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The four tall, hooded figures stood on the edges of the town, conferring quietly among themselves.
“You’re sure this is it?” one of the figures asked, in a light and fluid tongue that nobody in the town would have understood, had they heard it.
“For the last time,” another snapped. “I am certain.”
The third figure merely sighed.
“Come, now,” the fourth said cheerfully. “The only way to find out is to go find them!”
“I am going in,” the third figure said. “As is Mithrandir. Ada, Tauriel, if you’d rather stay outside the gates and argue, feel free to.”
“If you insist, Legolas,” said the first figure, before turning and walking towards the gate.
Thránduil Elvenking was not looking particularly kingly, the only sign of his status being the quality of his traveling clothes and the even higher quality of the swords strapped to his belt.
Legolas rolled his eyes and ran to catch up with his father. “Allow me and Mithrandir to do the talking, if you would?” he asked. “There are… events that occurred, over those eighty years, that you and Tauriel do not yet know of, that could… complicate things.”
“Complicate things,” Tauriel repeated. “I cannot tell if you are overstating or understating how much trouble we may get into. Either way, once we find them, will you finally tell us of these mysterious events you keep hinting at?”
“Perhaps,” Gandalf broke in, “We should save the explanations until we are not standing in the middle of the gate to the town?”
“We’ve been saving the explanations,” Tauriel grumbled, but moved on.
Thránduil looked over at his companions. “We believe that they are in this town. Do we know where in this town they might be?”
“They’re dwarves,” Tauriel pointed out. “The blacksmith’s forge, perhaps?”
“Reasonable,” Thránduil said. “Where is the forge?”
“This way,” Legolas said.
“… how do you know that?” Tauriel asked. “Did you come here–”
Legolas raised an eyebrow. “I asked the Man at the gate for directions,” he said. “He also said that though some dwarves are in the forge, the majority are in an encampment just outside of the town. However, I think that the forge is still probably where we will find them.”
The group made their way through the town, Legolas leading their way. Though their hoods hid the three Elves’ race from the townsfolk, they gathered attention as they made their way to the forge.
“Beggin’ your pardons, sirs,” one Man said, stepping forwards. “But… you’re looking for dwarves? What for?”
“Why, my dear fellow,” Gandalf said. “We heard there were dwarves travelling through these parts, and just had to see if we could possibly get some work commissioned! I myself have seen dwarvish blades before, and nothing else quite compares.”
Thránduil snorted quietly; Legolas elbowed him.
The Man shook his head. “These ain’t the dwarves of old, though their metalwork’s fine. They’ll rob you blind as soon as they’ll blink.”
“Well, then,” Gandalf said, his voice a mite colder. “We’ll just have to be on guard, won’t we.” And he promptly sidestepped the Man and continued towards the forge, the three elves trailing after him.
“It seems not everyone remembered when the world reset itself,” Legolas murmured quietly.
“Ah,” Gandalf said, “But did the world reset itself, giving our old minds to younger bodies, or have we just seen a possible future? Has time rewritten itself, or have we simply gained an idea of what will happen should we not change things?”
“Either way,” Tauriel said, “It seems that not all know of what may come. And besides, we have arrived.”
Great clanging sounds could be heard from inside the forge, and a great amount of black smoke billowed from the back. Shouts, clearly not Westron nor any Elvish language, could be heard faintly over the sounds of hammers striking metal.
“This is it,” Gandalf said. “Shall we?” Without waiting for a reply, he strode forwards purposefully and pushed the door open.
There were four dwarves in the forge, all working at different tasks. But the one to whom their eyes were immediately drawn was silhouetted by the fire, working with a speed and skill that was almost unbelievable for those with the knowledge of such things. The metal before him glowed with heat, yet he showed no fear or hesitation in shaping it, and indeed it was taking shape, though into what was as yet unclear.
The four stood and watched for a bit, all surprised by the skill being shown. Eventually, though, they were noticed, and the clanging slowed to a stop. The figure by the fire was the last to notice, and the last to turn and face them.
Thorin son of Thrain, once called Oakenshield, once, for a very brief period of time, King Under the Mountain, and now all of sixty-five years old, turned to face them.
“Thorin,” Gandalf greeted.
“What,” said Thorin blankly, “What in the name of Mahal Everlasting are you doing here?”
