Disclaimer: This is a work of non-profit fan fiction using some characters from the Hobbit/LotR world, none of which I claim credit for. I only own the character of the Ranger and any other OC that may sprout up in the process. This story is for entertaining purposes only and is not part of the official story line.

English is not my native language, so please be gentle with my soul. Constructive criticism is always welcome and in case you stumble upon any mistakes, feel free to point them out so I can correct them. Also, yes, I've read the book, but I plan to follow the course and events of the movie for the most part. Elvish translations are at the bottom.

Edit: For anyone asking to repost, or translate and repost the story on this or any other website, no, you may not. I'm not being mean, if I want this or parts of it anywhere else, I'll post it there myself. Please respect that.

The one where it all began

The dreams were a murky coalescence of distant memories and a lifetime's worth of grim thoughts.

At first it was all red. Seldom she was able to dream of anything anymore except for the colour red; red like the rising and setting sun, red like the dirt on a battlefield, red like blood. Then the red bled into a dark blue. There was sand, grainy and wet, a pair of footprints on it—she could only imagine they were her own. A dark ocean reaching as far as the eye could see. The sound of waves crashing on the beach violently–

It woke her up from a restless slumber. She was not sure, at first, what woke her. There was a nagging uneasiness in the back of her mind, but so often was the case after her dreams, she paid it no mind. It seemed only minutes prior that she'd decided to let her eyes rest for a while, but hours must have passed, for dawn had come and the sun was on the rise. Or so she imagined, under the heavy clouds in a dark sky that was slowly starting to bleed into a lighter shade of grey blue.

A gust of morning air blew and the Ranger inhaled deeply in the chilly breeze that came down from the North, like a knife cutting through the warmest woolens. The weather had taken a bad turn the week before; mid-spring snows were common enough—they were usually mild. The wind, however, especially during the night, was unforgiving at the best of times. Made the travellers across the river Lhûn seek any form of shelter, usually demanding layers upon layers of thick furs. Often they shuddered to think how hard it'd be come winter.

Rumours of strange creatures roaming near Emyn Uial had spread across the land. Dark shapes in the woods, dreadful things that it made villagers and countrymen's blood run cold to think of. It had her kinsmen alerted. Small groups of two or three had been dispatched immediately to the southern end of the Hills and Lake Evendim to acquire direct evidence. She had strayed a few miles from the planned route and her assigned comrades, following the rumours from village to village. Hadn't meant to travel so far up, beyond the river, but the last sighting had been there a fortnight ago, so she was left with no option but run a few patrols in the hope of coming across the root of all trouble.

Hissing sounds that vaguely resembled words suddenly drew her attention, and she tried to discern what they were and, mostly, where they came from, here in the middle of nowhere. Travellers? She swiftly hauled herself up, grabbing her quiver and bow from where they lay beside her, and then started climbing the tree her back once leaned against. Perching herself soundlessly upon a branch, she waited for the source of the voice to come into view.

The sight made her eyebrows rise to her hairline with surprise. It was going to be an... interesting morning, for lack of a better word.

There were five of them and in a distance where they might as well catch her scent if she didn't act quickly. Although her scent had blended in that of nature after weeks of treading muddy paths, sleeping on the dirt with fallen leaves mushed under her cloak, and forgoing even a quick dip in a stream, let alone a proper bath, she wasn't willing to try her luck so early into the day—for the record, that rarely went smoothly. It made her wonder why and how they'd managed to come so far west without being caught by any of her kinsmen. Mere words she caught from their screeching hisses, being not so familiar with their language; words such as 'scum' and 'kill'—naturally. They were orcs; if murder and death weren't included in their permanently evil plans, then something was off.

She had once sworn to wipe them all out off the face of the earth. At the time it seemed entirely possible. In retrospect, she recognised the mentality of someone coming of age in the throes of vengeful anger. As the anger ebbed and reason settled, that mentality grew out of vindictiveness and into a more noble element. By killing as many as she could, she believed to be saving another innocent soul somewhere else. Any sensible being would not stand doing it for revenge for too long, because revenge corrupts all those who seek it. And getting corrupted, having a biased way of looking at things, wasn't a trait fitting for a Ranger.

