"Starman"

by Agar

Chapter 2. Not-Elf

Thorin III, son of Dain II, the King Under the Mountain, looked up just in time to see the red beast come crashing down on him.

"Umph!" The wind was knocked out of the sturdy dwarf, but he still had the wits to grab on to its thick black fur before it could escape. It twisted wildly in his grasp like a snake and he struggled with his other hand to swing his ax. He nearly dropped it in shock when the "beast" turned its pained face towards him to reveal a scraggly, scared looking elf.

Thorin had heard plenty of tales about elves growing up, mostly from his kin who had the misfortune to be imprisoned by King Thranduil, but none of them had ever described an elf like this. Though they often joked about their fickle nature and preoccupation with trees, even the proudest dwarf could agree that the elves had an unearthly beauty. They were tall and thin like the willow tree, but strong as an oak in battle; beardless, forever youthful faces, and in the dark they would shine with the light of their sacred star.

This elf didn't shine. Rather, he was more like a shadow, seeming to suck up the meager light of their mining lamps. His dark hair was matted and hacked off unevenly at the ends, like he'd taken a bush knife to it, and instead of the long braids and jewelry elves liked to clutter their hair with a ragged red scarf kept his bangs out of his eyes. Eyes, Thorin noted, that were not the dark brown he first thought them, but a deep red, like garnets. He'd never heard of any elf, or for that matter any creature, with red eyes. Thorin kept his grip tight on his weapon, not sure if the color was a warning of evil intent or just happenstance.

Tangled in a heap on the ground, the elf certainly didn't look evil. Panicked and struggling for freedom, he was more like a trapped hare, but Thorin knew even a pinned rabbit could deliver a vicious kick with its claws if not handled carefully. Claws, Thorin noted, that this elf seemed to share. Instead of the normal style of metal greaves, the elf was armed with a wicked brass "glove," right down to the articulated fingers. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship that had Thorin aching to pick the brain of the blacksmith who forged it. Findri, however, had no time to appreciate its beauty, busy as he was avoiding being gutted by the flailing limb. The elf's cloak had caught around his legs, leaving him stuck underneath.

Hafner at least must have come to the same conclusion as he, because he released his hold on the elf and instead grabbed Findri by his collar to drag him to safety. "Tis not a Balrog, you big oaf! If it was we'd already be roasted. It's too tiny."

Not that the elf was tiny by any means. He was long limbed and standing he would no doubt tower over them, easily as tall as any of the Men in Laketown.

Findri, now safe from impalement, righted himself and brandished his maul at the elf. "Could have fooled me with those claws in my face! I thought I was about to get my nose pierced like those barbarians to the far south."

"And it would only be an improvement on your countenance." Hafner snapped back.

"What's an elf doing in a dwarf mine?" Thorin wondered aloud.

"I'm not an elf," said a deep, gravely voice like the onset of an avalanche that could only have come from the elf. Or not-elf, as it were.

"Well you certainly aren't a dwarf!" Findri squinted, finally lowering his maul but keeping it at the ready should the not-elf prove dangerous.. "You could be a Man, I guess."

"What man hangs from the ceiling like a bat?" Thorin countered.

Hafner snorted. "And elves do?"

"Nay, he's too pretty. And no beard, not even scruff!" Findri argued.

Hafner settled the matter. "No elf would be this far in the earth. They are creatures of the forest; under rock and mountain their spirit flickers out like a candle. Which begs the question: who, or perhaps what, are you?" Hafner asked the not-elf, looking him square in his red eyes.

"I am Vincent Valentine."

"Are you an agent of Sauron? Or some other fell creature he has yet to call to his service?" Hafner asked sharply.

But the not-elf, Vincent, did not reach for any weapon, only blinked in apparent confusion. "I am an agent of no one." He said tonelessly. "And last I checked I was human."

Hafner looked at Thorin questioningly. Though technically his elder, Thorin's rank as Dain's son made him his superior. The young prince shrugged. "That's good enough for me." For now, he thought, though I'll be keeping one eye on you, Mister Valentine. "Now the real question is, what are you doing skulking around the Iron Hills?"

"I'm lost."

Findri sputtered. "Lost?! What did you do, miss Erebor by a hundred miles?"

"I'm not entirely sure what happened. I was exploring a small cave near the southern split in the Nibelheim Mountains when I...fell into mako fissure. I just woke up two days ago."

Thorin furrowed his brow. "Nibelheim? There are no mountains by that name near here."

"A foreign name, perhaps? Elves and men often have names for places in many different tongues than we speak," Hafner suggested.

Vincent cocked his head to the side in thought. The movement and pose reminded Thorin of the too clever ravens at Erebor. "A friend once told me that Nibelheim means 'place of mist' or 'cloud home' if that means anything to you."

"Then there's you answer! The Misty Mountains. They're riddled with caves. But how you ended up here all the way from Moria is a mystery."

"Well, however you got here," Findri interrupted before they could speculate further, "I'd venture to say you could do with some food and drink, yes?" He reached into his sack and pulled out a parcel of jerky. "Goat meat, dried and seasoned with my family recipe. Best jerky the Iron Hills has to offer!" He handed it and his own flask over.

"Thank you," Vincent said in the same low tone, but he seemed grateful enough for Findri's generosity. He devoured the jerky too quickly to hide his hunger, and drank the ale with a moan at its rich taste.

Though still suspicious, Thorin relaxed a fraction. He'd yet to hear of any evil creature with an appreciation for ale. Blood, perhaps, but not the comfort of a good drink. "I am Thorin, son of Dain, the King Under the Mountain. These are my companions, Hafner and Findri. Come back with us to Azanulimbar-Dum. The archives there have maps of the Iron Hills and Misty Mountains; perhaps they will give you some insight to how you arrived here."

Though the invitation was polite enough, it was not a request. Thorin did not want this strange not-elf wandering free, not when men whispered of shadows spreading from the south. Sauron himself had once worn the guise of an elf to trick the races of Middle Earth into accepting the rings of power. Vincent was as fair as an elf, but beauty could hide a rotten core.

But Thorin's face hide his paranoia, and Vincent nodded his head graciously. "I appreciate your help." He rose to his feet, which were clad in the same brass armor as his arm, and despite expecting it Thorin was still surprised at his height. Though he carried no obvious weapon, standing over them he looked even more menacing, his red cloak falling around his shoulders like wings. An ill omen.

"Right laddie, we'll get you taken care of!" Hafner reached up to slap Vincent on the back. "You look like you could use a rest and a good meal or two! You eat meat, right?"

Thorin did not hear Vincent's answer as Hafner led him and Findri back the way they came. Instead, he looked up at the deep gouges in the rock, carved from armored feet and fingers. Vincent did not need a sword or axe to be dangerous.

A/N: Oh baby prince Thorin, you have no idea. I am making myself sad every time I type his name, I can't help picturing a different dwarf.

So watching The Hobbit made me want to dust off this old fic, especially now that I have so much new dwarf material! I have a clearer picture of this next chapter, where we will be seeing some familiar bearded faces. I apologize in advance for how long the next chapter will take to post, I update basically when the cosmic forces are right.