“Look,” Thorin said. “Now is…” he glanced down at the red-hot metal sitting on the anvil. “Now is not a good time.”
“Who…” one of the other dwarves peered up at the visitors. “Are you elves?”
Legolas flipped off his hood by way of response. “We are. And, though we do apologize for not sending word, it is very important that we speak with you.”
Thorin turned back to his work. “You should leave.”
“And why,” asked Thránduil, stepping forwards, “Should we do that? We have questions, Thorin Oakenshield, that only you can answer.”
Thorin took a slow and deep breath before speaking. “I am no longer Oakenshield, not since the turning back of time; Azanulbizar did not come to pass, and hopefully never will.”
“And yet your numbers are much decreased,” Gandalf said quietly.
“Azog still bears a grudge,” Thorin snapped. “And it is not a good time for your riddles, Tharkûn; you and the elves should go.”
“Should I–?” a young, golden-haired dwarf asked.
“No, Frerin, don’t,” Thorin said quickly, before sighing and turning to face the elves and Gandalf. “You said you had questions,” he said bluntly. “Ask them, I will do my best to answer, and then you need to leave this place.”
“Your brother?” Tauriel asked, looking at Frerin.
Frerin nodded. “Frerin son of Thrain, at your service,” he said cheerfully. “I died at Azanulbizar last time.”
“Frerin, don’t you have work to do?” Thorin reminded him.
Frerin rolled his eyes and made a face at his elder brother, but turned back to the metal he was working.
“Why have you not yet reclaimed Erebor?” Thránduil asked.
“Why have you not yet cleared your forest of spiders?” Thorin shot back. “Why have you taken this long to find me and ask this question? It has been almost fifteen years since time turned on itself; I was starting to think that only the dwarves were aware of the change.”
“Then you have not met anyone else who remembers the future?” Gandalf hastily interjected.
“Most dwarves I talk to have their memories,” Thorin replied. “I have not yet met any Man who has, and I have not exactly had much of a chance to speak with either elves or hobbits.”
“Then, you–”
“Hey! Dwarf!”
Thorin tensed up at the call from outside. “Wait here,” he said, and went outside.
Thránduil immediately moved closer to the door. “He said nothing about listening,” the Elvenking pointed out.
The voices outside were faint, but audible.
“Where are all the nails we were promised?”
“We told you, it would take a few days to make them all. We’re–”
“It’s been a few days, dwarf, and we want what we paid for.”
“We’re almost done. You’ll get all your nails by tomorrow, I promise–”
“As if a dwarf’s promise means anything.”
“You’ll have your nails on the morrow.”
“I’d better.”
Thorin reentered the forge.
“They were eavesdropping,” Frerin said. “Well, sort of. In that they were going to eavesdrop, but we could all hear everything anyways.”
“Why am I not surprised,” Thorin said, and shook his head. “Frerin, go help Glóin with the nails, I’ll handle the rest of the kitchenware myself and there will be trouble if we don’t get those nails done by, I expect, the crack of dawn.”
Frerin made a face, but went to go help the dwarf working in the corner who was, indeed, Glóin of the Company.
Gandalf glanced over at Legolas, who was doing all he could to avoid eye contact with everyone and anyone but especially Gandalf or Glóin.
“… Does such trouble happen often?” Thránduil asked.
Thorin, who had turned back to his work, did not look at Thránduil when he replied. “I do not see why you would express interest in our troubles now, after all this time – and, in fact, time again. Ask relevant questions or leave.”
“I find it astounding how you ignore me, the King of the Woodland Realm, and yet defer to a common Man over a matter of forging nails,” Thránduil said.
“I find it astounding,” Thorin said, “How little I care about your opinion.”
“Also,” Frerin chimed in, “How the Man can accuse us of theft and kick us out of town, while you’re mostly just a nuisance.”
“Hush, Frerin,” Thorin said.
“Really, though,” Thránduil said, “What are the Princes of Erebor doing forging… nails? And kitchenware?” For once, he sounded honestly bewildered, rather than disparaging.
“Surviving,” Thorin said harshly. “Earning enough to pay for food for a few more weeks, until we reach the next town, assuming we don’t get accused of thievery, again.” He turned to face Thránduil, his form outlined by the fires of the forge behind him. “Keeping what remains of our people alive – Azog hunts us still, and we cannot go after him, for we learned at Azanulbizar that we do not have the numbers, and we have even less now that he has been eroding us away. And yet there are more of us than there were after that battle, so there is no room for us in the Iron Hills, nor Ered Luin, nor anywhere else in Arda. That, oh great King of the Woodland Realm, is what we are doing.”
