Chapter Text
Lucky had never been to the Shire before. Sure, she had seen it from afar and skirted its borders, and she met her fair share of hobbit folk from the area over the years, but walking through its winding paths with fragrant flowers, sweet-smelling grass, and curling chimney smoke on the early night air was another matter entirely.
She decided that she loved it. Immediately.
But of course she would! It was the Shire. And even though she was old as fuck now, she still remembered that anybody who was anybody loved the Shire. Peak British countryside sensibility! Even in the dark, it was picturesque and pleasant, with distant laughter and music and warm yellow light in the round windows.
The Shire didn’t experience strife here like in other parts of Middle-earth—not true strife anyway. Strife that left nothing but foul ruin and despair and bitter memories in the land and its people.
It was a blessed place. As much as Lucky spat at the gods, even she could admit that much.
Because of its blessed atmosphere, she probably didn’t deserve to step foot in the Shire being her kind. But she had been asked, alright? And since she had been asked, and since she had a personal investment in the outcome of certain people, and since she knew a thing or two about what the fuck was going to happen for once, she said yes.
Who wouldn’t?
And if it all went to cow shit on her end, then what was the worst that could come of it?
Nothing! Gandalf might give Lucky the cold shoulder for the next twenty years if she fucked things up too badly, but he was a soft-hearted old man and couldn’t say mad at her for very long.
And the dwarves themselves? Well. If they were a mighty army at the height of their kingdom’s strength with an entire mountain to fortify themselves in, then maybe they’d dole out some trouble if they turned on her. But these bricks? Fuck off.
(Besides, they loved her too much to do anything so traitorous.)
Still. Lucky liked not causing trouble in that sense—the trouble of calamity and death.
But trouble in general? Here and there, no doubt. And she would have smelled the great opportunity to cause her particular kind of trouble with this quest even if she didn’t have splintered memories of what would occur.
Lucky would have been fucked direction-wise had it not been for the scent of dwarves and dwarven-wrought metal guiding her. Gandalf just said, “Follow the main road until you happen across a large hobbit smial with a marked rune on its door. There you will find Bag End, home of the hobbit hosting the party.”
Gandalf didn’t lie so Lucky couldn’t smell it on him—he simply avoided mentioning that said hobbit had no idea about being host to such a party.
Except there was no fucking main road—just ever-increasing forks with quaint but confusing street signs that pointed to Sheller’s Row and The Green Dragon (Lucky knew a green dragon once upon a time; his name was Hajar, and he was a tosser) and Poffer Lane. Utter nonsense! Lucky suspected that Gandalf always got lost, too, but he didn’t want to admit it.
So she relied on her nose, and after only a couple turnarounds, she stared at a large, round, green door. Not only was the rune etched near the bottom of the door, but Lucky confirmed she was at the right residence by peeking at the mailbox, which had a neatly scrawled Bag End on it.
(“I am a Baggins! Of Bag End!” surfaced from beneath the sea of her lifetime here, like a tiny shell bobbing on the waves before it returned to the depths.)
She knocked on the door. From its height, she could tell that she was going to be far too tall for the hobbit home—something she should have considered long before she stood half-bent at the front door like an idiot. Oh, well. Changing height took time and an irksome amount of energy just for a few inches, and these dwarves could do with being forced to crane their heads up at her with whatever obstinate scowl or remark they had in store.
Dwarves.
A good, true lot, but they made sure to make one think otherwise before then.
Afterwards, too.
Lucky liked dwarves, though. And many of them liked her back—at least in this form. The other one? That muddied the water, given how her history intertwined with theirs.
Which was why she and Gandalf agreed with copious amounts of winking and hmph-hmphing that it would be kept secret until the time was right.
The door opened, and a wave of raucous noise and the scent of dwarf and a particular wizard washed out.
“—that back! It’s not to be used to eat with! It’s an antique! It’s—”
The hobbit finally turned his head forward and saw Lucky with an arm propped up against the top of the entrance. She smiled merrily down at Bilbo Baggins, her eyes and mouth a tad too sharp, like she knew a joke about him that he did not.
He clammed up.
Shire hobbits smelled like fresh soil and pipe weed, springtime rain and content nights, impishness and hospitality, harvest and hearth. And like their Bree counterparts, they carried a streak of stubbornness and joy and a particular kind of bravery that wasn’t the same as the smell of it in men, dwarves, elves, orcs, wizards, dragons, and all races in between.
And this hobbit bore the same scent of his adventurous Took mother and all the Tooks before him who heeded the call to adventure and discovery. Fainter, yes, like he wished for it to be forgotten, but there all the same.
“Master Baggins, I presume?” Lucky said when Bilbo simply stared back at her. “Good evening. Lucky, at your service.” She splayed out her long fingers that rested against the entrance in a casual wave. “May I come in?”
“Er—yes?”
She ducked through as soon as Bilbo stepped aside, and for fuck’s sake, she might as well crawl on her hands and knees if she were to get anywhere in this house.
Stooping to a near comical degree, Lucky removed her traveling cloak, bag, and sword. A heap of coats and weapons and packs sprawled out across the entire entryway, and heavy footprints tracked mud in. Lucky clicked her tongue, smile morphing to distaste.
“Pissing dwarves, don’t know how to use a proper coatrack and doormat to save their fucking lives.”
Bilbo, who stood nervously beside her, torn between fleeing and telling her to leave because there was no business to be had here for anyone let alone dwarves and a wizard and a strange human, tittered an abrupt laugh. Some of the nervousness in him bled out.
After Lucky wiped her boots on the doormat and hung up her cloak, bag, and sword—the latter of which Bilbo eyed suspiciously—she nudged a few of the dwarves’ belongings against the wall so they wouldn’t be as in the way.
“Have they already started dinner?” Lucky inquired. She caught sight of a nice little dagger just sitting out in the open. Freshly-sharpened, too! And from the crisp scent, it was made of quality metal.
Well, if a dwarf didn’t know how to properly store his weaponry, then who could blame Lucky if she picked it for herself?
Sweeping it beneath her clothes, Lucky carefully shifted back around to Bilbo as he tightly replied, “Yes, they have! And they have complete disregard for what they should and shouldn’t be eating! Oh, my poor pantry. It’s in complete ruin! I doubt I’ll ever recover from the loss.”
“At least they like the food,” Lucky consoled as they ventured toward the discordant ball of noise centralizing in what she suspected was the dining room. The end of her thick black braid swayed enough to accidentally tickle Bilbo’s nose, which made it twitch even more as he held back a sneeze. “Dwarves won’t hesitate to tell you when they think it’s rubbish.”
Bilbo floundered at Lucky’s statement, anxiously wringing his suspenders.
Lucky then patted his head. “And it’s not the pantry you should be worried about; it’s the toilets. Dwarves talk big and shit bigger.”
He squeaked.
“By my beard! Is that who I think it is?”
