Ranger - Lionheart1989 - Multifandom [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

Chapter Text

Gandalf the Grey had assured that the mark of welcome would be clear and present upon a circular green door in the Shire. Despite all my travels, however, I had not ventured so far southwest before. Hobbits were not in need of Dúnedain Rangers. But it seemed that the dwarves of the Blue Mountains were, and they had chosen the Shire as their meeting place. So, I rode to that peaceful settlement, and walked its small earthen paths with soft footsteps, leading my horse through Hobbiton until at last, I came to the top of a small hill as night began to blot the sky in hues of black and blue.

Woodsmoke flurried upward from the stout stone chimneys, blurring the starlight ever so slightly as I scanned every door of yellow, brown, blue, and white. But it was at the very top of this small hill that at last I found the mark. Glowing pale blue, it was etched conspicuously into the lower right quarter of an emerald-green door. It was a dwarvish rune, and though I had not had as much practice with the language, I knew well enough that this mark was one of welcome. Hitching my horse to the small wooden fence, I pushed past the swinging gate and up to the empty doorstep. Beyond the door, I could hear the heavy laughter of dwarves, the clinking of mugs, the clattering of flatware against plates. The wide, circular windows glowed warm with firelight from within and shadows cast themselves upon the walls. It seemed to me that more of a party than a meeting was going on inside, but I rapped my knuckles thrice against the pristine door with haste regardless. I'd not eaten since the day before, and one thing I knew with certainty about hobbits was their aptitude for the crafting of hearty meals.

With an exasperated sigh from behind the door, it flung open, revealing a rather disgruntled looking hobbit. Like all hobbits his feet were wide and hairy, his eyes twinkling and bright, though they did seem to be filled with a bit of annoyance now. His curled brown hair fell into his eyes a bit wildly, though not nearly as wild as the hair of the Northern Rangers that I often spent my days in the company of. It appeared that he had not been expecting me, nor any other guests for that matter.

"Now please, I-" he paused, looking up slowly to meet my soft gray gaze. "You're not a dwarf."

"I should certainly hope not." I replied with a small smile, dipping my head respectfully to the master of the house. "My sincerest apologies, Master Hobbit. It appears that I've arrived late and unannounced. I am Erithel of the Dúnedain, at your service."

The hobbit took a step back to collect himself and cleared his throat before bowing quickly. "Uh, Bilbo Baggins, at yours. Please, uh, please come in."

He stepped aside and motioned me inside, which I did, ducking my head as it ever so slightly brushed the ceiling of the hobbit's home. True to the nature of hobbits, Bilbo Baggins's home was warm and welcoming, with rounded yellow walls and dark mahogany flooring. The air smelt of pipeweed and ale, the laughter of dwarves hearty and clear as it echoed through the halls of the hobbit hole.

"Thank you, Master Baggins." I said, shedding the heavy woolen cloak from my shoulders, the bow and quiver from my back, and the longsword from my hip, setting all of them upon a small bench beside the door beneath a pile of dwarven cloaks that were hung upon the wall. The heavy stamp of my boar's hide boots echoed off the walls as I wove through the hallways toward the source of revelry. Sure enough, it was centered upon the dining room, where a cacophony of shouts, chuckles and belches were shared over a short wooden table piled high with meats, cheeses, fruits, vegetables, and breads. Upon my entry to the room, I could count only twelve of the thirteen dwarves that I was told would be present, but I also caught sight of Gandalf seated in a darkened corner, his long, pointed hat hiding his eyes as he smoked upon his long pipe.

The room fell silent when my footsteps did. Thirteen heads turned toward me. The corner of my mouth twitched upward at the sight before me.

"Hope you've saved something for a hungry ranger." I remarked, stepping further into the room. The eldest of the dwarves, denoted by the white of his beard and the lack of hair atop his head, rose from his seat and offered it to me. Gandalf leaned forward in his own chair and lowered his pipe.

"Certainly." He said, with a hearty grin beneath his long beard. "You'll need your strength for the journey ahead, Erithel. Eat your fill while we wait for our final guest to arrive."

The laughter resumed once more as a plate was set before me. I filled it with roast chicken, fine cheese, a pair of boiled eggs, and half a loaf of freshly baked bread. One of the younger dwarves filled a mug with frothing ale and slid it across the table toward me. I caught it, seamlessly raising it to my lips as I swallowed a chunk of bread. My stomach growled with content at the return of good food to my stomach. I'd not had a proper meal since leaving my camp to the North a fortnight prior. As I ate the dwarves gave me their names and offered me gratitude for my services. There was Balin and Dwalin, the eldest dwarf brothers, and brothers Dori, Nori, and Ori. Kili and Fili were the twins, the youngest of the group, barely having beards upon their chins, and Óin, the elder brother of Glóin refilled my plate and mug as soon as they were empty. Lastly were Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur, brothers as well, and they lit up the room with a bit of music from instruments that they had carried with them on their journey into the Shire. All twelve of the dwarves were delightful in company, asking questions about the creatures of the North, telling tales of their days in the mountains. It had been a long time since I had known such pleasures as music and storytelling.