She waited awhile for the group to move further and blew a soft whistle in the air of the small forest that was slowly coming back to life after the peaceful night. Not long after, a dark brown steed emerged from the tree shadows, approaching her with a brisk, yet quiet pace. Urúvion escorted her only when circumstances demanded, meaning every time she had to travel a rather large distance.

She spared a few seconds to pet his muzzle before mounting him in a hurry. "Noro lim, Urúvion", were her only words to him before he started galloping.

She could feel the wind bite harder at both her skin and the horse's as they rode to the bridge ahead. Curiosity got the better of her regarding their travelling in daytime– Though, on second thoughts, there were plenty of clouds in the sky for them to tolerate the meagre daylight. Still, they were known for their inclination to travel at night if possible, so they clearly must have been under a lot of pressure to consider the daylight the lesser of two evils. It made her wonder what the other evil might be. Perhaps they were just hungry and she had caught them in the middle of the hunt.

Her patience started to wear thin as the distance between them shortened, which was no surprise considering the notable stench they left on their trail. It was like a moving cesspool, and she was being forgiving with the term.

Approaching the stream, she spotted several yards ahead of her a lone man riding a pony toward the bridge and them hiding behind large rocks, remains of an old watch-tower that once stood there. He didn't seem to take notice; if he had, he hid it pretty well. She dismounted Urúvion and run to the opposite of where the bridge was, taking cover behind trees and bushes, until she found a turn where the stream narrowed down to a rill, where she could cross it without risking being carried away by water. She quietly crept up the other bank and took cover behind a large tree trunk, then brought an arrow forth to her bow, lithe fingers slowly drawing it back and stretching the string.

The man on the pony slowly crossed the bridge to pass on the other side when they made their move to attack him. Undetected by either party, she shot the arrow and the first orc went down. Then the second, and then the third. Promptly the other two, as well as the man on the pony who was stunned to shock, turned around to see her sprout behind the tree with a wild gleam in her eyes. One of the remaining two took his fair share of time to react, so he quickly had his neck sliced by her daggers. Yet the victory was short lived.

As the fight with the last orc commenced, the strangest thing happened. In retrospect, it'd be the second in a series of exceedingly strange things happening from that moment onwards.

The Ranger swore she could hear the tapping of another set of hooves approaching. Who would ever thought there would be so many souls gathering in this godforsaken place? Strange things, indeed.

Somewhere between the third deflect and fourth strike, she took glimpse of a pointed grey hat moving in the background. The instantaneous distraction was enough for the orc to pull a small knife out of his muddy clothes and embed it to her side. It was a mellow kind of pain, like cutting your palm on glass rather than scratching against wood or hard rock. It didn't hurt until she noticed the red against the white of her tunic. She briefly glanced at it and then at her opponent, who eyed her with a sinister look. With an abrupt move she launched forward and kicked him in the groin, resulting in him collapsing on one knee before her. The left blade whirled and clashed with his sword then, so forcefully that it fell on the ground.

The daggers whizzed as they slid across the skin, meeting at a cross in front of his neck, not slitting his throat open but sinking in the flesh enough to cause a tingly sensation.

"What master do you serve?"

No answer came except for a growl.

"I don't have all day," she warned with the patience of someone who had run out of it already, and the cold steel pressed against his skin more persistently. "Speak or die."

Still no answer.

"Die it is then."

Black blood spilled around and the shrieking sound of the blades slashing his neck was hushed by a whistle of the wind.

She wiped the black liquid stains off the daggers with a dirty piece of cloth she'd conjured out of a pocket, with the swiftness of a gesture that had been repeated many a time before. Slender and keen edged were her steel blades, fitting arms for a warrior of equal keenness and skill. After they were back in their sheaths, she turned to see the two men staring back. The one who rode the pony had now dismounted it and gawped at her in a strange manner, a firm grip on his sword. With a sigh she directed her pace to the other, the smiling one. The closer she got, the more noticeable became the height difference between the two.

Annoyingly, her mind had the bad habit of jumping to the worst assumption most of the time. A quick glance to the skies, and she was already fearing that the short man wasn't actually a short Man, but a taller-than-average Dwarf.

Anyone in Middle Earth who wasn't living under a rock knew the stories. Dwarves' general distrust of people other than their own and the hatred they harbored for certain people were the stuff of legends. Which was unfortunate, because, despite that she wasn't one of those people, she did have dealings with them. Obviously the dwarf wasn't aware of that and he was unlikely to ever know about it, but stars have mercy on her nerves if he, by some unhappy coincidence, ever found out.