As soon as they came into the hall outside the dining room, the jovial voice drew Lucky’s attention to the horde of dwarves all crammed into the hobbit-sized space with Bilbo’s entire pantry spread out before them.
Lucky’s smile widened into a toothy grin. She braced herself against the doorframe, half-crouched, and exclaimed, “Looks like they’ll just let anyone in these days!”
Balin heartily laughed. “Aye, you should know!”
“Ye dinnae tell us that she’d be coming, Gandalf!” Dwalin said as he forcefully slammed his tankard on the table. Beside her (underneath her arm was more like it), Bilbo made an indignant noise at the abuse of his possessions.
“Well, if I had known you’d be here, I would have run for the hills! Saved myself from having to look at your ugly mug as you stuffed your fat gob!”
“Bah, away with ye!” Dwalin shouted back, although his beard didn’t hide his grin. “If you’re here, then we’re doomed before we even have a chance to start!”
“I’d say your chances just got better with her here, Master Dwarf!” Gandalf put in from where he sat cramped in the corner. Dwalin groaned.
“I’d say our chances of surviving this ordeal just got a mite better, Dwalin!” Óin echoed, not hearing Gandalf’s reply. Dwalin groaned more. Lucky put her hand over her heart and pretended to swoon at his words. “She has a right handful of talents, doesn’t she?”
“I do, don’t I? Thank you, Óin!”
“Whassat?”
“I SAID YOU’RE AN OLD, DEAF COOT!”
“Ah, I dinnae know about being cute at my age, but thank ye!”
“He’s gone deafer than an old dog,” Glóin groused to Lucky as he raised his tankard towards her. “Don’t mind him, lass! And it’s good to see you again!”
“Indeed it is, my lady!” Bofur said with a tip of his hat. “You may not remember my brother and me from when we met—”
“Of course I remember you and your brother! Bofur and Bombur, brothers to the Axe-headed Miracle of Azanulbizar, Bifur himself! How are you boys doing?”
Bofur, Bifur, and Bombur chimed their delighted responses. Lucky winked at them.
The rest of the dwarves clamored to find out just who their very un-dwarven guest was—but Lucky recognized two of them despite being older. They reeked of familiar Durin’s blood. The other three, also brothers from the way they shared the same scent, she hadn’t met until now.
She took the time to lean forward and give Gandalf a one-armed embrace. He fondly clapped her back.
“You’re a tad late, girl,” he muttered in her ear.
“Looks like I’m not the last, though. Worried I wouldn’t show up? Hope so. I love it when I make you fuss.”
Gandalf harrumphed. Lucky laughed, kissed his bearded cheek, then withdrew.
“To the rest of you short-stacked lot,” she said over their din, “the name’s Lucky. Gandalf invited me to be part of this operation.”
“And what skills does a fair lady such as yourself have to be part of this operation?” the young, black-haired dwarf asked with a cheeky smirk. “Sewing, perhaps? Or cooking? Or something else entirely?”
At his mildly insulting and blatantly connotative words, the blond dwarf beside him cuffed him on the back of his head.
“Operation?” Bilbo muttered beside Lucky. “What operation?”
“A fair lady can only ask the same of a fair lad,” Lucky said back with a grin suggestive enough to make the dwarf blush. “Though between the two of us, perhaps you should wait to pose these questions until your beard’s grown in a bit.”
Her brow twitched. “Both beards.”
The dwarves roared with laughter at the boy’s expense, including his brother.
Kíli and Fíli, Dís’ sons and heirs to the kingdom of Erebor. They likely didn’t remember Lucky when she met them as little boys, but she certainly remembered them and how they made their mother want to throw them out into the street to spare herself of their unruliness. Lucky entertained them for a couple hours just because of that, and it involved piggyback rides, getting whacked in the shins with wooden swords, and nearly having an eye taken out with a “toy” arrow.
Now look at them, barely come of age and ready to reclaim the kingdom they never knew.
“But to answer your question,” Lucky went on good-naturedly to soothe Kíli’s burning face and ears, “I have many skills that will be of use.” Her dark eyes then narrowed and swept over all the guests. “One of which is determining that none of you blasted dwarves even stopped to consider if your poor host got a single lick of food during all your pillaging! Look at him!”
Bilbo jumped when Lucky playfully elbowed his small shoulder. “He’s starving! And don’t you know that hobbits need to eat? Now make us a couple plates, would you? I can’t fit into this damn space.”
A few of the dwarves had enough sense to do as Lucky asked. “Yes, pile it up high, thank you very much—Bilbo, dear, do you want ham or roast? Both? I’ll take both, too. And—fuck off, is that a footprint in my cheese slice? Which one of you mongrels stepped on the table? You? Yes, you should look guilty! Disgusting. And someone be a lamb and pass us utensils! There we go, was that very hard? Thank you!”
Lucky made herself comfortable on the floor, propped up against the wall outside of the dining room. Bilbo, utterly confounded at what his likely quiet evening turned into, stood with a heaping plate of food in a white-knuckled grip.
“Come here, Master Baggins,” Lucky beckoned with a fork. “Join me. I know you shouldn’t be eating on the floor in your own home, but I’m good company, I promise.”
With a sniff, Bilbo said, “I daresay the politest company tonight.”
“Mm, even more than Gandalf?”
“Particularly more than Gandalf,” Bilbo snipped. He took an unhappy bite of food. “He acts as if I should have known about this whole ordeal! When in fact, I most certainly did not.”
“He tends to do that, yes,” Lucky nodded while she ate. “But I am sorry for intruding if that’s the case. I was just told to come here.”
“I suppose it’s not your fault if you didn’t know,” Bilbo sighed. “Or…the dwarves for that matter.”
He spoke the last bit with a grimace. Lucky smirked.
“But, but that still doesn’t answer the question as to what all of you are doing in my home!”
Bilbo didn’t like it when Lucky directed her smirk at him. “You’ll find out soon enough, Master Baggins.”
“What—you cannot simply tell me?”
“It’ll be more fun this way, I promise!”
“Ha! I doubt there shall be any fun tonight.”
“Cheer up! It’s—”
“Aye, but just who is she?” came an irate question from the dining room, loud enough to be heard. “Some witch?”
“She’s a right pain in the arse, that’s what!” Dwalin rebuffed, followed by hearty laughter. “Now shut it and eat yer food before I decide to show you pain in the arse!”
Bilbo, mortified that it was Lucky they spoke about, stammered incoherently.
“Don’t worry,” Lucky said to him. This close and in the particular lighting, Bilbo saw that her eyes were an odd shade of brown, like rich mahogany. “He’s not far off. But then again, everybody’s a pain in the arse to Dwalin. He’s a codger.”
“I gathered.” After another bite, Bilbo straightened his shoulders and said, “And—and thank you for… being considerate.” He breathed a light laugh, bitter as it was. “I doubt I would have gotten a crumb of food had it not been for you.”
Lucky was used to watching out for those smaller than her. Bilbo was no exception.