As I looked about the room, I saw Bilbo, holding himself up against the wall across from where I sat. Next to him a cabinet with glass doors housed fine porcelain plates and cups. As I studied the cabinet, I caught glimpse of my reflection and hardly recognized myself. My dark brown hair was long and tangled, strands falling loose from the braids that had been placed there before my departure. My face was coated in layers of dirt and sweat, making my face ruddy and stained. And my eyes though ever the same shade as storm clouds were wide and wild as they stared back at me. I looked away, redirecting my eyes to my plate.

I finished the second plate and waved off Glóin as he reached over to fill it with thirds. In one swift gulp, I downed the rest of my ale and rose to refill it at the barrels in the far corner. Bilbo was clutching at his chest, trying to catch his breath as the dwarves began tossing plates about the house, toward the kitchen. Kili and Fili had disappeared down the hall, likely to clean the dirty dishes.

"Are you alright, Master Baggins?" I asked the hobbit as I opened the tap on one of the ale kegs. He looked at me with wild eyes, as if he were shocked by my question.

"Alright?Alright?" He exclaimed, "No, I am not alright! I am surrounded by dwarves! What are they even doing here?"

I chuckled softly under my breath, topped off my mug and turned toward him, "They're quite a merry gathering once you get used to them."

"But I don'twant to get used to them!" He shouted, stamping his large, hairy foot. "Look at the state of my house! There's mud trod on the carpet, they've... they've pillaged the pantry! I'm not even going to tell you what they've done to the bathroom; they've all but destroyed the plumbing! I don't understand what they're doing in my house!"

I arched a brow at him, "Is it not obvious? They are cleaning up their mess."

Bilbo's eyes drifted to the plates that were being flung about the room and an audible gasp escaped him. At the table, some of the dwarves were crossing knives as though they were small swords, eliciting another gasp from the poor hobbit.

"Th-that's my mother's Westfarthing pottery, it's over a hundred years old! And... and ca- can you not do that, you'll blunt them!"

"Oh, ya here that, lads?" Bofur exclaimed sarcastically, "He says we'll blunt the knives."

Emerging from the kitchen, Kili and Fili grinned widely and began to sing. The other dwarves joined them soon after they started.

"Blunt the knives, bend the forks,

Smash the bottles and burn the corks,

Chip the glasses and crack the plates,

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!

Cut the cloth, tread on the fat,

Leave the bones on the bedroom mat,

Pour the milk on the pantry floor,

Splash the wine on every door!

Dump the crooks in a boiling bowl,

Pound them up with a thumping pole,

When you're finished, if they are whole,

Send them down the hall to role!

That's what Bilbo Baggins hates!"

As the song finished and the last clean plate was stacked neatly upon the dining table, Bilbo stared in awe at the dwarves' work. Laughter rang once again through the room as the dwarves all applauded themselves. I looked toward Gandalf who was smiling brightly over the dwarves and watched his expression shift to sincerity as three heavy knocks landed upon the front door. The wizard glanced toward me and nodded his head toward the door.

"He is here."

I followed Gandalf to the front of the hobbit hole as the dwarves cleared away the plates and cutlery. The halls fell silent as we reached the door. Gandalf outstretched his hand and opened the door with a soft creak. Upon the stoop was yet another dwarf, though this one carried himself with an air of handsome regality. He was dressed in dark furs and leathers, carrying a heavy sword across his back. His long dark hair and beard were not messy or tangled but framed his face well. And his bright blue eyes shone with some sort of emotion that was difficult to decipher. It could have been determination if not for the slight frown upon his lips.

"Gandalf." He greeted, his voice low. The old wizard smiled gently and dipped his head respectfully as the dwarf stepped inside. He looked to me curiously as he shed his cloak."I do not believe we've met before, Ranger."

I shook my head and bowed to him, "I'm afraid not, Master Dwarf. Erithel of the Dúnedain."

"Thorin Oakenshield."

The name I recognized. Stories of Thrór and his bloodline had travelled far to the north after Smaug overtook the Lonely Mountain. But it had been long believed that Thorin, son of Thráin had perished long ago, lost to legend like his father and grandfather before him. But here he stood, in the flesh, looking up at me.