She gave a slight bow of her head in greeting. "Mithrandir."

"Mae g'ovannen, mellon nin."

The Ranger glanced at the dwarf only momentarily, but it was just in time to glimpse him screwing up his face as though he'd a whole lemon shoved into his mouth and made to chew on it as soon as the elvish words sounded. She held back a scoff. "Gwenwin in enninath."

"Indeed," Gandalf agreed with a smile. "Your skill with the blade remains as good as I remembered it to be."

"It would be worrisome if it didn't," the woman laughed. "Yet you aren't one for flattery..." In a matter of seconds her expression turned serious and she threw him a wary, suspicious look. "What do you want, Gandalf?"

"Why does everyone assume I want something?" the wizard wondered dramatically.

"You have a history of wanting things."

"Can I not pay a most innocent compliment to a friend?"

"You may. Although, knowing you, your compliments bode ill for any who's concerned."

There was a scandalised intake of a breath. "Slander and calumny!" he protested. "Whatever's made you believe such a thing?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Certain people might have warned me about you and your ways a few years prior."

A low laugh deflated the seeming tension in the air. "Oh, and I thought I could play it out for more this time," he feigned annoyance. "No matter—'tis rather fortunate we all met here."

The cunning wizard spoke unhurriedly, moderately, as though he was weighing his sayings first. The woman and the dwarf listened with caution. Both winced at the sound of the word 'all', though neither seemed to care that the other was watching.

"Rumours reached me," said Gandalf merrily, "that you were seen wandering round these parts. Five days I have been searching for you." A pause. Then a cryptic smile. "I come bearing adventure."

The woman snorted. "When do you not?"

"In this hour of need, dear friend, your name has arisen." Before the question even formed on her lips he was saying it, "I would like you to serve as a guide in a quest."

"A guide?" she parroted with incredulity.

The dwarf beside him turned to him so fast, he almost got whiplash; surely it could not be his quest. How did the wizard take the liberty to reveal his plans to a complete stranger? He cleared his throat a little less than discreetly, "Do I not have a say in that?"

So they were acquainted with each other. Oh, something wicked is afoot. Worry began to coil in the Ranger's stomach like a snake. She had a bad feeling about this. She arched an eyebrow and paid the dwarf a studying glance, a little taken aback at the slightly intimidating, for someone that short, attitude.

"Oh, how ill-mannered of me. My dear, let me introduce you to the leader of this particular quest, Thorin Oakenshield," said the wizard, casting a cautious look at the dwarf and an intense one at her.

At the sound of his name, her eyes went wide. "So you are Thorin, son of Thrain," she acknowledged and did her best to conceal her surprise and the onslaught of deductions her mind made. His Majesty in person, hence the mighty dwarvish suspiciousness and not at all amiable behaviour, was the mentally added part for her ears only. Afterwards, with a highly displeased pout, she noticed the look Gandalf paid her and huffed. "I am Arya, a Ranger of the North," she said brusquely and offered him a faint nod with her head.

Thorin looked the woman up and down. She was standing quietly two yards away with her hands loose at her sides, yet in a distance from her belt that she could easily reach for her sword should danger arose, although she could just as easily reach for her bow and arrow as he realised a moment later. She was towering him something more than a whole head, but was still shorter than the wizard and, as she had just truthfully declared, was dressed and equipped like a Ranger; dark grey cloak with the distinctive star-shaped clasp and in possession of a considerable amount of weapons. Rumours were once spread of female ones, but everyone within his Halls in Ered Luin had dismissed them. As it was customary within the dwarven race, females' lives were not supposed to be endangered by wandering in the Wild or partaking in fights and battles. On the other hand, the race of Men had a copious amount of women compared to the Dwarves', so they could perhaps spare a few; although it still felt out of the ordinary.

He gave a curt nod in lieu of a greeting.

Arya was a good sport about it. "I wonder if there's a chance that quest of yours could be the reason those orcs attempted to ambush you."

Thorin scowled, although there was a fleeting moment that worry managed to creep in. He stole a glance at Gandalf, recalling their chance-meeting in Bree nigh a twelvemonth ago, as well as the damned piece of parchment with the promise of payment to whomever took his head off. He had grown even more suspicious of people since then. Even if the wizard was acquainted with this woman, he couldn't bring himself to give out any information. "Perhaps if you took the time to interrogate the last one, you'd have an answer to that question."

