In the Shadow of Mountain Kings

Debts Be Paid

"Put that back! Put that back!"

"Please be gentle with that!"

"That's my grandmother's antique chairs; they are not for sitting on!"

Firiel sat quietly on the little chair that Balin had left her in, sipping away at her mug of water. After the dwarves had all come running in, her uncle had run to change into some actual clothes for his clearly unwelcome guests. Still a little embarrassed after getting so worked up over the table, Firiel had elected to simply remain out of the way, watching as the dwarves ransacked their little home, tossing out dishes and food by the armloads to the dining room table. Her inner barmaid had come out to play, calculating how long it would take her to do all of these blasted dishes, and how much time and money it would cost to fill their pantry once it had been entirely emptied. All the aged, aging, and fresh cheese had been thrown out or devoured by this great, portly dwarf whose name she thought might have been Glóin. Or was it Bombur? She'd sort that out later. Altogether, including the strangely tall man whom everyone was calling Gandalf, there were thirteen new strangers running about the hobbit hole. Thirteen strangers decimating their pantry. She was shocked that Bilbo hadn't had an aneurysm yet. Though, he seemed to be getting there in record time.

"How are you doing, my dear girl?"

Firiel was startled she had been spoken to, and awoke from her contemplative calculations to look up to the ceiling at the towering shape of Gandalf. Up close, he had a rather striking set of kind blue eyes. The second pair of naturally kind eyes she had had the pleasure of finding that evening.

"Quite fine, thank you," she said, not minding when he stooped over to hear her better, "I figure it's best to just stay out of the way."

"Very wise indeed," Gandalf chuckled, "One should know better than to stand between a dwarf and his meal. Especially when there is a group of them."

Firiel laughed, remembering the way the two brothers and Dwalin had eaten when alone. They enjoyed every last morsel, scarfing it down with appreciative groans and licking their lips and fingers. Now that there was a whole band of them, it looked more like a pack of wolves in a feeding frenzy. Everyone was fighting for their every bite, yet sharing it all at once. Some had set the table with plates and forks, while others had poured drinks and carried food out of the pantry. And others simply ate. Like Dwalin; everything he touched had to be sampled.

"It's like nothing I've ever seen before," she admitted to Gandalf, "They're absolutely fascinating."

"Indeed, if you enjoy watching this sort of thing," Gandalf regarded her strangely for a moment, "I presume, since you have not asked my name, that you already know who I am?"

"Oh, my apologies," Firiel turned to him, "I presume your name is Gandalf, which means that you are quite possibly Gandalf the Wandering Wizard, whom my mother told me about. She still raves about your fireworks."

"Is that all anyone remembers of me?" Gandalf seemed a little exasperated by the thought, "And who might you be?"

"Firiel-May Brandybuck," she said, reaching out to shake the wizard's massive hand, "Of Bree. Daughter of Myrtle Baggins-Brandybuck, and Dinodas Brandybuck. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Gandalf."

"Just Gandalf will do, my dear," he smiled down at her, then his face turned serious, "How is Miss Myrtle these days? Still a serious sort of soul, I take it?"

Firiel laughed, "Serious as ever, and borderline narcissistic. I'm sure my more rambunctious younger siblings have done her nerves some good, since I left."

Gandalf looked at her strangely once more, before a glimmering fleck of excitement crossed over his features. Upon catching her gaze wandering toward the backside of a certain flaxen-haired young prince, Gandalf would have looked nearly predatory to those who knew him well. And none of them were present to warn the little woman.