The air in the Trollshaws hung thick and heavy, damp with old rain and the smell of rotting leaves. Every breath tasted like moss and decay, clinging to the back of the throat. Thorin rode at the front of the Company, eyes fixed on the barely visible path winding through twisted trees and slick earth. The world had narrowed to the slog of ponies' hooves in mud, the creak of saddles, and the constant, gnawing weight of the map tucked safely into his tunic. It was more than parchment. It was the promise of a home, a crown, and a reckoning long overdue.
He could not—would not—fail.
Behind him, the Company rode in weary silence. Even Fíli and Kíli, usually so full of restless energy and ill-timed jokes, were subdued. Their cloaks were soaked through, hair dripping, faces drawn with fatigue. Bombur's complaints had dwindled to occasional huffs, and even Dwalin, unshakable as stone, shifted stiffly in his saddle with the irritation of a warrior forced to endure too much idle discomfort and too little honest battle.
And then there was the Traveler.
A new presence in their ranks, neither dwarf nor hobbit, and certainly not wizard. Thorin's gaze slid back along the line of riders, finding the small, cloaked figure keeping near the rear, close to Bilbo. Their hood was pulled up against the drizzle, obscuring their features in shadow, but the little he'd seen before had been enough to leave an impression. Unassuming at first glance, with eyes that caught the light strangely.
He knew their name as vous, but what else? He did not know. Gandalf had introduced them simply as the Traveler, with that infuriating glint in his eye that meant explanation would not be forthcoming. Another secret. Another gamble the wizard expected him to accept without question.
Thorin had not accepted it quietly.
"A stray wanderer is no use to me," he had told Gandalf in Bree, his voice low and hard. "I need warriors. Loyal men. Not another mouth to feed and guard."
Gandalf had only puffed on his pipe, smoke curling lazily around them. "You need more than you think, Thorin Oakenshield. Not every weapon looks like a sword. Not every ally wears their worth on their sleeve. Trust me in this, if in nothing else."
Trust. Easy enough for a wizard to say.
The rain grew steadier, a soft but relentless patter that turned the forest floor into a slick morass. Thorin's pony snorted and tossed its head, hooves slipping before finding purchase again. His jaw clenched. They could not keep this pace. Not without rest. Not without risking an accident that would cost them dearly.
He drew in a breath, tasting wet bark and distant earth, then lifted his voice.
"Halt!"
The word rang out sharp in the dim, muffled world of rain and branches. The Company drew up with varying degrees of grace and grumbling. Ponies shifted and snorted, leather creaked, and more than one dwarf let out a heartfelt curse under their breath. Thorin turned his mount, surveying them with a practiced eye.
They were tired. So was he, though he'd never show it.
"We camp here," he said, pointing to a thick stand of trees where the ground rose just enough to escape the worst of the water. "Fíli, Kíli, see to the ponies. Bombur, find us some dry wood if it exists in this forsaken place. Gloin, Oin, take a quick look around. I will not have us surprised."
Orders steadied him. Gave him something solid to shape from the formless uncertainty of travel. As the dwarves moved to obey, he swung down from his saddle with a grunt, boots landing with a wet squelch in the mud. The chill of the ground bit through leather, but he ignored it.
His gaze slid again to vous.
They were dismounting with more grace than he expected, landing lightly, almost noiselessly, despite the weight of their gear. Their cloak hung heavy with water, but they did not shiver or complain. Balin, ever soft-hearted, moved to offer them a spare blanket or cloak, his expression open and kind. He watched vous accept the cloak.
Too quiet, Thorin thought. There was a kind of stillness to them that set his teeth on edge—not the solid, dependable stillness of stone, but something more like a held breath.
They had not yet proven themselves. That was what grated most.
Thorin set his jaw and strode across the mud towards them, the ends of his coat dragging dark streaks in the muck. As he drew nearer, he took their measure again. Just travel-worn clothes and that odd, quiet presence.
It would not do. He could not carry dead weight into danger. Not with so much at stake.
"You," he said, stopping before them, letting his voice fall into that cold, commanding register that always got results. The word cut through the background sounds of settling camp like a thrown axe. He stood close enough now that his shadow fell over them, though they did not flinch away.
Up close, their face was hard to read. Their features were ordinary enough that they should have blended in and been forgotten—but their eyes were not. Sharp, attentive, steady on his, like they were braced for judgment and unafraid to meet it head-on.
It irked him. And, faintly, impressed him.
"Have you any skill with blade or bow, vous?" Thorin asked, his tone edged with skepticism. "Or did Gandalf bring you along to darn our socks and slow our pace?"
It came out harsher than he might have intended, but he did not retract it. He needed answers. He needed to know if this stranger was a risk he could not afford.
His gaze flicked over their hands, their unremarkable gear. Nothing about them spoke of warrior's training, yet Gandalf was not in the habit of burdening a quest with useless baggage. There was something there. Something unseen.
"Well?" he pressed, lifting his chin slightly. The motion set the braids in his beard swaying, the beads at their ends clicking softly. "What use are you to the Company of Thorin Oakenshield?"
Let them speak. Let them prove they were not just another liability he would have to protect when steel was drawn and blood spilled.
He would not have his Company broken because of a mystery wrapped in silence. Not this time.
And yet, even as he waited, some stubborn part of him—the part that still heard Gandalf's maddeningly calm voice—wondered if he was the one being tested instead.