"If one had the good grace to warn me beforehand, I would indeed," she countered. "Yet seeing as neither of you made any attempt to stop me, I simply did my duty."

"Either way, my quest is no concern of yours."

She actually looked amused. "I agree. Still," she shrugged, "if it weren't for me, I doubt it'd bode well for it to begin with its leader dead, wouldn't it?"

The little jab made the dwarf's frown cut deeper. Gandalf thought it the right moment to intervene, "How were you aware of this?"

"I heard them discussing their plan. I did not catch but a few words, thus considered it wiser to check for sure."

The dwarf peered curiously at the woman, eyes gradually narrowing in distrust. "Did they not catch your scent?"

"I'm a Ranger, master dwarf. I know how to cover my scent." She was ready to go on a small rant about life in the Wild that, given her mild disposition towards sarcasm, would probably culminate in an invitation for him to get a whiff of her if he wanted proof. Yet that little annoying voice in her mind reminded her that the closest thing to her current scent was, in all likelihood, a bog. And the last thing she wanted was the dwarf commenting on what that entailed for Rangers' sense of personal hygiene. Therefore, she remained silent. Wisely so.

Oblivious to her slightly far-fetched trail of thoughts, Thorin felt something akin to a brick sitting at the pit of his stomach. Unfortunately he had the same bad habit of jumping to the worst conclusion. "And how exactly did you hear them?"

Here we go. "May my good ear be blessed."

"Human ear could not have caught the sound from a large distance," he grunted.

"One gets accustomed–"

"Her mother was an elf."

Both heads turned sharply towards the wizard.

There it was. The tragically unhappy coincidence. Arya had a dumbfounded look on her face, one that situations rarely warranted. She just stood there, jaw dropped slightly, staring at the wizard with eyes that screamed 'What in the name of hell?'.

Gandalf gave a nearly imperceptible shrug, too innocent to be true, as though he had no idea that he'd just possibly incited a grudge the Ranger wasn't inclined to add in her list of things to have to deal with.

The woman let a long-suffering sigh—at this point she was starting to believe it, the man surely just went around looking for trouble. "I see no reason for explaining myself... but since the cat's out of the bag," she said graciously. "Yes, my mother was an elf. That may or may not have affected my hearing and eyesight, for they appear to be slightly better than the average. Personally, it's more likely that twelve years of living and travelling in the wild have simply accustomed me to ambient noises."

Thorin looked ready to pop an artery, if that hadn't happened already. "You–" he turned to Gandalf, feeling truly offended, and then to her. "How dare you? I will not have one of them join my company!" he growled in disgust, clenching his fists.

"For goodness' sake, Thorin, did you not hear–"

"Aye, I heard more than enough!"

"You owe her–"

But the king was furious and had no intention of being subtle about it. His voice was filled with disdain as he spat out, "I most certainly do not owe anything to the likes of–"

"I said slightly better than the average," the woman chimed in rather tiredly, but her voice seemed to fade in the background as the two men argued.

"At least you have to offer some help for her injury!" Gandalf chided him. "Do not forget that she saved you." He then returned his gaze to the Ranger and the red spot on the white fabric, gesturing towards it, "My dear, I think a healer might be in order." The next second found him glaring at the king, who nodded with reluctance and stifled a grumble.

Arya glanced down at the wound, only now taking in the extent of it—namely the purplish black hue of the skin around it. Oh bollocks, she thought wearily. As if the day wasn't interesting enough already, there was a wound caused by a blade dabbed in poison to top it all. Wincing as her hands fumbled with a cloth in her satchel, she tied the piece of fabric around her middle tightly to stop the bleeding.

"I'd be obliged to you for your help," she said with forced politeness, rolling eyes at the dwarf who didn't even do them the courtesy of staying around—he was already off to his pony. Arya went to retrieve Urúvion from where she'd left him earlier and the three of them took the long way west.

During the several hour ride to Ered Luin, both she and Gandalf stole a few glances at Thorin, who looked like he was stewing in his own juices. The dwarf wasn't much of a talker, limiting to grunts and snorts when he was asked anything, so the wizard and the Ranger kept to themselves mostly.

