Where I Belong

Prologue

It seemed as if they'd been walking for hours and yet, as far as Thorin Oakenshield could tell, they'd made absolutely no progress. The air pressed in on him, oppressive and thick, and made his head spin as the same way it did whenever he had too much to drink. Everything around him seemed to be moving so slowly, it might as well have been going in reverse and everywhere he looked, he saw dead and dying trees, vines that seemed to have a life of their own and the determination to halt him and his Company of twelve dwarves and one halfling in their tracks.

"Where is the blasted path?" Dwalin thundered from somewhere behind him. He sounded so very far away, his voice low and somewhat muffled, and yet when Thorin spun about, it was to see his most trusted lieutenant right behind him.

"What was that?" Thorin scowled as his own voice sounded as if it was being filtered through layers of cotton wool. With each step he took, the vibration reverberated wildly thorough him—up his legs, through his torso, along his arms, up his neck. "What did you say?"

Before Dwalin could answer, Bofur's voice slit through the cotton wool. "There's other dwarves here! They're following us!"

"No," came the somewhat rational voice that belonged to their burglar, Bilbo Baggins, "no one is following us! That is yours! Do you understand, we've gone round in a circle."

"Madness," Thorin growled as he shoved past the hobbit who only barely came to his shoulder. "Where are we? We've been walking for days and..."

The rest of his words died on his lips as he spotted the white buck. As slowly as he could, he slid his bow and an arrow from their packs, loaded the bow, shot from his hip to send the arrow whistling through the thick air.

He missed the buck, the arrow landing with a soft clatter just before it, and the hobbit stood next to him, but sounded miles away as he said, "You should not have done that, Thorin. I fear it's bad luck."

"I don't believe in luck," Thorin growled back without looking at him. "We make our own luck. Now, move..."

He stumbled over the snarl of tree roots and lost his balance, his head spinning worse now. A splash sounded in the distance, but of course it was only Bombur falling into the water not more than six feet from where Thorin stood.

"We need get him," Thorin lunged toward where Bombur floated, but tripped over another root. He fell towards the murky looking water, and as he did, a face appeared, rippling and distorted. He thought it was his own reflection, but then realized that was impossible. His hair was dark—nearly black—not the rich dark red he saw billowing through the mist, floating on the water's surface.

No, he saw a woman. A stunningly beautiful woman. She smiled at him. Beckoned him. A low voice from beyond whispered to him, "Find her..." as he came closer to the water's surface.

Gandalf's warning about the enchanted waters and forest of Mirkwood flooded his mind, and his gut twisted with nausea as he realized, too late, that the siren in the water reached for him and was no longer the stunningly beautiful redhead but a vile, twisted crone determined to drag him under the surface and drown him.

His momentum carried him, he threw out a hand to try to grab a branch, a vine, anything that would keep him from breaking the water's surface. He tried to call to the others, but no sound came out. They sounded further and further away and could not help him.

His hand went through water, and he fell, just tumbled head over boots, but not a drop of water touched him. He tumbled over and over, his head spinning and his gut threatening to empty itself, so he squeezed his eyes shut and just prayed to Mahal to make it quick.

He hit solid ground hard enough to drive the air from his lungs and the breath left his body in a great, low hiss, and for a horrifying moment, he thought had drowned, that he'd never draw breath again.

But then his lungs remembered what they were supposed to do and he sucked in a loud, hard, rattling breath and groaned almost as loudly.

Then he began to shiver.

Gingerly, he rolled onto his back and opened his eyes. He no longer saw the dead and dying canopy of leaves that made up the top of the Mirkwood forest. Instead, the sky overhead—the sky?—was cloudy and snow fell to settle in his eyelashes, his hair, his beard.

"Dwalin?" It hurt to speak at first, his throat was dry and breathing rather hurt. He wondered if he'd somehow cracked a rib or two.

No response.

"Balin? Bofur?" With a soft groan, Thorin sat up. He was in a wooded area, but the trees were naked skeletons now. Water lapped at a shoreline behind him somewhere. A constant low rumble sounded from all directions. It was dark, and yet there was somehow enough light for him to see.

And there was no sign of the others.

And this was not Mirkwood.

"Find her."

Thorin looked about for the source of the voice. It was the same one he'd heard in Mirkwood. But... he was alone.

"The woman is the key."

"What key?"

"Find her."

The image of the beautiful red-haired woman flashed thorough his mind again. He didn't know who she was or where to find her, only that he had to. He got to his feet slowly, the nausea rising sharply, a sour taste flooding his mouth, but then, it receded and he was able to take a step. Then another.

He walked slowly toward the rumbling noises, trying to take in his surroundings. He emerged from the wood to find himself surrounded by buildings taller than any he'd ever seen before, while unfamiliar four-wheeled vehicles sped by him. He couldn't help looking up in awe at the giant structures around him, and as he did, he slammed into something solid.

"Hey, watch where you're going, pal!"

Thorin jerked back. "I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me, watch where you're going."

He narrowed his eyes as the taller man. "Perhaps you might help me find a woman?"

"Find a woman? Do I look like a fucking pimp?"

"I'm afraid I've no idea what that means, but I'm looking for a red-haired woman."

"Good luck with that."

With that, the man brushed by him and went on his way and Thorin rubbed his forehead, a headache taking root behind his eyes.

The roadway intersected with another and he paused to peer up at the sign. Fifth Avenue. Fifty-Ninth Street. He just kept walking along Fifth Avenue, down into the forties. He didn't know where he was going, nor did he care. His gut told him to keep walking, so he did.

Then he saw her.