"The honor is mine entirely, Thorin, son of Thráin." I said, bowing once again. He hummed and hung up his cloak, turning back toward Gandalf.

"I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice." He grumbled as he began to wander slowly through the halls toward the dining room. "I wouldn't have found it at all if not for that mark on the door."

"Mark?" Bilbo's voice called out from the kitchen. "There's no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago!"

Gandalf grinned beneath his thick, gray beard, "Thereisa mark. I put it there myself. Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield."

Like the rest of the dwarves in our company, Thorin stood a head taller than Bilbo and as he looked him over with a calculating eye, he quickly drew a conclusion about the young hobbit.

"So... this is the hobbit." He muttered, before speaking up a bit, "Tell me Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?"

Genuine confusion crossed Bilbo's face as Thorin pushed past him to move into the dining room, "P-pardon me?"

"Axe or sword?" Thorin asked him as he moved toward the table. "What's your weapon of choice?"

Bilbo shrugged, thinking it to be some sort of joke as he answered, "Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know... but I fail to see why that's relevant."

"Thought as much." The dwarf muttered, barely loud enough to reach my ears as I propped myself up against the dining room wall. "He looks more like a grocer than a burglar."

As soon as Thorin took his seat at the head of the table, a full plate and a mug of ale were placed in front of him. The company of dwarves converged upon the son of Thrain, bombarding him with questions, though the only one he answered came from Balin.

"What news of the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?"

"Aye." Thorin answered curtly as he grasped his mug. "Envoys from all seven kingdoms."

"And what did the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dáin with us?" Dwalin asked expectantly.

Thorin let the golden ale slide cleanly down his throat in a few long gulps. When his mug ran empty, he set it back upon the table and looked over to Dwalin with a frown.

"They will not come. They say this quest is ours and ours alone."

The dwarves around the table all let out a collective groan. Gandalf, who had set himself down in the corner where I had first seen him, had pulled out his pipe once more. Smoke rings gathered around his head as Bilbo re-entered the dining room, looking curiously at Thorin.

"You're doing a quest?" He asked, his voice timid.

"Bilbo, my dear fellow, let us have a little more light." Gandalf requested, rising from his seat and producing a scrap of parchment from beneath his grey, woolen robes. The wizard motioned for me to step toward the table as well, so I did, standing between Bofur and Balin. "Far to the East, over ranges and rivers, beyond woodlands and wastelands, lies a single solitary peak."

Gandalf set out the parchment on the table, revealing it to be a map. It was old, well over a century old, but well-detailed, denoting the Misty Mountains to the West, the great Greenwood laying nestled beneath their eastern slopes. Beyond that the Forest River fed into the Long Lake where Esgaroth sat, and to the North, the once great city of Dale situated just beneath-

"The Lonely Mountain." Bilbo read, though it sounded more like a question than a statement. Glóin slammed his heavy fist against the table, making the wooden boards creak ever so slightly from the force.

"Aye. Óin has read the portents and the portents say it is time!"

Óin nodded, leaning forward in his chair, "Ravens have been seen flying back to the mountain as it was foretold. 'When the birds of the old return to Erebor, the reign of the beast will end.'"

Bilbo began to turn pale, "Uh... what beast?"

"Well, that would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible," answered Bofur, "Chiefest and greatest calamity of our age."

"Airborne fire breather," I described, though it didn't take very long for me to get a touch carried away. "Teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks, extremely fond of precious metals-"

Bilbo raised a hand and sent a small glare my way, "I know what a dragon is, thank you!"

Ori, one of the youngest dwarves, leapt up from the table and raised a fist. "I'm not afraid!" He declared. "I'm up for it! I'll give 'im a taste of dwarvish iron right up his jacksy!"

Half the table erupted in laughter as Dori gripped his brother's shoulder and forced him down to his chair. Balin cleared his throat and spoke up over the ruckus, effectively silencing the others, though not to the effect that Thorin had earlier in the night.

"The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us. But we number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best, nor brightest."

Some of the dwarves began to protest, but it was Fili and Kili who spoke the loudest.

"We may be few in number, but we are fighters!" Fili said firmly. "Down to the last dwarf!"

Kili nodded alongside his brother, "And you forget we have a wizard in our company. Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time."

All heads turned to Gandalf as he choked upon his smoke. Once he had managed to catch a slight breath, he struggled to find word, sputtering and stammering. It was quite plain to see that Gandalf had in factnotfought hundreds of dragons; he hadn't even foughtone. Outrage erupted from the dwarves. Shouting and slamming fists filled the air around us and overflowed into the halls as the fate of the quest seemed to be determined before it had even begun. But with a single word passed from Thorin Oakenshield's lips, the room fell silent once more.