Tightening her cloak around her shoulders as the early afternoon chill made its appearance, Arya kept pressing, unsuccessfully, for any tidbit of information about what sort of plan was in the works this time. She wouldn't have guessed even if she tried to.

Another gust of cold air blew, making her teeth rattle, and all her thoughts were buried in a deep part of her mind as she pulled her hood on to shield her head from the wind.

The Ranger blessed whatever semblance of luck she had left when the Halls' gates came into view. So weak and dizzy she'd grown on the way, twice or thrice she'd resorted to Gandalf for support so as not to fall from her horse. Barely any food and being on the move for days didn't help the situation any, either. Perhaps the poison had already spread through her system and she would die soon. She'd rather not.

As soon as they stepped foot in the city, Gandalf escorted the pale Ranger to the healers and made sure she'd be taken care of. Then he made his way through the market to find Thorin, who was waiting in the council hall, angrily stomping up and down the room, ready to snap at the first unfortunate soul that appeared before him.

"How could you– She is not coming with us!" He didn't care that he could be easily heard outside. "I will not let one of them join–"

"As I would not expect you to," the wizard interrupted with a serene smile. "She is not one of them, Thorin; her mother was. And to my knowledge, no one can handpick their ancestors. That is not her fault and you needn't be so harsh about it. Only her vision and hearing are slightly better, and they are the only signs that could possibly show a connection with the elven race, if there is one at all."

"Still, Gandalf, she is a woman! A very young woman, mind you–"

"Age is no indicator of ability."

"Yes, it is!"

The wizard arched an eyebrow.

Thorin realised a little too late the implications of that statement. "Now, I didn't mean that you are too old–" At the wizard's wry nod, he realised there was no chance for him to crawl out of the hole he'd dug for himself. "I am only saying that I doubt she's as experienced as I or the others are–"

"She is a Ranger," the wizard objected. "Also a skilled tracker, sufficiently experienced in warfare and will be an invaluable asset–"

"I would not care even if she was the most venerable Ranger in existence!" the king snapped, his tone screaming intolerance to an opinion divergent from his own from a mile away.

"You asked me to help you find the fourteenth member of your company, and I also found you a fifteenth one with very helpful skills and thorough knowledge of the roads ahead," the wizard's voice was booming and echoed in the hall out of the large room now. "You can either accept both my suggestions, you can delay further in order to recruit one of your preference, or you can stick with thirteen companions and receive all the bad luck you want!"

What none of them were aware of was the fact that Arya, who had her wound effectively disinfected and bound up, was standing outside of the room where the two men argued. She just sat there leaning on the wall with panache, nibbling at one of the oranges she'd just bought from the market at the healer's advice to eat some to strengthen up, shaking her head with mild amusement at what was happening inside. Didn't need to stick an ear on the door to listen to them, as some people who passed by seemed inclined to do. They were that loud.

"Whatever do we need a guide for, anyway? We know the road!"

"The roads have changed," argued the wizard. "You scraped through an orc ambush in the middle of nowhere—you think rambling in the Great East Road where anyone can see you will be safer somehow?"

"Exactly my point. Safest way to do it is under their noses than take all the godforsaken byroads through fields and mountains."

"Don't be so certain. Safety is not a permanent state of affairs," the wizard advised. "There is a bounty on your head. Rest assured, no one will care whether it happens in the middle of a godforsaken field or in the middle of the Road. And, of course, let us not forget that whoever issued that bounty may as well know about your extended family."

His reluctance cracked slightly, stomach twinging just at the thought of his nephews suffering an ill fate because of him.

"That woman," he pointed to a general direction outside the room, "knows these lands, she knows how to travel unseen."

"Still, a lone woman amongst fourteen men?" the dwarf protested yet again. "You know that this journey is loaded with difficulties. And some are still young; the comforting touch of a woman is something that's nagging a male's mind even in the darkest of times."

You must be joking, thought the young Ranger wearily. She was not some kind of a hussy. Nor a tavern wench that would offer her services every time someone felt burdened by his woes.

"She could be a distraction–"

"Oh, enough with the excuses!" Gandalf sighed. "She is no such woman. To her, this will be a mission that is to be taken seriously. You must trust me."

The dwarf seemed to dither, but the voice echoed in his head again, 'Her mother was an elf.' The thought rekindled the sentiments that were so abhorrent to him when he first heard the wizard saying that. "No," he deadpanned. "I will not have– I cannot stand– I'll die before I let a traitor amongst us."