She dipped her head and smiled.
They made easy conversation, which Lucky enjoyed and got Bilbo’s mind off the present situation in his house. She learned about Bag End’s history and a little bit about his family, and after he shared some witty, well-woven stories, she agreed that his cousin Lobelia really was a no-good twit.
After the dwarves finished dinner, several of them filtered out of the dining room in search of more ale and scraps of food and the nearest loo. Bilbo was once again reminded of his dwarven predicament—and Lucky’s warning about their massive BMs—and scurried off to huff and puff at them.
Lucky slinked into the dining room where Gandalf was and settled down in a too-small chair closest to him. He had pulled out his pipe, and although Lucky was tempted to do the same, she refrained for now. What she really wanted was something sweet, but a glance at the pantry dashed all hopes of possible dessert.
“How was your journey here?” Gandalf asked, keeping his voice casual but low.
Stretching her legs out, Lucky toyed with her braid and replied in the same tone, “Mostly uneventful. But there is tension in the air. I can taste it. Can’t you? And we must tread carefully around the Trollshaws; it reeks of unpleasant creatures.”
Gandalf hummed, discontentedly agreeing. “So close to Rivendell’s borders, too…”
“Exactly. They’re becoming more brazen. Whether or not this quest is a product of their stirrings or part of the reason for it…well.” Lucky exhaled. “The sooner we make it past the Misty Mountains, the better.”
“No small feat of its own.”
“Definitely not, but let’s stay cheerful, shall we?”
He chuckled, and their conversation was interrupted when Balin came up to give Lucky a proper hug. “It’s good to see you, lassie,” he warmly said. “My, it’s been what, three years since we saw each other last?”
Had it already been three years since that little incident?
“Mm, sounds about right.”
“And look at you, still youthful as ever.” Balin then conspiratorially asked, “Now, you don’t happen to be ready to tell me the secret behind it, do you?”
“It’s the true reason why I’ve come tonight,” Lucky grinned. “Forget about the quest. I thought to myself, ‘Balin deserves to know the truth. Why, he’s ancient—practically at death’s door! Best send him off with something special.’”
“That implies the truth is enough to kick my arse all the way through the door! But go on! I’m ready.” Balin squared his shoulders to brace himself. “Tell me the answer to this last great mystery of my life.”
Lucky waggled her brows, and Gandalf blew out a stream of smoke through his chuckle.
“I swam down to the bottom of the sea, where the ruins of Númenor lie in their watery grave. There, I found an ancient and untouched—”
Balin groaned, cutting her off. “Fountain, aye, sealed off from the water in a pocket of air, whose liquid was amber and honey-sweet. You’ve already used that one on me! Twice! And like I’ve told you before, those people were blessed by the Valar to have long lives! They didn’t drink from no fountains.”
“History doesn’t account for how the Valar blessed them,” Lucky countered. “For all we know, it could have been drinking from fountains. I would know; I’m actually a descendant of—”
“You already tried that one on me, too, and no, you are not a descendant of the Dúnedain. I’m very nearly certain.”
“But not completely certain. I could be, for all you know.”
“Och, you break an old man’s heart! Fine. But I’ll whittle it out of you one of these days, I swear it.”
“I know you will. Now go on—I hear there’s a toilet on the far left side of the house. Best use it before one of your companions blows it up.”
“Sound advice, lassie. Excuse me.”
After Balin shuffled off, Lucky drawled to Gandalf, “They knew about Master Baggins’ presumed accompaniment, yet they had no idea about mine. You didn’t tell them about me, did you?”
“I thought it best to be a surprise.”
He had the audacity to say it like it was a small matter.
Lucky scoffed. “Yes, dwarves are known to love surprises. Fucking—so, he doesn’t know that I’m here. What if he refuses to have me along?”
“He knows you, Lucky; more so, he knows of your many abilities and your good heart. You are his friend. You have been for a long time. He won’t refuse you, and you know this.”
“Oh? If you’re so sure, then why didn’t you inform him? Was it because you didn’t want to risk him telling you no to me as well?” At Gandalf’s airy stream of smoke and deliberate interest in a painting, Lucky frowned, “Yes, that’s what I thought. You really are the worst at asking forgiveness rather than permission, aren’t you?”
“One must do what they must to get through to certain dwarves, as you are well aware.”
Before Lucky could interrupt, Gandalf continued, “It will be well. Balin can draft a contract quick as a whip. Don’t fret.”
“I’m not fretting. In fact, I look forward to seeing his stupid, brooding face when he realizes I’m here to join. I simply like to avoid making life difficult—opposite of you, of course, who’s someone that loves to make life difficult for everyone around him just to take the piss.”
“Everything I do, I do with reason,” Gandalf said with faux-sternness. “And need I remind you that I would not have had to do anything were it not for your most recent meddling!”
Lucky rightfully rolled her eyes. As she opened her mouth to retort that between the two of them, he was far more familiar with the word meddling, the Durin descendants interrupted their conversation to introduce themselves.
“We haven’t met, my lady,” said the blond-haired one. “Fíli—”
“And Kíli—” said the black-haired one.
“—At your service,” they finished in unison with bobbing bows.
Lucky grinned at the practice Dís’ boys put into perfecting the introduction. Gandalf took the opportunity to dip away from her and get out of any more prodding.
“Forgive my little brother,” Fíli said, gesturing to Kíli. “He doesn’t know how to use his brain when he speaks. Things just come out, you see. It’s a terrible condition. Uncurable, some say.”
Kíli roughly elbowed his brother, who blocked it with his forearm, and smiled, “Apologies, my lady. I spoke out of turn.”
“All is forgiven,” Lucky said.
“So, you know Balin and Dwalin and the others?” Fíli inquired, to which she nodded. “Then do you know Uncle Thorin?”
“I do know Uncle Thorin, yes.” She knew their mother and more, too, but she could wait to tell them that.
“How so?” they asked together, eager to hear the details.
“A longer story, that one. Perhaps on the road I can share it? When the night’s not already so busy.”
“We’ll hold you to that, my lady,” Fíli said above Kíli’s impatient groan.
Fíli smelled like the metal of the dagger Lucky snatched. Maybe she’d give it back to him, which was far more generous than the typical nature of her ilk. But for right now, she indulged. If she did it with little things, then she wouldn’t itch to do it with the more serious stuff.
“Where do you hail from?” he followed up with.
“Let me guess,” Kíli put in before Lucky could reply, earning him an eye roll from Fíli. “I’m quite good at guessing, you know—”
“You think you’re good,” Fíli grumbled, “but you’re utter shite. You’ve only gotten a correct guess once!”
“Shut it. Now, my lady, let me see…” Kíli stroked his near non-existent beard (he was young, very young, to not have much of it grown in). “Ah, I’ve got it!”
“I’m certain you don’t,” said Fíli.
“You’re from Bree!”
Lucky’s expression fell flat.
“Mahal, save us,” Fíli exhaled.