“Well–” Legolas began, before a horn’s blow echoed through the town, silencing the sounds of the forge.
“Orcs,” Frerin said from the corner, his face pale. “Mahal’s tears, as if we haven’t had enough to deal with today.”
Thorin swore. “Frerin, stay here,” he ordered, before racing outside, Glóin, Gandalf, and the elves following him.
Outside, chaos reigned; townsfolk ran to and fro, gathering up animals and children and locking their doors.
“They come from the south,” Legolas said. “Where are your people camped?”
“To the east,” Thorin snapped. “Outside the walls.”
“What weapons do you have with you?” Tauriel demanded. “How long will it take to get all your people inside?”
“We’re not allowed our weapons inside the town,” Glóin told her. “And they’re already closing the gates, like as not.”
“What?” Tauriel spun to look at Glóin. “But then… they’ll be slaughtered!”
“They are not defenceless,” Thorin snapped. “Besides, they will not be overrun.”
“Even the might of the dwarves–” Legolas began.
“They will not be overrun,” Thorin said, spinning around to glare at Legolas. “No, they will be harried, tormented from the edges. Azog wishes to kill us off as slowly and as painfully as possible. So I am going to the town wall, since I have no sword nor dagger nor mace and cannot fight for my people’s lives, I will do what I can, even if what I can is nothing but watch.” And he turned and continued to stride towards the wall surrounding the town.
“Not allowed their weapons?” Thránduil murmured. “Mithrandir, what–”
“Later,” Gandalf said. “We have more urgent matters to deal with. Ah, here.”
They had reached the wall. Thorin, without hesitating, had begun to race up the stairs to the small watch-tower, ignoring the glares and shouts of the Men.
The dwarves had prepared their camp well. What warriors there were stood in a loose ring around the tents, ready to protect those inside. But the orcs were upon them, and it was clear that they would not last – no, the watchers realized, it was clear that the orcs were not really trying; they were, true to Thorin’s word, harrying the dwarves, playing with them as a cat plays with a mouse.
Legolas looked over the wall, judging the distance. “I can make the jump,” he said. “It’s good we don’t need to get them to open the gates.”
“Why would we – Legolas, you mean to fight?” Thránduil demanded.
“I cannot just stand here and do nothing,” Legolas said indignantly, and jumped over the wall.
Tauriel sighed. “I will go make sure he does not take an arrow to the back, he keeps forgetting to watch behind him,” she said, and followed.
“Wait – Thorin!”
Frerin had followed them, and was clutching a long, thin bundle, covered with cloth. He ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
“Frerin?” Thorin turned, releasing his grip on the railing, which had started to creak under his grip. “I told you to stay in the forge!”
Frerin glared at Thorin, making the family resemblance clear. “They’re my people, too! I can’t just not help!” he pulled the cloth off his bundle, revealing a dwarven bow and quiver half-full of arrows.
Thorin groaned. “Of all the – you get battle shakes! You can hardly stand, let alone aim your bow at orcs!”
“You think I don’t know that?” Frerin demanded. “Here!” he shoved the bow at Thorin.
Thorin stared at it for a long moment. “I–”
A scream sounded from the battlefield, the harsh bark of orcish laugher following it.
In one smooth motion, Thorin drew, aimed, and fired the bow.
Thránduil and Gandalf watched on as the battle turned, the orcs turning to flee once the elves and Thorin’s bow joined the fight.
“I did not know he could use the bow,” Thránduil said very quietly to Gandalf. “It is… not common for dwarves, is it not?”
“It is not,” Gandalf replied. “And I think you will find that Thorin has many talents that you do not know of.”
“If you’re done speaking of me as if I’m not standing right here,” Thorin said, “They’re opening the gates. Frerin, here, hide this before someone–”
“Hey! You, there! Dwarves!”
Thorin closed his eyes, his shoulders slumping down. “Before someone sees it.”
A guardsman reached the battlement and marched towards Thorin. “You brought this bow into our town?”
Thorin looked down. “I harmed none of your Men. I shot only at the orcs.”
The Man crossed his arms. “You brought a weapon into our town, Dwarf.”