Before Gandalf was able to form any words she walked into the room, long hair wobbling over her shoulders and eyes shooting daggers in the direction of the king. Thorin's eyes roved over the woman, simmering with distrust and unkindness, but also noticing the proud composure in her air and manner of walking.

"Would you please care to elaborate in what way I am a traitor?" she asked coldly. Deep down she was itching to teach him a lesson about the elementary courtesy he was supposed to show to people that he was unacquainted with. He had practically referred to her as a harlot, for crying out loud. Not in the exact words, but the underlying meaning was obvious. She could put up with petty comments like these, but in no way she would take kindly to anyone calling her a traitor.

"You descend from the enemy," Thorin stated. "And my kin's legacy ought to be protected from enemies."

Knowing exactly what he meant by 'enemies', the way in which she rolled her eyes could not be mistaken for anything else but irritation. Apparently, his attachment to the past was the stuff of legends. "Why do you have to be so stubborn and cling to your prejudice? I feel deeply sorry for what happened to your people, but let me remind you of something—I was not even born then. In no way have I betrayed you or your kin," she reasoned. "And why do you insist on accusing the Elves for the misfortunes that have fallen upon you? Has it even occurred to you that they didn't want to jeopardize their lives in a battle where the odds were easily against them?"

"Do you mean to suggest that I do not value the lives of my people?" Thorin barked and took a threatening step toward her.

"I imply no such thing. What I'm saying is that you refuse to see things from a different point of view other than yours."

The dwarf let a scornful huff and cocked his head from side to side, "I expected no better."

"Are you hearing impaired, or just completely immune to any voice of reason?" Arya yelled. "This is something that happened in the past. Accept it and move on, with everything you have left at your disposal. Even if you have nothing."

The last words were added bitterly and she swallowed hard, her fingers gripping the hilt of her daggers tightly. For those were not words spoken lightly. In the wild, her home of the past ten years, she had nothing. She was alone. To have everyone away from her was a path she'd taken long ago and it was inconsiderable to act otherwise and wander off course. Her closest people had gone their separate ways, meaning either death or travel. Her family had perished and her fellow Rangers travelled around the lands, never settling somewhere, just like she did. Only one of her kin she had in the world now, and not many knew that they were even related.

"You are a woman; a ragged Ranger," an exasperated growl escaped his lips. "Not someone of significance, not someone who has any clue of how to rule a kingdom. Not someone who has any right to lecture me on loss and defeat."

Arya cast a thunderous glare to the dwarf, and her eyes blazed with anger so fierce that her face had turned scarlet. "And those are the words of an alleged king!" she exclaimed and her shrill, crazy laughter filled the air. "I've been acquainted with loss and defeat in a much more savage way than you think–"

"Enough!" Gandalf's voice came booming out, silencing the other two. He turned to the dwarf first. "I will not have you offend our friends when you're not familiar with them."

"I do not recall inviting her to break bread with me to begin with. And by no account I mean to be her protector. She is not coming," Thorin stated firmly.

Maybe her decision was not yet final, but the dwarf and his lack of cooperation were giving her a headache the likes of which she'd rarely experienced before. "I assure you I am more than capable of protecting myself. Also, a piece of advice," she said, "being so bigoted and narrow-minded will never be a useful tool in trying to make allies."

"Watch your tongue, girl," the dwarf warned. "You should know your place when addressing a king."

Her stiff shoulders suddenly relaxed and she regained the unnervingly placid composure and the coldness in her voice. "I believe I'm addressing a man like any other, with weaknesses, like any other."

Thorin gave a thoughtful snort at her straightforwardness. Less than a handful of people had the nerve to face him with that attitude.

"Can you tell me anything about this quest at all?"

The wizard considered the dwarf's face for a long minute before he turned to her. "Thorin is assembling a company to reclaim their homeland, the Lonely Mountain."

It was a good thing she wasn't drinking anything in that moment, for the liquid would have definitely spurt out of her mouth. "A company of how many exactly?" she inquired quietly.

"Fourteen," Gandalf offered.

The woman almost did a double take. "Sorry?"

The following silence could only mark something dreadful. Her eyes immediately fell on the small table against the wall that accommodated several cups and three big flagons of what she supposed was a liquor of sorts. She took the liberty to walk over to it, grab a cup and the flagon closest to her, and pour whatever it was in there till the cup was almost full. A very large swig felt mandatory.