She cupped her face. She liked her face. She worked hard to perfect it, make it as human as possible like the rest of her body, and she wore this form for so long that it was more than comfort; it was her.
Of course, Kíli was an idiot boy, so she (mostly) pretended to be despondent over his guess.
“To look and sound like someone from Bree…” Lucky breathed, gaze distant. “I don’t think I’ve ever been laid so low. Excuse me, I—I need a moment. I think I’m going to be sick.”
Fíli berated Kíli as she ducked out of the dining room, and behind her, she heard Kíli dejectedly say, “So, she’s not from Bree?”
Bilbo and Gandalf were in the middle of some heated conversation—or rather, Bilbo was in the middle of a heated conversation. Gandalf just looked amused. Lucky let them be. She wandered around the house, poking into rooms she didn’t belong in just because she was nosy. She didn’t take anything other than a couple of loose handkerchiefs, whose importance tickled the back of her mind, so it was a well-intentioned theft. And as she inspected a nice, detailed embroidering of Bag End closer to the kitchen area, the dwarves started up a commotion.
Or, more precisely, they started up a song.
Lucky stayed clear of the flinging plates and utensils as the dwarves got to work. Bilbo, who ran around in the whirlwind begging them to stop but going ignored, almost got knocked in the head by a stoneware mug. Lucky pulled him out of the way, and the mug’s handle barely missed his nose.
“It’ll be right as rain, Master Baggins,” Lucky assured him, leaning down to talk in his ear to be heard over the noise. Bilbo gasped as a plate almost crashed to the ground, but Kíli caught it at the last second with a grin and tossed it along. “They know how to clean up after meals.”
“They know how to get on my nerves!”
“Well, that too. But they know how to do that with everyone. Don’t worry—they’re not in the habit of breaking things that don’t belong to them.”
“And what about eating things?” Bilbo dourly questioned back.
“Now, now, they’re happy, aren’t they? Your food helped do that! I doubt there’s a higher compliment that could be paid than the lovely taste of one’s food and the welcoming presence of their home. You have both. Take heart.”
Conflict scrunched up Bilbo’s adorable face. As soon as the dwarves finished their song, he surged forward into the kitchen to see what the damage was. Lucky trailed behind with a smirk, much less surprised than Bilbo at the towering stacks of clean dishes, a sparkling table, and a swept floor.
Open-mouthed, he stared up at Lucky in disbelief amid the dwarves’ laughter. She shrugged back at him. “What did I tell you, eh?”
Then the knock on the door quieted everyone.
“He’s here,” Gandalf announced with much more solemnity than the person knocking deserved.
The flurry of dwarves almost kneecapped Lucky in their race to get to the front room. They swept Bilbo up with them, and he gave her a panicked look as their distance between each other widened.
With a stifled groan, Lucky resumed her stoop and shuffled along.
Thorin Oakenshield stood on the other side of the door when the wizard opened it.
“Gandalf,” he greeted, striding through. “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way. Twice.”
Because the plum was more blind than he cared to admit, that was why.
“I wouldn’t have found it at all, were it not for that mark on the door.”
Bilbo shoved his way through the dwarves at the mention of property defacement. “Mark? What mark? There’s no mark on that door—it was painted a week ago!”
“There is a mark,” Gandalf said to Bilbo. “I put it there myself.”
Before Bilbo could rightfully kick Gandalf’s shin with those lethal hobbit feet of his (for Lucky had seen them in action through his ancestors), Gandalf went on. “Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our Company, Thorin Oakenshield.”
“So, this is the hobbit,” Thorin stated, amused and superior at Bilbo’s small, bewildered, and very much adventure-avoidant character. “Tell me, Master Baggins, have you done much fighting?”
“Pardon me?”
“Axe or sword? What’s your weapon of choice?”
“Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know,” Bilbo replied, miffed tone breaking through his anxiety at Thorin’s smugness. “But I fail to see why that’s relevant.”
“I thought as much,” Thorin smirked. “He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.”
Over the dwarves’ round of laughter, Lucky said, “And what would you know about the look of a burglar?”
Thorin spun around to see her leaning in the hallway, his smirk gone and replaced with sharpened shock. She waded through to approach him, mindful not to crack her skull on a beam. “Didn’t you get swindled by that little girl selling tulips in Brenthall? She was, what, nine or ten? Then she dropped your entire coin purse in the dash, but since you were more than twenty paces from her, you couldn’t make out shit, and she got to take her time picking up each coin before she was on her merry way.”
Kíli snorted. Fíli elbowed him to be quiet.
“What,” Thorin spoke, “are you doing here?”
“You mean…” Balin started, and Dwalin rubbed his bald head in exasperation.
“Well, if you must know,” said Lucky, “Gandalf begged me to come. Said that this whole venture was hopeless without my assistance, my skills, my charm, my…” She flourished a hand and grinned. “Leadership.”
“You couldn’t lead a horse-drawn cart,” Thorin bit, and he whirled to glare at Gandalf.
“I did ask her to join for reasons that I surely don’t have to explain to you,” Gandalf retorted. “And I’ll not hear any argument on it.”
Thorin riled. “I think you will—”
“Come off it, Thorin,” Lucky groaned good-naturedly. She sauntered forward to him, put both hands on her knees, and crouched down so she was eye level. His dark glower met her broad grin. “Somebody needs to protect your broody little arse in all this, and I don’t mean to boast, but I do have a great record of doing just that.”
Oh, Thorin very much wanted to say that he didn’t need her help like he often had in the past—but memories of all the times she ignored his initial pride to help him, his family, and his people in countless and immeasurable ways flitted through him, paired sourly with their long, true friendship.
Thorin growled.
“And you believe everything to be forgiven?” he darkly inquired. “That I can ignore the damage you left in your wake?”
“Aw, they were in love! I couldn’t say no to helping them elope! And from what I’m told, it was three years ago. Basically an eternity.”
“The families almost sent kill contracts on each other because of it. It could have been a bloodbath.”
“Key word being almost. You handled it just fine. Or, well, both you and your sister.”
“Is she talking about…?” Kíli whispered to Fíli, awed.
“I think she is,” Fíli whispered to Kíli, also awed.
“To cause me grief is one thing, but to cause Dís grief is another matter,” said Thorin.
“And I will apologize to her when I see her again, I swear. But as of right now, allow me to apologize to you, Thorin Oakenshield. Consider this penance for my past misdeeds.”
Lucky dipped her head with a pout of false remorse.
“Penance? No, this is punishment—punishment towards me, for it means I will have to suffer your presence every day of the journey.”
“Ah! So I am coming along!”
“I think not!”
Lucky’s grin widened. Thorin’s glower weakened.
She broke their staring contest with a laugh and clasped his shoulder. Thorin grumbled, but he didn’t step away from it. She then butted his hard forehead with her own, murmuring, “And it is good to see you, friend. This quest has been a long time coming. Of course I want to help you. A bit peeved that you didn’t even invite me in the first place, really.”
