Hello everyone! Thank you for reading my new story. This chapter may seem a bit confusing at first, but of course things will be cleared up as the story continues! Hopefully you enjoy what you read and don't forget to comment. ;)

I'm going to mainly be writing this story in relation to the film "The Hobbit" but there may be some book references scattered throughout! Thanks for you understanding. :D

~Mistro

~.~.~.~.~.~

The night did not forgive easily. Her single eye, the Moon, was watchful of those who missed her lullaby and cursed them when the morning rose. At the breaking of the day, those who continued their lives beneath the Moon grew tired and drained. Their punishment during the hours of sunshine was to only find comfort behind closed eyes. They slept the day away, missing opportunities for socializing, learning, and ultimately living. The Moon could be wicked, but not all suffered her wrath.

Tormora was the Moon's most beloved enemy. The darkness of the female Dwarf's features was a comfort to the gray sphere, but her lack of slumber drove the Moon into frustration. Why did the girl not dream? Was her pillow too rough? Did her childhood haunt her? The Moon wondered these things, but never received an answer.

Anyone that knew Tormora would understand that it was not the past's fault. Her insomnia did not stem from misery, discomfort, or illness of the mind. It was the anger flooding through her. Hurt and betrayal lingered in every bone of her body, causing her to stay cautious and awake.

He had left her without so much as a good-bye. And worse, he had said he did not want her as a member of his Company.

Tormora. She thought keenly with a smirk. Her name meant "soul seer" and was graced to her by her grandfather. How ill-fitting of a name, when I cannot even see the truth in the souls I hold closest to my heart. She shook her head and brought her hammer down with all the strength she could muster.

Sparks of fire trickled from the iron, its flames forming hungry eyes in the darkness. The idea of red eyes watching her sent a momentary trickle down her spine. Her blacksmith hands were weary and scabbed, but they could hardly stop their work. With another grim smile, she pounded metal against metal.

And each time it reminded her of him.

Thorin, son of Thráin. Previously Prince under the Mountain, but that title had become King after the battle of Azanulbizar. Thorin Oakenshield, as many called him in whispers and praise. Thorin Oakenshield, the only man who could make her feel desire and disgust in the very same instant.

Each slam of the hammer cracked in her ears until her senses froze like the passion in her heart. She was a worker. A blacksmith. A homeless Dwarf-woman who viewed herself with disappointment. She hadn't always felt that way.

Once, she believed herself special. It was Thorin Oakenshield who bestowed a sense of significance upon her. Those surprisingly gentle eyes of his would stare her down with the fear of a smile crossing his lips. He hardly opened up to anyone, but somehow his soul found comfort in hers. There had once been more to that stare than friendship. There had been a desire to be held and adored in the quiet hours of the night. They had danced around one another during the days as if nothing special sparked between them, but if one looked closely they would catch his eyes on her back and the trembling of her hands in his presence.

"Mora, what are you doing awake this late in the evening?" The deep voice was hardly more than a mumble as it trickled in from the threshold. If she hadn't steadied her hammer to calm her fury, she may have mistaken her father's question for a breeze passing by.

"Making a sword." Her answer came with fervor trickled across each syllable.

Her back was to him, but she was certain he was raising that thick, black brow of his. "You've made sixteen in the past month. I think the Blue Mountains have run out of citizens in comparison to your weapon count."

"It helps me think." Tormora let the lie slip off her tongue. Help her think? Quite the opposite. It helped her not to think. Not to think about him.

"Well, it keeps me awake." Tordir's tone was less fatherly this time. His inner Dwarf was shining through and Tormora knew that if her hammer hit the anvil one more time, he would be tossing her childish behind into bed.

She let her arm fall, the chill of the night failing to tone down her sweat and heavy breathing. Every muscle in her begged for a soft cushion to lie upon, but her heart shook with the desire to go on. "Head back inside," she muttered. "I'll join you in a moment."

Tordir hesitated at the doorway. He was fearful that she would continue smithing the moment he turned his back. And yet, without getting a true look at her expression, he knew she was growing wearier as each second passed. "My dearest daughter," he sighed heavily, "you must let it go. It was not your place-"

"I said I will join you in a moment." The bitterness of her tone hurt even Tormora herself. She did not mean to sound cruel, especially to her cherished father, but it was difficult to be kind when he tried to get her to talk about it.

The rejection.

"Tormora, you will not be a member of my Company at any point in time. You have come to the moment where you beg like a dog and it churns my stomach to see such a pitiful act. You are clearly not as strong as I believed you to be. You are not prepared. And most importantly, you are a woman. Your place is with your father. You'd be wise not to forget that."