"So you tell me," she muttered, addressing no one in specific, "you intend to reclaim the Lonely Mountain with the aid of fourteen people?"

"Well... with you, that's fifteen," the wizard supplied.

"Oh, that's so much better," she muttered wryly. Bloody hell, there wasn't enough booze in this place to make this any less of an insane idea, and that was coming from her, who had had her fair share of crazy ideas in her life.

"I know what you're thinking–"

"Oh, I'm thinking about a lot of things. Did you think this through at all?"

"Thorin made that decision at my instigation."

Arya shook her head again. That made perfect sense; it wasn't without reason that Gandalf had earned the reputation of a meddler, after all. Still, her expression was that of sheer confusion. "Why even attempt such a thing?"

"For reasons I wouldn't like to burden your mind with," Gandalf said quietly. "Not yet, at least."

"Of course," she said dryly, as if expecting no different. "Let me list all the ways you're going to die: outlaws, wildlings, heavy rain, mud, drowning, steep mountains, fever, infections. Sure, you could load up on all kinds of healing supplies for these, but what about the unknown poisonous plants and disease-carrying insects you'll come across in Mirkwood? And we haven't even started on the things that want to eat you alive." She made an emphatic pause. "So what reason do I have to agree to this fool's errand?"

"You owe me a favour, dear," the wizard reminded her with a cryptic smile.

Her head slumped forward and she favoured pinching the bridge of her nose rather than whimpering aloud in front of the dwarf.

"You had better accept her," Gandalf advised Thorin in a whisper, "before she ceases feeling indebted to me."

Thorin was angry knowing where the discussion was going. She had already learned enough, and he wouldn't want her going about and accidentally spilling the beans about their plans. Therefore, there were two ways this could go; either kill and silence her forever, or accept her. He imagined she wouldn't be pleased to know how seriously he was considering the first option. His permanent frown cut his face even deeper.

"Fine. So be it," he grumbled with reluctance after a long silence, feeling a knot get stuck in his throat. "But know that she, alone, will be responsible for herself."

Her head snapped up and she seemed a tad insulted. "No one asked you or any other to be responsible for me." And, although being aware of her real name miffed her to no end, she thought it rather unmannerly of him to refer to her in the third person when she was actually present in the room.

The king limited himself to a sneer and said nothing. While Gandalf dissected the plan of the journey, his mind was working feverishly, once again mulling especially over his sister's sons. They were young, the human was also young, and the last thing Thorin would like to experience was one of his nephews, or —worse— both of them rubbing shoulders with, Mahal forbid, one of the tall folk and get distracted from their purpose. He'd grow blisters up his bum before that moment ever dared to arrive.

When the informational session was over, she excused herself and headed to the market to purchase supplies, with Thorin's everlasting scrutinizing gaze studying her movements even till the last moment as she exited the room.

"Too spirited, that one," he said with a sulky huff once the two men were left alone, briefly staring at the door she had just closed.

"She is."

"Might as well pass for royalty judging by the way she acts on certain m–"

"That, she is, too."

Thorin didn't expect that to come back and bite him in the arse. His slightly contemptuous laughter was cut short and tense silence filled the room. Only after he got his bearings back he crossed his arms in front of him with an inquiring look, extremely curious to hear the rest of the tale.

"Or she would be, if the world were any different," Gandalf continued gravely. "There are but a few left in Middle-earth of her people. The race of the Kings from over the Sea is nearly at an end."

"Is she really one of the people of the old Kings? I thought that race had passed into legend."

"Reality begs to differ," said Gandalf, a little amused by the quizzical look on the dwarf's face. There was a brief pause and his voice lowered then, "She hails from a royal line. A fallen one nowadays, though the blood is not lost yet."

To say that Thorin was taken by surprise would be a gross understatement. He, who took pride in claiming that he had control over most of his reactions, now found his arms falling to his sides. The woman's ancestors were Kings and Princes of Men, with whatever troubles that entailed, considering the constant brooding expression on her face.

"Is that so?"

"Yes," the wizard said simply, "and I trust you to keep that to yourself."

The dwarf gave a curt nod, but the thought of her elvish descent had certifiably no intention to evacuate his mind, no matter how surprised he was from the information he had just acquired.