“Despite all the destruction you leave in your wake, it is rather difficult to find you. What was I supposed to do? Send a raven out into the wide world, hoping it would find whatever backwater village you decided to terrorize at the moment?”
“Not at all. You should have sent two out into the wide world.”
With a great sigh and a reluctant smile, Thorin gripped her shoulder back, and they tightly embraced each other. The dwarves watching let out relieved and happy laughter.
“Tell me somebody had the smart mind to save me some food,” he muttered in her ear, breath warm. “I’m famished.”
“One of them must have,” Lucky replied. “The pantry looks like salted earth at the moment…” He snorted. “But I’m sure we can scrounge up something.”
Straightening until her head bowed against the ceiling, Lucky declared, “Now, somebody get this very important dwarf dinner!”
As the Company surged to greet Thorin and ask him about his travel and what kind of meal he preferred, Lucky looked to Gandalf, who was content as a cat, and Bilbo, who was decidedly not.
“What did I tell you?” Gandalf said to her.
Lucky waved him off and sauntered to the kitchen. “I’m going to have a crick in my neck thanks to you.”
Everyone congregated back in the dining room. Lucky settled beside Balin. She curled her knees up on the too-small chair because if she dared stretch them out, she’d accidentally play footsie with Dwalin, which would leave him comatose for the rest of the night. Fíli put a tankard of ale in her hands, and seeing as the dwarves pulled out their pipes, Lucky brought hers out as well. It was a simple one with a long shank and a shallow bowl, carved by a woodworker’s son just for her some hundred years ago and smoothed by use and time. After she filled the bowl with pipe weed, she rubbed her fingers together above the contents. A tiny flame danced between them, igniting the pipe.
From her right, the young dwarf Lucky didn’t know who was unsubtle in his staring gasped. Lucky’s gaze darted to him, and a smirk drew up the corners of her lips. The young dwarf reddened at being caught, but she winked at him through the smoke that thinly clouded around her.
He ducked his head with a small smile.
As soon as everyone gathered at the table, pipe smoke hazing the air, they turned their attention to Thorin, who had a bowl of stew and biscuits in front of him with his own tankard.
“What news from the meeting in Ered Luin?” Balin inquired. “Did they all come?”
“Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms,” Thorin replied, which the dwarves cheered at.
“And what did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say?” said Dwalin. “Is Dáin with us?”
“…They will not come.”
The cheer died.
“They say this quest is ours and ours alone.”
“Dáin always was a complete nipple,” Lucky muttered through her pipe. Balin grunted in agreement.
“You’re…going on a quest?” Bilbo questioned, popping up over Gandalf’s shoulder.
“Bilbo, my dear fellow—let us have a little more light.”
While Bilbo fetched a candle, Gandalf unfolded an ancient piece of parchment and laid it out on the table. “Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lays a single, solitary peak.”
Bilbo leaned between Gandalf and Thorin, candle in hand, and read, “The…Lonely Mountain.”
“Aye, Óin has read the portents,” Glóin stated, “and the portents say that it—is—time.”
“Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain, as it was foretold,” Óin added. “‘When the birds of yore return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end.’”
“Now, how to end the reign of said beast is the real question,” said Lucky. “Did the prophecies make any mention of that?”
“O’ course not, lass,” Óin huffed. “You as any would know.”
“Which is why I hate prophecies. All of the results, none of the methods. It’s like they want us to fail.”
Gandalf and a few of the dwarves chuckled.
“Er…sorry, but what beast?” Bilbo asked, drawn back into the conversation.
“That would be reference to Smaug the Terrible,” said Bofur. “Chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne firebreather. Teeth like razors. Claws like meat hooks. Extremely fond of precious metals—”
Bilbo said curtly, “Yes, I know what a dragon is.”
Lucky and Gandalf exchanged glances, her eyes alight with mischief while his weighed with embellished caution.
The young dwarf who watched Lucky light her pipe stood up. “I’m not afraid! I’m up for it. I’ll give him a taste of dwarvish iron right up his jacksie!”
Lucky laughed while the dwarves jeered, and his older brothers yanked for him to sit down.
“The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us,” said Balin. “But we number just thirteen. And not thirteen of the best…nor brightest.”
The dwarves chattered contemptuously.
Fíli pounded his fist on the table to get their attention. “We may be few in number, but we’re fighters! All of us! To the last dwarf!”
“And you forget,” Kíli put in, “we have a wizard in our Company! Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!”
Lucky raised a brow at Gandalf, all-too-inquisitive.
As the dwarves hung onto Kíli’s words, Gandalf tried to correct them. “Well, now, I—I—I wouldn’t say—”
“Well, how many then?” posed the young dwarf’s gray-haired brother. “How many dragons have you killed?”
Gandalf started to cough on his pipe smoke.
“Well go on, give us a number!”
“Er, well—Lucky has far more experience with dragons than I!” Gandalf exclaimed, diverting the attention from him at her expense.
Ah. The classic “thrown under the bus” tactic—or here in Middle-earth, the equivalent of “thrown under the cart,” a phrase popularized a few hundred years back thanks to Lucky. Gandalf loved to use it as both a metaphor and a method.
She narrowed her eyes at him. The doddy wizard was unrepentant.
“Truly?” Kíli exclaimed. “That’s fantastic! Are you a wizard like Gandalf?”
“A witch!” shouted the young dwarf’s other brother. “She’s a witch, just as I suspected!”
“If she is, and if she has slain dragons,” hissed the brother dwarf who started it all by asking Gandalf how many dragons he killed, “then best not to insult her by calling her a witch!”
Lucky blew out a long stream of smoke from her nostrils in a striking draconic impression.
“Dragons are some of the toughest creatures out there, second to perhaps only balrogs and what scant kyzians remain in the east,” she spoke, tapping the end of her pipe against her bottom lip. “Morgoth bred them to be strong enough to stand against the bloody Valar. But it is your ancestors who know this truth better than anyone. It is most of you who know this truth, for even your forces couldn’t drive Smaug out of the mountain.”
“Were you there after all?” Thorin questioned, voice low and eyes gleaming the same shade as his father’s, his grandfather’s, and all his fathers’ fathers before him. Lucky knew the hue of Durin well. “Did you witness the fall of Erebor, even though you claimed otherwise?”
“The fall of Erebor? No.”
Lucky didn’t know when Smaug would attack Erebor, and by the time she smelled dragon-rank on the breeze, it was far too late.
She drew in another long breath of pipe smoke. It billowed from her nostrils. The dwarves listened in rapt silence. Bilbo, who couldn’t resist listening as well, shuffled close to Gandalf.
“But the fall of Ered Mithrin? Yes.”
The Company sucked in sharp, astonished breaths. Thorin clenched his fist, his own amazement tremoring through him.
“I learned that there is one other way to fight a dragon,” Lucky said. “One that does not involve spears and shields and arrows and dwarven resilience.”
