||Chapter 3||
<|Third Age 2974|>
Endor could not keep her eyes closed for long, wishing to remember every single aspect of the Lonely Mountain and the surrounding areas. As the trio moves from flying over the Lake, their feet dangle over the purpled and rocky foothills of the Lonely Mountain. Endor is disappointed to see that little vegetation grows in these lands, with rare clusters of trees on hilltops. But with weeds popping up to-and-fro, she knows it possible to plant a garden. Maybe that'll be her essence of home in her time here.
Swinging wide between two ridges, Gwahir leads them into the valley and hilltop where Dale resides. It's old terraced and natural architecture has been reborn with the money of the dwarves and the trade coming into city. And it isn't just the exterior flourishing: people flock to the markets in large numbers, and Endor sees nothing but smiles. It seems as though the humans have at least one home returned.
"And then there is Dale, ruled over by the Lord Bard of the Company's journey," Bilbo tardily remarks as they fly over the center of the city. The few adept children of sight scream and holler at their passing shadow, looking up as they quickly fly over the hundreds of people. But they are noticed by far too little people to cause an upheaval, seeing as kites litter the sky and Gwahir simply looks like a larger kite.
"If I can recall, 'the wise man fit to be ruler, yet undermined by his heritage,'" Endor reminesces on the tales of her childhood. Bilbo Baggins is rubbish at a good many things, though he may not admit it, from sewing to singing. But everyone can praise his storytelling skills, as well as his ability to keep a house and a garden.
"Indeed, but he has come into his title since that time. He is a good ruler and a great man," Bilbo responds, prompting Endor to leave a memo for herself to pay the town a visit. Endor is hesitant to visit the city of Esgaroth after looking at it earlier, but there is no way she will miss her visit to Dale.
Gwahir makes quick passing of the town, tucking lower into the foothills and until they approach the gates of Erebor. Endor and Bilbo now find themselves in a large valley, spread far as well as wide. The ice of winter is still chipping away at the river south of their current positioning, as Gwahir lands softly on worn grasses outside the massive gates of Erebor. Stone statues guard the gates from unwanted intruders, though the doors are wide open for the daily trading and business.
"If I am not mistaken, this is where the Battle of the Five Armies took place," Endor remarks, gazing around in a circle as Bilbo gathers his pack on his back once more. Nothing can break Endor from her complete wonder over the place, just as friendly calls cannot break Bilbo from his preparations. One common aspect of hobbits: their complete failure of multitasking.
"You are sadly correct. I will never be able to forget that bloodstain upon my eyes," Bilbo shudders after finally focusing back on this niece's words. He cannot help his wandering eyes over this massive valley, though it is far more beautiful now than it once was. Winter paints a horrid picture of any scene, though war can do much worse. Bilbo only sighs, knowing it's been many years since that strong memory: "It does not feel like thirty years hence."
"No it does not laddie, no it does not," the white-bearded dwarf responds with his characteristic grin. Bilbo takes no time in sliding off Gwahir at this tone, throwing himself at Balin with a massive smile of friendship. Looking behind Balin, he sees the gruff brother, Dwalin, standing firm a few feet back. And though the dwarf does not wear a smile, as Bilbo expected, his lack of frowning remarks on his happiness.
"Balin and Dwalin. How I've missed you both," Bilbo remarks, simply hitting Dwalin on the shoulder in a sign of friendship. This hobbit almost winces at the firm muscle, yet manages to hide it as the dwarf looks at him with humor. Bilbo thinks he has a poker face, but Dwalin always knows better.
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Endotherm {Thorin/Hobbit}
Fanfiction"The world was young, the mountains green, No stain yet on the Moon was seen, No words were laid on stream or stone When Durin woke and walked alone. He named the nameless hills and dells; He drank from yet untasted wells; He stooped and looked in M...