"Enough!"

Thorin rested his hands upon the table. His presence radiated command, his blue eyes like ocean waves in a storm looked to each dwarf with determination and empowerment.

"If we have read these signs, do you not think others have read them too?" He asked his company. "Rumors have begun to spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look East to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps our vast wealth of our people now lies unprotected. Do we sit back while others take what is rightfully ours? Or do we seize this chance to take back Erebor?"

"If I may," I interjected, recalling the tale of thee dragon's attack. "Is the Front Gate not sealed by toppled stones? It would be quite impossible to enter that mountain any other way."

"That, my dear Erithel, is not entirely true," said Gandalf. From within his robes, he produced a large key, iron in make and quite obviously dwarvish. Thorin stared at the key in Gandalf's hand and anger began to boil inside him.

"How came you by this?"

"It was given to me by your father. By Thráin. For safekeeping. It is yours now."

The wizard extended his hand to Thorin, offering the key. The dwarf lord snatched it away and held it tight in his palm, his knuckles nearly white. Fili gazed at the iron key in amazement and after a moment's study, came to a quick conclusion.

"If there is a key, then there must be a door."

Gandalf nodded and tapped his finger against the parchment on the table. Beneath the pad of his finger were Khuzdûl runes written in deep red ink. I narrowed my eyes in an attempt to read them, but my practice with the tongue of the dwarves was not as sufficient as the languages of Elves and Orcs. But an attempt to translate was not necessary.

"These runes speak of a hidden passage to the Lower Halls."

Kili flashed a bright white grin, "There's another way in."

I held up a hand in a symbolic attempt to put a brief stop to the young dwarf's impending celebration. "That is if we can find it. Dwarf doors are invisible when closed."

"The answer is hidden somewhere on this map." Gandalf explained. "And I do not have the skill to find it. But there are others in Middle-earth who can. The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth... and no small amount of courage. But if we are careful and clever, I believe it can be done."

"That's why we need a burglar." Ori concluded. Across the table, Bilbo hummed in agreement, seemingly unaware that he in fact was to be the burglar.

"Oh yes. And a good one too." He said with a small, entertained smirk. "An expert, I'd imagine."

Óin leaned forward and eyed the hobbit closely, "And? Are you?"

Bilbo glanced behind him, hoping to see a professional burglar standing there, but he had no such luck. Looking over the dwarves who had now turned their attention to him, he asked, "Am I what?"

The older dwarf grinned, having clearly misheard him, "He said he's an expert!"

"Me? N-no, no, no, no, I'mnota burglar. I've never stolen anything in my life!"

"Well, I'm afraid I have to agree with Mr. Baggins." Balin said with a sigh. "He's hardly burglar material."

For the briefest of moments, I thought that Bilbo would have taken offence to such a statement. But he smiled softly and let out a soft breath of relief when Balin dismissed his ability to burgle. Dwalin grunted in agreement.

"Aye, the Wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves."

"Enough!" Gandalf stood from his chair, letting the tip of his hat brush against the ceiling. What little light that remained from the lamp that Bilbo had suddenly grown dark and dim, casting long, eerie shadows across the walls and faces in the room. When the wizard spoke again, his voice boomed like thunder over rolling green hills and sent a chill of fear down my spine as quickly as a lightning bolt.

"IF I SAY BILBO BAGGINS IS A BURGLAR, THEN A BURGLAR HE IS!"

Just as quickly as the light had fled from the dining room, it returned, bringing with it the warmth of the hearth in the living room and the comfort of knowing each other's faces in the soft, yellow glow. Gandalf spoke again, but this time his voice was as it had been: powerful, yet soft, forceful, yet gentle.

"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... the scent of a hobbit is all but unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage."

"What about the Ranger?" Dwalin asked, suddenly turning his stone-sharp gaze toward me. "What need have we for one of the Dúnedain?"

"Not only is Erithel skilled with blade and bow, but she is also quite gifted in healing and tracking, as all Dúnedain Rangers are." The wizard explained calmly. "You would be most wise to avoid discrediting her. You asked me to find the final two members of this company and I have chosen Erithel and Mr. Baggins. There is more to them than appearances suggest. And they have a great deal more to offer than any of you know, including themselves. You must trust me on this. "

My eyes flicked toward the wizard, who offered me a miniscule nod. He knew what my terms were for embarking upon this quest. He knew what I sought to gain from this.

Thorin then met the eye of Gandalf and nodded once in agreement. With a gentle nudge to Balin's shoulder he muttered, "Very well. We will do it your way. Give them the contracts."