“Another dragon,” Thorin exhaled.
Dwalin leaned forward, chair creaking beneath him. “So you saw her, then?” he said just above a whisper. “Ancalaril. The Black Mercy.”
A reverence fell upon the room.
Lucky nodded once. “I did.”
“The, the Black Mercy?” Bilbo repeated. “Who’s that?”
“A dragon whose heart turned from darkness,” Thorin answered without taking his eyes off Lucky. “She protected the Grey Mountains from her kin who sought to invade the kingdom and claim its treasures.”
Bilbo’s eyes turned to saucers. “The…oh. Then, then what you speak of…you were there d-during the War of the Dwarves and Dragons? Truly? But…but…oh my.”
“She was but one dragon against dozens,” Lucky said, careful not to let her resigned gaze turn sorrowful. “Her efforts did little in the end.”
“Nay,” Balin said vehemently. “That is not true. She saved countless lives, including the king and his son! Thorin’s great-grandfather and great-uncle! It was because of her that our kin were able to flee the mountains at all.”
“And out of those dozens,” said Dwalin, “she felled eight.”
“But it was the eighth who defeated her,” Lucky sighed. Another inhale, another stream of smoke. “And it mattered not that she saved Dáin and Frór from the cold drake—they still died by another.”
Hafor, Haulrin’s brother, exacted his revenge against both Dáin and Ancalaril with all the icy fury of the Helcaraxë itself.
“Aye,” Thorin said hoarsely, “but they died defending their people—defending my grandfather and grandmother—so they could escape. It was not meaningless.”
Lucky returned to taking small sips of smoke, warmth in her mouth. “Either way, the Black Mercy hasn’t been seen since then, and we lack the might of Ered Mithrin at the peak of its strength. So, we will have to think of another strategy.”
“If the dragon Smaug is even still alive,” Thorin relented. “He has not been sighted in over sixty years.”
Scoffing, Lucky said, “Dragons can spend hundreds of years in hibernation; they feed off the magic in the metals and gems and minerals of the mountain to sustain them. Sixty years is nothing but a short nap. I promise you—he is still there, buried under all that treasure. And he won’t be happy when we wake him.”
Thorin didn’t glare at Lucky, but his gaze remained pointed and severe.
“But we still must go,” Lucky continued. “If we don’t, then others will. Others who would be all too happy to make a deal with Smaug rather than kill him like we intend.”
Thorin, Gandalf, and the rest hummed in agreement.
“She is right,” Thorin said to the entire table. “If we have read these signs, then so have others. Eyes look East to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. The vast wealth of our kingdom is now rumored to be unprotected, dragon or no. Do we sit back while others claim what is rightfully ours? Make dark deals with worms? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?”
He slammed his fist on the table, sending most of the dwarves into a cheer.
“You forget,” Balin said as soon as the noise died down again, “the front gate is sealed. There is no way into the mountain.”
Gandalf said, “That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true.”
A needle of magic preceded the dwarven-wrought key appearing in Gandalf’s hand. Ah. So that was why she smelled its particular metal on him.
Thorin stared at it. “How came you by this?” he uttered.
“It was given to me by your father. By Thráin. For safekeeping. It is yours now.”
Lucky sent Gandalf a sharp, fleeting look. He returned it with his own patient one that promised answers later, but not now.
Still, that maggot of guilt squirmed in her chest.
Then Gandalf gave the key to Thorin, who regarded it with a swell of emotion.
“If there is a key,” Fíli said slowly, “there must be a door.”
Gandalf pointed the end of his pipe down to the old map. “These runes speak of a hidden passage to the lower halls.”
Kíli grinned, “There is another way in.”
“Well, if we can find it—dwarf doors are invisible when closed. The answer lies hidden somewhere in this map, and I do not have the skill to find it. Mm, what do you think, Luck?”
Gandalf pushed the map towards her, and she set her pipe down to gingerly take it up in both hands.
“It certainly smells strange, wizard robe scent aside,” Lucky said with a faint smirk.
She brought it close to her nose and sniffed it a few times, brows furrowing. “I don’t…hm. That’s strange.” She smelled again, deeper this time. Then her eyes lit up when she latched onto the note and recognized it. “Ooh, now that is interesting.”
Bilbo squinted in confusion at Lucky’s unfailing tactic.
“What is it?” Thorin questioned, voice edged with understandable frustration. “Or are you to inhale the entire map up your nose before we get any answers?”
“Ha, no. I smell an old magic. Dwarves have always been masters at creating and casting spells to hide and conceal. There is a spell like this imbued in the map.” Lucky took one final sniff, then nodded. “Mm, yes, it has to be. Whatever was secretly written on this—I suspect the actual entrance to the door—is only visible in the light of the moon. A summer moon, if I’m correct, though I can’t tell beyond that. If these are moon runes, however, then the secrets will only reveal under the exact moon that shone when the runes were crafted, along with a moon rune dais to read them upon.”
“And we know neither the date nor have a dais in possession,” Gandalf finished, and the dwarves let out disappointed breaths.
“Yet,” said Luck. She set the map back down. “I have hope that we’ll solve it, or we’ll find someone else in Middle-earth who can.”
Or rather, Luck had hope that the one person who could solve it would do so willingly. Gandalf thought it as well, though neither of them would mention him to Thorin right now. No need to invite his ire prematurely.
Gandalf moved forward. “Now, the task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth—and no small amount of courage.” He glanced at Bilbo, who was nonplussed at the attention. “But if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done.”
“That’s why we need a burglar,” the young dwarf said from the other end of the table.
“And a good one, too,” said Bilbo with a snap of his suspenders, because the hobbit couldn’t stay out of such an enthralling conversation in spite of how much he didn’t want any of them here. “An expert, I’d imagine.”
“Aye, and are you?” Glóin questioned.
Lucky resumed smoking her pipe.
Bilbo looked around like there was someone else behind him. When, alas, there was nobody but him, he blurted, “Am I what?”
“He said he’s an expert!” Óin exclaimed, and the dwarves laughed. “Hey!”
“Me? No! No, no, no. I’m not—I’m not a burglar! I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!”
He pointed a finger at her. “If, if anything—isn’t Lucky meant to be your burglar?”
She gasped in faux offense, and Bilbo blushed. “I am many things, Master Baggins, but a thief? The slander! I’m hurt that’s the impression you got of me! And after our delightful conversation, too!”
Bilbo stammered, “Not—no, that’s not—I simply thought—it’s b-because you are so—well—”
“Don’t mind her, laddie,” Balin said. “She’s giving you grief.”
“That’s the exact impression you should get of her,” Dwalin grunted.
“Indeed,” said Thorin. “She’s a shameless filcher.”
Lucky winked at Bilbo to concur.
“But I’m afraid I have to agree with Master Baggins on his former statement,” Balin went on. “He’s hardly burglar material.”
