainly wasn’t an enthusiastic one at that, but it was an agreement, nonetheless.

“Gather your kin, Thorin. Those you can trust and meet in Hobbiton in precisely one month’s time. I will leave you instructions to follow once you are there. Our burglar lives in the Shire amongst the hobbits. His name is Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins.”

Thorin nodded, tilting his head. “And the mage?”

Gandalf reached into his robe and grabbed the letter he had received not long ago.

“The mage has already agreed to join us,” Gandalf said, unfolding the letter and sliding it over for the dwarf to read.

“RVN?” Thorin’s brow furrowed at the strange signature.

“Yes. Our mage is known as Raven, and they will meet us on the Ford of Bruinen as we approach the Misty Mountains. They reside in the northern Coldfells. Too far to join us for our meeting in Hobbiton on time, so we are to send them word by raven when we reach the Last Bridge on the East Road so they can meet us for the crossing of the Ford.”

“By raven? They were rare even before the dragon came. Then after the dragon destroyed Ravenhill, most of them fled and hid themselves in the north. How will we find a raven this far south?” Thorin asked tightly, quirking a brow at him.

“As stated in the letter, the sorcerer will be sending one to accompany us on the first leg of our journey and the raven will leave us at the bridge to bring word back to their master,” Gandalf said, waving a hand at the parchment on the table.

Thorin looked down again, his eyes flitting over the paper, reading through the letter. After a long moment, his brow furrowed, glancing back up at him.

“What does this sorcerer want in return? There is no mention of payment. What does he get out of our journey?”

Gandalf huffed and shook his head. “They want nothing from you, Thorin Oakenshield. Raven wants the same thing I do: to see the Lonely Mountain restored to the rightful rule of the dwarves and to free the land of the terrors of Smaug.”

He pushed back from the table and rose to his feet, reaching for the letter. Thorin snatched it away from his hand, his eyes glinting darkly.

“You keep saying ‘they’, Gandalf. Is there more than one mage joining us?”

The wizard blinked down at Thorin. He had hoped the man hadn’t picked up on his vague language, but it seemed the Dwarf King was more perceptive than he appeared.

“No, Raven is not many persons. Though I do suppose there will be at least two individuals joining us. The mage rides atop a magnificent creature. Doesn’t travel without the beast. We’ll meet them both on the golden Ford.”

Gandalf tugged his letter from Thorin’s hand, folded it neatly and tucked it back inside his robe.

“What do the markings on the bottom of the letter mean?” Thorin asked, his eyes narrowing.

Blast dwarves and their keen eye for details! Though it shouldn’t have surprised him. Dwarves loved making contracts and deals, so it made sense for Thorin to see the small print at the bottom of the page.

“It’s a warning to be wary of orcs on the roads. They’re wandering farther south than usual,” Gandalf said quickly, grabbing his staff in his wrinkled hand. Rustling inside his robe quickly, he left some coin next to his untouched dinner and nodded down to the dwarf.

“Prepare yourself, Thorin. This will be a long and difficult journey, but I know you can do it. You are destined to reclaim your grandfather’s throne and rule the dwarves of Erebor, united once more within the Halls Under the Mountain.”

With that declaration, Gandalf turned and strode from the tavern into the rain outside. Donning his hat and tugging it lower on his head, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt for lying to the dwarf. However, it couldn’t be helped. He wanted to honor the sorcerer’s instructions to the letter. Or should he say sorceress.

For as long as he’d known her, the young Raven had always been a bit mysterious and shrouded herself in secrecy. Even more so than himself sometimes, though that was the nature of fire mages after all. The Black Speech request penned at the bottom of her letter was a curious choice, but he would oblige her.

“Don’t tell Thorin I’m a woman…or an elf.”

And so he didn’t.

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A/N: And so it has begun! Again, feel free to let me know what you thought and I hope you all enjoy the ride!

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