Balin produced two scrolls of parchment. Reaching over his shoulder, he handed one to me and rolled the second across the table to Bilbo. I broke the wax seal upon mine and scanned over the terms and conditions. It was standard: maximum one-fifteenth of the reward granted to each of us if we succeeded, funeral expenses paid for should we perish. I looked up at Thorin and extended my hand, silently asking for a quill.

"I have but one request." I told the dwarf lord. He nodded slightly for me to continue as a quill was set in my palm. "I seek to gain only a single item from Thrór's treasure upon our successful recapture of Erebor: a ring of elvish make, crafted from silver and set with four emeralds."

"And you know this ring to be hidden within the mountain?" Thorin inquired.

I nodded stiffly. "Yes. For it has remained there ever since Aravorn, son of Aragost, placed it there after his father's death. Its rightful place is upon the hand of a Dúnedain Ranger. This is the only payment I seek from this quest."

Thorin thought on it for a moment, weighing the value of this item against the urgency of his quest. I watched him with bated breath as he glanced up at me.

"It is a suitable agreement."

I scratched in the change in terms before signing my name sharply at the bottom of the contract and handing it back to Balin. He read it over briefly, deemed it to be in order and rolled it back up, looking to Bilbo for his copy. But the hobbit had taken great care to read every word.

"Hmm, let's see here..." He mumbled, reading aloud to himself. "'Total cash upon delivery, up to but not exceeding one-fifteenth of total profit, if any.' Seems fair. Uh... 'The present company shall not be liable for injuries inflicted by or sustained as a consequence thereof, including, but not limited to... lacerations... evisceration... incineration?!'"

Bofur nodded with an airy expression, "Oh aye, he'll melt the flesh right off your bones in the blink of an eye."

Bilbo's face suddenly became incredibly pale. His hands began to shake as he continued to read. Balin eyed him curiously.

"You alright there, laddie?"

The hobbit looked up at the old dwarf and nodded slightly, "Uh, yes... I fe- I feel a bit faint."

"Think furnace with wings." Bofur added. Bilbo began to sweat.

"I... I- I need air."

"Flashing light, searing pain, and then poof! Yer nothing more than a pile of ash."

The hobbit paused, sucked in a deep breath, then said, "No."

Down to the floor he went with a resounding thump. I offered to carry the poor fellow into the sitting room where I set him upon his couch with a damp cloth upon his forehead. Gandalf stepped into the room to keep an eye on Bilbo as I returned to the dining room. Most of the dwarves had gone to mill about the house, looking for places to sleep for the night, but Balin and Thorin remained seated at the table. The latter waved me over and motioned his hand toward the chair on his left. I joined them, and together we spoke in hushed tones.

"It appears we have lost our burglar." Balin sighed. "Probably for the best. The odds were always against us. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy makers. Hardly the stuff of legend."

"There are a few warriors among us." answered Thorin, glancing over at me. "Some we did not expect to be among our ranks."

"Old warriors."

"Each of these dwarves, I would gladly stand beside in battle. For they came when you called them, Thorin. " I said honestly. In truth, there were not many dwarves left in Middle-earth who would be so willing to fight for anything greater than themselves. "They show within each of them loyalty, honor, and a willing heart. You could not possibly ask for more than that."

"You do not have to do this." Balin reminded him softly. "You still have a choice. You've done honorably by our people. You have built a new life for us in the Blue Mountains; a life of peace and plenty. A life that is worth more than all the gold in Erebor."

But Thorin was resolute in his decision. He shook his head and held up the key, "From my grandfather to my father, this has come to me. They dreamt of the day that the dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me."

Balin smiled warmly at his lord and grasped his shoulder firmly, "Then we are with you. laddie. We will see it done."

With that, Thorin turned to me once more, his powerful gaze now gentle and kind, "Tell me, Ranger. Do the Men of the North still sing?"

I smiled softly and nodded, "Aye. They do."

"Then will you join us?" He asked me as he rose from his chair. The rest of the company, aside from Bilbo who had gone to bed, had begun to gather once more, this time of the hearth in the sitting room. All together they began to hum, not a jaunty drinking song, nor a rhythmic tune sung while working the mines. No, this song I knew. And I knew it well. Standing beside Thorin, eyes fixed upon the flickering red and gold flames contained in the fireplace, I joined the dwarf lord in the melody, ominous and beautiful.

"Far over the Misty Mountains cold,

To dungeons deep and caverns old,

We must away, 'ere break of day,

To find our long-forgotten gold.

The pines were roaring on the height,

The winds were moaning in the night,

The fire was red, it flaming spread,

The trees like torches blazed with light."