“Aye, the wild is no place for gentlefolk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves,” said Dwalin, and the dwarves—and Bilbo—agreed on this point.
Lucky watched them all get loud again, throwing around theories and possibilities and boasts and insults. Wizard magic then tightened the air. She braced herself before Gandalf inevitably lost his temper and stood, shadows bleeding behind him as the walls and wooden beams groaned under an unfamiliar pressure and a booming voice.
“If Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is!”
Cowed, the dwarves silenced.
Returning to normal, Gandalf firmly said, “Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they choose. And while the dragon is accustomed to the smell of dwarf and human, the scent of a hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage.”
Smaug would smell dwarf on Bilbo, though, and likely her, but still—the reasons went beyond simply smelling different.
“You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this Company,” Gandalf spoke to Thorin, “and not only have I chosen Mister Baggins as the fourteenth member, but I have also brought a fifteenth.” He gestured to Lucky, and she lifted her pipe with a nod. “Although you know Lucky’s usefulness already, let me promise you that there is a lot more to Mister Baggins than appearances suggest. And he’s got a great deal more to offer than any of you know! Including himself!”
Solemnly, Gandalf concluded, “You must trust me on this.”
Thorin tilted his head to Lucky. “And what do you think?”
Her dark-lashed gaze slid to Bilbo. He silently pleaded for her to say something against this whole false, preposterous notion that Gandalf conjured about him.
“He bears the scent of remarkable courage,” Lucky stated, and Bilbo paled, mouth opening and closing like it did during Gandalf’s speech. “I believe he’ll make a superb addition to the Company.”
“Fine,” Thorin sighed, “we will do it your way, Gandalf.”
“No, no—” Bilbo tried to speak.
“—Hand me his contract, and when you have a moment, draft one for Lucky as well, else she wriggle out of it somehow.”
“I would not wriggle out of it, Thorin! If anything, I’ve wriggled into it, just like you wriggled into Bessie Turngrass’—”
“Not another word, woman. My nephews will never let me hear the end of it if they overhear.”
Lucky laughed.
Balin gave Bilbo’s contract to Thorin, and Thorin slapped the contract against Bilbo’s chest. He fumbled to take it with a winded, “F-funeral arrangements? Did—what’s this about funeral arrangements?”
Bilbo opened the contract, which fell all the way to his little knees. While he skimmed over it, Thorin leaned over to Gandalf and muttered in his ear, “I cannot guarantee his safety…nor will I be responsible for his fate.”
Over Thorin’s shoulder, Gandalf looked to Lucky. She nodded once.
“…Agreed.”
“Laceration? Evisceration? Incineration?” Bilbo’s voice climbed higher with each description.
“Oh, aye,” Bofur helpfully supplied, “he’ll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye.”
“Mm, it’s true,” said Lucky. “Once, I watched someone get fucking torched close-range by a fire drake—same like as Smaug—and all that was left of him were his poor boots, still standing upright.”
Bilbo doubled forward with a stifled gag.
Lucky grimaced. When Gandalf frowned at her, she mouthed, “Sorry.”
“You alright, laddie?” asked Balin.
“I…er…I’m feeling a bit faint is all.”
Then Bofur said, “Think furnace, with wings.”
“I—I—I need air—”
“Flash of light, searing pain, then poof! You’re nothing more than a pile of ash!”
Bilbo stood for a moment, then fainted.
“Oh, very helpful, Bofur,” Gandalf sighed.
“I didn’t think a few honest descriptions would kill him!”
Dryly, Thorin repeated to Lucky, “‘Great courage’?”
“He’ll be fine.”
She unfurled herself from the chair and shuffled to Bilbo, pipe hanging haphazardly from her mouth. She patted his slack cheek.
“Bilbo, Bilbooooo dear, wake up…”
When he wouldn’t come around, Lucky picked him up in her arms and called through her pipe, “Can we get a pot of tea going for Master Baggins? I could do with a cuppa as well.”
She deposited him in an armchair in the nearest sitting room—one of four, Lucky counted earlier. Why someone needed so many sitting rooms, she hadn’t the foggiest idea, but she appreciated the decorations in each one.
Gandalf joined her, and the two of them stared down at the limp hobbit.
“He’s going to fight you on this, you know,” Lucky quietly said to him.
“He will. But that is why I have you, is it not?”
“Please don’t tell me you want me to persuade him that way.”
“No, no, never. You have a good heart, Lucky, and Bilbo has taken a liking to you. He’d be more assured if you simply spoke with him.”
“I’ll let you try to get through to him first. Call me if you need me, alright?”
“Very well.”
Lucky patted Gandalf’s shoulder before she ducked out of the sitting room. She didn’t have to wander far before the gray-haired dwarf she didn’t know the name of offered up a teeny tiny cup of tea. “For you, my lady. It’s an herbal blend, I believe.”
“Ooh, thank you. Now, we’ve gone too long without proper introductions.” Lucky held out her hand for him to clasp. “Lucky. And your name?”
“Dori, my lady.” At the sight of him talking with Lucky, his two brothers hurried to join in.
“Nori,” said the middle brother, whose fingers suffered from the same stickiness as hers. She’d have to watch her stuff—and he’d have to watch his. They could make a game of it!
“And Ori,” said the youngest. Fresh ink stained the skin not protected by his knitted fingerless gloves. A writer, then.
“A pleasure, boys. Looking forward to getting to know all of you better on this quest. It’ll be a grand time.”
“So,” Nori said, “are you a witch?”
“Nori!” Dori hissed.
“I saw her—well—” Ori started, then clicked his mouth shut.
“What did you see, eh?” asked Nori while Ori turned waxen in front of Lucky. “Did you see her cast a wicked spell?”
“The only wicked spells cast tonight were the giant shits you took to destroy Master Baggins’ plumbing,” Lucky smirked, and for all of Nori’s smack, he barked a laugh. “Even if I could fit both arse cheeks on those tiny toilets, I would have been smoked out by the stench.”
Dori breathed a sigh of relief that Lucky wouldn’t turn his brother into a toad, then remembered to bring Bilbo his tea and hurried off. Lucky goaded Nori into refilling his pipe to show him the trick Ori saw, and when she lit it with a touch of magic, Nori jumped a little, then laughed more.
“A mighty fine thing for pipe smoking and fire starting, that’s for certain!”
“Out of all my talents, it’s my most essential.”
“The real reason why you’ve been invited on this quest, I’m sure.”
“I don’t mean to be rude,” Ori started with a timid shuffle of his feet, “but how old are—”
Gandalf’s grumbling, “Luck!” cut off Ori’s question.
She made a face. “Uh oh. The actual witch in this Company calls. Cheers, lads.” She raised her cup of tea to Nori and Ori and stooped her way back to the sitting room where she put Bilbo.
Before she was out of earshot, Nori said to Ori, “I think it’s about time we had a talk about asking women their ages, witches or no…”
Lucky ducked into the sitting room, where Bilbo gloomily nursed a cup of tea in his armchair and Gandalf stood with his arms crossed and upper body curved to the ceiling.