Every word. How had she remembered every word that fell from his lips? Because it twisted a knife into the very place in her heart that held hope and ripped it apart. She knew Thorin was a harsh man, but never had he spoken to her with such resentment. The worst part was realizing that it defied everything he had once praised about her. Her strength. Her loyalty. Her importance.

Tormora waited until the glow of the sword grew dim. It was unfinished, but she could leave it for one night. Sleep would soon wrap her in its arms and carry her mind off to a better place. At least, she hoped it would.

A single sigh fell from her frozen lips, turning into fireless Dragon smoke before her eyes. Life under the Blue Mountains. A "new" life as the citizens of Dale had called it. A life of peace and comfort, but not of happiness.

Dale. She missed Dale and all of its crumbling yellow facades. She missed conversing with the Men in Westron, practicing her pronunciations until perfected. Though she was not of their race, she never felt ostracized. They appreciated her skills and did not label her as "greedy" or "stubborn" as most did upon meeting a Dwarf. She also longed for the bakery where her father would pick up fresh cinnamon bread in the evening, the perfect companion to her squash stew. Most importantly, she missed her blacksmith shop. That was her true home with its thick, wooden walls to trap in the heat like a blanket of comfort.

She would never see it again. That was, unless Thorin slayed the Dragon Smaug and reclaimed his rightful place on the throne. And though that would bring her home, she despised the idea of meeting him again. She despised the idea of Thorin having power over her. It made her stomach wobble and her head ache.

And yet, seeing him was what she had to do. Seeing him was not an option. One night of sleep, she thought. One night of sleep and then I shall prove him wrong.

~.~.~.~.~.~

The meeting with the seven Dwarf envoys of Middle-Earth went on later than expected. None of them had given their word, putting Thorin Oakenshield into an uncomfortable spot. He was tired. Tired of listening to rejection. Tired of listening to the voice in his head that offered him hope, only to have it die out moments later. Everyone said it was his fight, but that was only because they were afraid.

Thorin had heard enough of his kin's disappointing words. He was only a day away from meeting the Company's new burglar and he was certain to be late. Fashionably, he thought with amusement, but his sagging eyes reminded him that he did not look like anyone worth admiring.

"You have heard our opinion on the matter." His cousin's voice trickled aimlessly into his head as his lengthy speech simmered to a close. "We support your choice, but we cannot help you. This fight is yours and yours alone."

He had already guessed their answer before stepping foot into the meeting. For most of the discussion he had been calculating how far south Bag End was and just how late he would be for dinner. "Very well," Thorin responded with a tight smile. "We are honored to have your blessing and your refusal to help is clearly received."

Dáin's face twisted in discomfort. He did not wish to make Thorin angry, but it was too late. The Iron Hills, the area Dáin ruled, had refused. So had all the other six Dwarf envoys. Any moment now and the door would-

Slam.

Thorin did not mean to shut the door so firmly. His growling stomach had taunted him to leave and his hunger made him a bit more aggressive than usual. At least he could say he tried. Telling his men more disappointment would be hard, but he had handled such things before. Too much of it, perhaps.

Telling her that she couldn't come was perhaps the most disappointing thing in recent weeks. Tormora would never forgive him. He knew her far too well to suspect that she would. The way she looked at him when he told her assured him that his foul words struck her down. Tormora wasn't afraid of a Dragon, but genuine fear had spread across her face when he raised his voice to her and refused her request to fight alongside him. She was completely crushed, heartbroken even, to hear that he did not want her.

And yet, he could never admit why. It was not due to uselessness in battle. In many ways she could beat Dwalin in fair fight, and it was safe to say that Ori and his slingshot were far less impressive. He hated admitting it, but she would have made an excellent member of their Company.

But there were other reasons why he had to refuse. Reasons he could hardly admit to himself, let alone her.

Images of her flickered across his mind. Black hair tied up to keep it out of her metal work. A silk face with cheekbones sharper than her finest swords. Her beardless face was uncommon for a Dwarf woman, though there were some like her. However, they found comfort in tying their hair below their chin to give off such an illusion. Tormora kept her hair away from her face- as if she were proud of her smooth skin- and many Dwarves confessed that they found it surprisingly beautiful. There was also that upward curl of her lip when she was cheerful or irritated. He had to push the thoughts aside; his hands were shaking as a result.

With a quick kick of the gravel beneath him, Thorin set off towards the land of Hobbiton. He had never seen Bag End, but he imagined it to be a quaint and comfortable sort of life; a life he yearned to give his people back in Erebor. It would be interesting to meet the fourteenth member, albeit questionable since Hobbits rarely left their land.

His eyes glanced up towards the watchful eye of the Moon. She rose in the sky as he walked, her rays guiding him down the empty path. He could almost hear the Moon's whisper:

Thorin Oakenshield, you know nothing of what's to come.

~.~.~.~.~

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