"How do I know she won't betray us?"

The wizard shook his head frustratingly and straightened his back, appearing far more menacing than usual. "Because I'm telling you so," he countered with an exasperated sigh. With that, he bid him goodbye and was gone in a flurry of long grey robes.

After he left, Thorin walked to the nearby table, grabbed the flagon and poured himself a cup or two.

Gandalf's little walk around the halls in Ered Luin ended to the stables, for he had to leave in order to find another member of the company. He found the Ranger there, perched upon a small bench beside her horse, all set to leave and only lingering back in wait for his directions. One might say she looked as stoical as any woman her age, though her quite restless right leg said otherwise. Her face snapped up to him as he approached, all scowls and raised eyebrows that would discourage even the bravest of people from going near her.

"Really?" she inquired dryly. "There may not be many Rangers left and I indeed owe you a favour but, to accompany a bunch of Dwarves, you had to choose the only one who descends directly from the Elves, didn't you?" She was already on edge because she had been on the receiving end of numerous prying glances and became the subject of whispers back at the market, not minutes ago; if so, justifiably. A human, let alone a female Ranger, was not the most frequent of sights in the midst of a dwarven realm. Still, being the center of attention was not her field of expertise. She would rather go unnoticed and, thus far, had actually been doing pretty well at this.

The wizard just graced her with his usual secretive smile, which she had many times seen previously. "It will merely make the journey more interesting for everyone, do you not agree?"

"By all means," Arya replied sarcastically. "How long is this actually going to take? Are we in a hurry? Because I find royalty best taken in small doses."

Gandalf shot her a look. "They can be a handful every now and again," he said pointedly and she scowled. "The sooner we see to a successful completion the better. Perhaps it will be by mid-autumn if we're fast enough, but not everyone is used to the ways of your kin."

She snorted. "So not before winter."

The wizard pursed his lips, not really wanting to be the cause of her dismay, but seeing no other way around it. "I wouldn't count on it."

The Ranger huffed with resignation. "This quest shall better not prove to be a complete waste of time." For time was precious, and she had already wasted a considerable amount of hers with this small detour; there was a patrol she had yet to complete.

"There needs to be another voice of reason beside myself."

"And you thought of me, of all people?" she muttered in disbelief. "One might argue that I'm two or three steps away from reason most of the time."

"Yet still closer to it than Thorin Oakenshield," he countered with a smile. "There are also matters I might need to attend to, so you'll be on your own sometimes."

Arya visibly cringed, holding back a dramatic whimper. Splendid. She would be left alone with a bunch of dwarves for unknown periods of time. Wonder how that will go. "When shall we meet to depart?" she asked, finally resigned to her fate.

"Tomorrow fortnight."

"Man sad?"

"Nad i Drann."

She arched an eyebrow, "Is there going to be a hobbit in the company?"

As expected, he did not answer the question. That man and his eternal riddles. She could see it in his eyes once again, he seemed somewhat humoured by the creatures that surrounded him. It made her believe that he must be probably having much better time than one might think. She didn't know why, but it was a little unnerving.

"Search for me in the Westfarthing. Be there before supper," he said simply and mounted his horse. "Boe i 'waen. Na lû e-govaned vîn, melon nin."

"Namárië," Arya said quietly and watched him canter out of the stables.

Apparently he wasn't very deliberate to disclose further details, which was alarming news in and of itself. As if she didn't have enough troubles already. With a weary sigh and these disturbing thoughts buzzing around her head, she mounted Urúvion and briskly rode south-east to resume her patrol in the place she should have been, keeping her back turned to the sun that had dived behind the Blue Mountains and now coloured the sky orange as seen through the scarce chinks across the canvas of grey clouds.

For anyone wondering, 'tomorrow fortnight' means 'two weeks from tomorrow'. As for the elvish: not sure if they're all correct and if they're all in Sindarin (except for the last one, which is definitely in Quenya). If you know anything to be wrong, please feel free to correct.

Noro lim = Run fast

Mae g'ovannen, mellon nin = Well met, my friend

Gwenwin in enninath = It has been too long

Man sad? = Where?

Nad i Drann = In the Shire

Boe i 'waen. Na lû e-govaned vîn, melon nin. = I must go. Until next we meet, my friend.

Namárië = Farewell

Don't forget to review, I'd love to hear your thoughts!