“What’s all this?” Lucky prompted.
“Talk some sense into Bilbo,” said Gandalf. “He refuses all of my own.”
“I don’t blame him. After all, he didn’t know he was expected to be part of a quest to evict a dragon from a mountain until fifteen minutes ago.”
Bilbo gestured to Lucky and made a series of approving, distressed noises at her apt summary.
She sat down next to the armchair and propped an elbow on it. “And let me guess, like any normal person would react, you don’t want to risk the chance of dying for a cause you know nothing about.”
“Precisely that!”
Lucky hummed and sipped her tea. “Well, as much as I understand, I can’t say I’m not a little sad. I was excited to have you along.”
Bilbo jerked his head to her. She smiled, and the small, symmetrical tattoos under her left and right eyes shifted.
“And I wasn’t lying when I said you have courage in you, Master Baggins. Even if you don’t feel it yet, it’s there, waiting to see the sun again. There’s a reason why Gandalf and I want you to join, you know, all this burglar toss aside. It’s because the world could use more of that hobbit courage you have in you to help make it brighter and greener, happier and stronger. These dwarves, they’re going to need it. Even Thorin. Especially Thorin. You coming on this quest will make all the difference, I promise.”
He swallowed and dropped his gaze from Lucky’s mahogany-colored eyes to his twitching fingers on the armrest.
“And—and what if I said that I don’t want to die, hm?” Bilbo’s voice cracked. “N-not by dragon fire or anything else. A hobbit has no business being, being out there, risking death! I’ll stay right here where it’s comfortable and free of both dragon and death, thank you very much.”
Bilbo blinked rapidly and took a few shallow breaths to steady his shaking spirit.
Lucky downed her tea, then stared at the dredges. They formed a dark, unbroken ring shape at the bottom of the porcelain.
“Gandalf cannot promise to keep you safe and ensure your return home.” Her voice was clear and quiet like an autumn night hushed by a coat of stars, lowered lashes the silhouettes of barren tree branches against the moonlight. “And though it is not in my power to keep you safe, as adventures such as this are filled with trouble that would test even the courage of hobbits…it is in my power to vow that you will be hale and whole, Bilbo Baggins, from the moment you step past your door to the moment you step through it once more. I swear to you, I will see that your time on this quest will not lead to your death.”
It was only after Lucky finished speaking that she looked back to Bilbo.
He was pale and thin-lipped, thoughts burdened by the oath she laid before him in the candlelit sitting room.
“Lucky does not make such promises lightly,” Gandalf rumbled from where he stood. “She will not fail you, Bilbo. Nor will you fail anyone on this quest, should you join.”
All three of them turned their heads to the contract draped over the end table. A strained grimace flashed across Bilbo.
“Go on, Master Baggins, sign it,” Lucky badgered, though she didn’t have to do much badgering at all. “You know you want to. You know you want to.”
He choked on a distraught whimper.
Gandalf reached for an inkwell and quill, then silently passed it to Lucky. She set it beside the contract. Bilbo’s fingers drummed grooves into the armrest.
“Both of you are making a mistake,” Bilbo stated, but the walls of his comfort and cozy crumbled against the swift current of spirit and adventure rising within him. “This is all a mistake.”
Lucky and Gandalf didn’t reply.
In a great gust of courage, Bilbo snatched up the quill from its inkwell and signed his name on the contract so hastily that the quill must have been hot as coals. He certainly dropped it back into the inkwell and shook his hand out like it was.
“This is a complete and utter mistake, I tell you!”
But Gandalf’s and Lucky’s cheers drowned out his reiterations, and when Lucky clapped Bilbo on the shoulder, yelling, “We’ve got ourselves an official burglar!” Bilbo blurted a stunned laugh.
Around the smial, the dwarves hooted and hollered.
Before Bilbo could think second of it and tear up the contract he just signed, Lucky swiped it from the end table. “Oh, Thorin dear! I have something for you!”
She found him in the hall with Balin. Thorin glanced at Bilbo’s signature when she gave the contract to him with a grin, then passed it off to Balin, who whipped out his loupe to evaluate it. Lucky crouched on the balls of her feet to rest her neck.
“Everything seems to be in order,” Balin declared, folding the contract and tucking it into his coat. “I’ll get your contract drafted up tonight as well, Lucky.”
“Don’t rush it. I know how your wrists and fingers cramp up after you’ve written for too long, and that contract might as well be a small book.”
“You’re too kind, thinking about a poor old dwarf like myself.”
Thorin raised a brow at Lucky’s squatting position. “Comfortable? Or are you going to shit on the floor like a dog? You certainly have the nose of one.”
Balin clicked his tongue at Thorin in consternation.
“I’ll shit in your pack if you keep it up, Oakenshield.”
“Delightful.”
“And why do I smell second-rate pipe weed on you, eh? How unbefitting of someone of your illustrious status.” Lucky did a stupid little bow in her crouch, then rose back up so her hair could collect static from brushing the ceiling so much. “Don’t you know where we are? The Shire makes the finest pipe weed in Middle-earth! Come on—I saw where Master Baggins keeps his stash.”
Although the hobbit obviously favored Old Toby, there was a barrel of Southern Star, which was Lucky’s preferred pipe weed. It had a sweeter, softer taste to it compared to Old Toby’s spicy bitterness. She would have to snag the barrel before they left and strap it to Aran when the old maid trundled back to Lucky.
The dwarves congregated in the biggest sitting room, pipes in hand and plumes of smoke drifting into the warmed air. A fire crackled in the hearth, casting shadows across the Company as conversation quieted and the pipe smoke brought a curtain of stillness. Lucky stared into the fire from where she lounged on a small chair against the wall. Memories of the same entropy in her mouth, her chest, replaced the smoke on her tongue to promise its return.
The yellow-orange light silhouetted Thorin’s frame as he stood close to the hearth, sapphire gaze trying to divine the fate of this quest in the flame’s ribboning dance.
Perhaps they would succeed.
Or perhaps they would see nothing but the same firelight swallowing them up like it did their friends, their brothers and sisters, their mothers and fathers, their children, on that day a hundred and seventy-one years ago.
Except.
They had Lucky.
She would ensure that they saw the spring sun shine on their scarred but glorious and glittering mountain once more. It was an unspoken vow, but it crafted and refined in the forge fire of her soul, ringing with the same clarity, the same strength, as the vow she gave Bilbo Baggins.
Thorin began to sing in a low, reverberating timbre that rolled across the room and into the halls. The others joined in, stoic and unwavering like the mountain stone that ran through their blood.
It was a song Lucky knew well.
Bilbo stood in the hall, enraptured by and scared of all that the song told.
He looked to Lucky.
And found that her gaze was already upon him.
In the red fire, pipe smoke breathing from her nose and mouth, Lucky’s eyes glinted.