Thorin said nothing.
“Be out of town by sunrise tomorrow,” he said, and spat at Thorin’s feet. “You and your cursed caravan.” He turned and walked away.
“… all for having a bow, and using it to defend his people,” Gandalf murmured.
Glóin shrugged philosophically. “At least they didn’t run us out of town at swordpoint. We’ve time to pack up the forge.”
Thorin exhaled. “Aye. We’d best get started. Before something else happens to ruin this day.”
Tauriel met them on their way back from the forge, their equipment and the unfinished pieces in a cart that she knew better than to comment on. “Legolas is healing those injured,” she told the others. “I’m not sure when he learned how, but he is more skilled than I am in this area.”
“Any deaths?” Thorin asked quietly.
“None,” Tauriel said, “Though there were some severe injuries. One was close – Flár daughter of Flór – but we were able to get to her in time. She will live to fight another day.”
An almost imperceptible tenseness relaxed out of Thorin. “Then I thank you – and Legolas – for what you have done for us today,” he said quietly. “Without your assistance…” he shook his head.
“Do not discredit your own actions,” Tauriel told him. “It was thanks to your arrows that Flár lived on as she did, and many others besides her.”
Thorin and Frerin exchanged a look.
“You came in search of answers, and now you have them,” Thorin said as they reached the town’s gate. “You should go – return to your wood, or travel about some more, but you should not remain here.”
“Now, whyever would we do that?” Gandalf asked.
“You could visit Ered Luin, if you’re so insistent on talking to dwarves,” Frerin suggested. “That’s where Dís is, after all.”
Tauriel flushed lightly. “How do you know of that?”
Frerin shrugged. “Oh, Bofur told Bifur and Bombur, of course, and Bombur mentioned it to Dori, and Dori told Nori and Ori, who both told Balin, who told Dwalin, who mentioned it to Glóin while Gimli was freaking out about… something, or so I hear, and then Glóin told Thorin when the turning back of time happened, though he had to sit on him for a while, and I overheard because they weren’t exactly quiet.”
Thorin sighed. “That was entirely too convoluted, little brother. You could have just told them that Dís told you.” He glanced over at Tauriel. “I cannot pretend to be pleased with Kíli’s choice, but I know of how elves love forever. However, should you do anything to demean or harm him, you will have not only myself but Dís to contend with.”
Tauriel bowed her head. “After the Battle of the Five Armies, I travelled to Ered Luin myself, and met her. Rest assured, had I any less love for Kíli than I do, I would have died of fright then and there.”
Thorin snorted. “Good. You should travel there again, see how they are. Fíli and Kíli are both young – Kíli is seven – but it would still do them good to see you, I believe.”
“Why are you trying to get us to leave?” Thránduil demanded.
Thorin glared up at him. “You could not possibly understand, Elvenking.”
“Thorin,” Frerin said quietly.
“I doubt that,” Thránduil said. “I understand things that you mortal dwarves–”
“Thorin.”
“You in your lofty forest, apart from the rest of the world–!”
“Thorin!”
“Thorin,” rumbled a deeper voice, like gravel upon steel.
Thorin froze.
This dwarf was old, but old in the way strong trees get, when they have set down roots so deep they cannot be pried up. His hair and beard were steel-grey threaded with silver, and a heavy golden crown sat upon his head.
“Thrór,” Thránduil said softly.
“Thránduil,” Thrór growled. “If I cared, I’d ask what business you have here. Since I don’t, I’ll just tell you to go back to your rotting Mirkwood.” Not waiting for the Elvenking to respond, he turned to the dwarven princes, but his reaction to them was not what Gandalf nor Thránduil nor Tauriel had expected, and rendered all of them speechless for a while.
“Frerin,” he snapped. “What in Durin’s name was that?”
Frerin shrunk into himself. “I was just–”
“Using a bow,” Thrór said, spitting out the word like a curse. “You are a Prince of Durin’s Line, not some rotten elf brat! I expected better of you. How many times must I warn you that–”
“It was me,” Thorin said quietly, stepping between Frerin and Thrór. “Grandf – Your majesty. I brought the bow in, and I was the one to make the shots. You know how Frerin gets the battle-shakes whenever orcs are near. I brought it to protect our people–”
Thrór hit him.
Silence reigned for a long moment. Thorin’s eyes were downcast, his face red with humiliation and with the imprint of the blow.
“You disappoint me,” Thrór said. “Go. Finish packing up our things, since you’ve gotten us kicked out of town.”
Thorin, still looking down, walked on, dragging the cart with him. Frerin and Glóin both followed.
“Now,” said Thrór, turning to Gandalf and the elves. “I don’t care what you want. You’re not welcome here.”
“There are matters we must attend to,” Thránduil said coldly. “Matters which go far beyond your knowledge, Thrór King of no mountain.”
Thrór spat at his feet. “Either tell me of these matters or leave, King of the Mirkwood,” he said. “Or better yet, tell me of these matters and then leave. You will find no welcome among my people.”
“Then we will leave,” Thránduil snapped. “Leave you to rot, and your people along with you!” With that, he turned and walked away, Tauriel and Gandalf following behind him.
“And the same to you in your spider-filled rotting wood!” Thrór roared after him.
Legolas joined them as they walked around the town’s walls. “All of those injured are out of critical condition and on their way to being healed,” he said quietly.
“You heard our… discussion with Thrór?” Tauriel asked him quietly.
Legolas nodded, looking grim.
Thránduil waited until they were out of sight of the dwarven camp before giving in to his rage. “Hû ú-gaun! Harthon in enyd chen medithar! Thawhûn!”
“That last one, at least, is completely true,” Gandalf muttered.
Thránduil clenched and unclenched his hands, looking very much like he wanted to hit something. “Talking to Thorin Oakenshield was easier than talking to his saeraeg, delos, nahtawë Grandfather!”
“I’m honored,” Thorin said dryly.
Thránduil almost jumped, then tried to look like he hadn’t. “When did you get here?” he demanded.
“Around the time you got to thawhûn,” Thorin said. Even in the fading light, the side of his face was still red, and starting to turn bruised and purple in places.
“May I,” Tauriel said quietly. “Your face–”
She reached out, and Thorin stepped back. “No,” he said. “You may not.”
“It looks painful,” she said.
Thorin sighed. “And do you think that somehow it will be less so if he sees me mysteriously healed?”
Tauriel opened her mouth, and then closed it without speaking.
“Your important matters,” Thorin said. “Are they about Erebor?”
“In a matter of speaking,” Gandalf said quietly. “Rather, about where the map is, and the key, and certain other possessions of your father’s. Actually, where is your father? I don’t believe I saw him fighting during the battle…?” Unspoken was the I cannot believe that he would tolerate Thrór treating you as he does.
“My father is in Ered Luin, with Dís,” Thorin said, his tone softening. “Where we left those too young, or injured, or sick, or those bearing children. Or those, for example, who are mad, and sit around silent and unknowing of where they are, trapped in the horrors of their own minds.”
Gandalf sighed gently. “I’d hoped that he would be healed,” he said. “But if he has not, then what–”
“You’re looking for this,” Thorin said, pulling out the map from one of his pockets, “And this,” he continued, drawing out the key from where it had been hidden around his neck.
“Ah,” Gandalf said. “Yes, generally, though rather if one is to be more specific–”
“And, of course,” Thorin said, reaching into his beard and withdrawing a small object. “You’re looking for his ring.”
There it sat, the greatest of the dwarven rings, in Thorin’s palm.
No sound was made save for the call of a bird, far up in the sky, and the distant clamor of the dwarves beginning to pack up their camp.
“It has no hold over you,” Gandalf murmured.
“I fought off the gold-sickness as I lay dying at the Battle of the Five Armies,” Thorin replied, just as quiet. “I shall not fall to it again, not from ring nor dragon’s hoard nor arkenstone, however bright it may be. But it affects others – Grandfather especially, the Men of the towns, even Frerin at times. I want it gone, powerful or no.”
“Dragonfire is said to be able to destroy the lesser rings,” Legolas said.
Thorin inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Aye. Now that we know of Smaug’s weakness in advance, it should be easier to slay him – assuming, of course, that he does not also remember how he was slain.”
“We’ve seen no sign of him stirring since time turned back,” Tauriel said. “We have, though, been keeping a small group of archers at the edge of the wood, near Laketown, just in case.”
“It seems like it would be unwise, then, to rouse him just to destroy the ring,” Thorin said. “How else can it be done?”
“The hottest heat your forge can manage should suffice,” Gandalf said. “The lesser rings were not crafted to be as hardy.”
“Good,” Thorin said. “Hopefully its destruction will cause things to calm down.” He glanced over his shoulder. “I must return, and finish collecting our things. I’ll send a raven with a note should the right time to challenge Smaug appear.” He turned to walk away.
“Wait,” Legolas said. “Why have you not been able to settle?”
“Too many dwarves, not enough space in Ered Luin or Ered Mithrim or the Iron Hills for all of our folk,” Thorin said, “Not that it’s any concern of yours. Now, I have to leave, so unless you have some way of changing that–”
“Remind Glóin or Dwalin about the Glittering Caves,” the elf said. “The Rohirrim do not venture deep into Ered Nimrais, and the orcs would have fled there after Azanulbizar – which never happened.”
Thorin paused, nodded once, and left.
“Not what you expected, hmm?”
“Go away, Mithrandir,” Thránduil said, reading over the map. “I’m busy.”
“I have waited a week out of politeness to allow you to gather your thoughts on the subject,” Gandalf said. “And I know you are quite busy, staring at the map we all know you have had memorized for centuries. In fact, I remember quite clearly when you boasted that–”
Thránduil sighed. “Fine. Fine, if that is what it will take for you to stop bothering me, then no, it was not what I expected.”
“Nor I,” Gandalf agreed.
Thránduil looked up at him sharply. “It is rare indeed for you to admit surprise,” he said softly.
Gandalf lit his pipe and inhaled deeply before replying. “I did not expect Thrór’s attitude,” he said quietly. “Nor Thorin’s.”
The Elvenking looked down at the map for another long moment before shaking his head. “Is that accepted among dwarves?” he demanded. “To – to strike at their young, to do in advance the job that getting hit on the head by rocks will cause later in their lives? How do they condone–”
“They do not,” Gandalf said quietly, silencing Thránduil. “They do not accept it, nor condone it, and those who attempt to harm dwarven children are typically cast out. Who are they, however, to speak against their king? No,” he continued, “What I wonder about is why Thorin allows it.”
“That? That, at least, is no wonder at all,” Thránduil said.
Gandalf snorted. “Indeed. Enlighten me, then, you who have gotten into a shouting match as if you were both children not once but multiple times.”
Thránduil ignored this. “For his brother,” he said. “Frerin. They would step into the fires of a volcano for each other – or the fires of a dragon, as the case may be.”
“And that is something we will have to deal with,” Gandalf said. “Both the dragon and the volcano, in time.”
“Sooner, rather than later, as Elrond has foretold,” Thránduil agreed. “Do you know, how goes Galadriel’s siege of Dol Guldur?”
Gandalf sighed. “Of her, I have no news good or bad,” he said. “Though she commands the mights of both her realm and yours, Saruman’s power is still… substantial, even now that he has fled from Isengard.”
Thránduil stared out into the distance. “Remind me why I let my son convince me to wander Arda, rather than helping besiege the city of my father?”
“Because this is much more fun,” Legolas said, emerging from the trees. “Gandalf, are you sure this is where you fought the trolls? I found only tracks, but none fresh for a week or more.”
“Why, yes,” Gandalf said, “I am quite sure; I remember this rock quite well, as it was broken before and now it is not, and I should not like to have to go to the trouble of breaking it again.”
Legolas raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well,” he said. “Tauriel scouted in the other direction, perhaps she found them or their camp.”
As if on cue, a faint horn-call was heard in the distance.
“No danger, but come quickly,” Legolas translated. “What has she found, then?”
Gandalf suppressed yet another sigh. “One never knows in these parts, it seems,” he said, taking the reins of his horse and following Legolas into the woods. “We may find a talking fox, or a family of orcs that has decided to settle down and leave peaceful lives, or another arkenstone buried beneath three and a half inches of loose soil, or perhaps even–”
“Get off with ye’,” A high pitched voice announced from a cave. “I’m not jokin’! I have a sword, an’ I knows how ta use it!”
“As you can see,” Tauriel said quietly. “We are not the only ones to hear of trolls in these parts.”
All four big folk stared down at her – and, indeed, there was quite a bit of a way to stare.
“This is my trollhoard,” announced fourteen-year-old Belladonna Took, thrusting Sting up into the air and almost falling over. “An’ I will defend it wit’ my dyin’ breath!”