Skin Changer : A Hobbit FanFiction (Discontinued)

I Compared Him To A Tree

Thorin stood on the terrace, listening halfheartedly to the merriment of his fellows below. He cringed as he heard something break, silently cursing his Company for their crudeness. His ear twitched as Gandalf’s voice carried up to him, and he descended one flight of stairs to better hear what he was saying, but, seeing the halfling there, hesitated.

“I think you can trust me to know what I’m doing.” The old wizard was saying, his tone indignant.

“Do you?” The elf lord replied. “That dragon has slept for sixty years, what will happen if your plan should fail? If you should wake the beast?”

Thorin inhaled angrily; did the ancient fool really think he had not considered these things before raising the call to arms?

“And if we should succeed?” Gandalf returned, just as forceful. “If the dwarves take back their mountain, then our defences in the east will be strengthened!”

The dwarf king snorted; of course, the wizard had his own agenda.

“The throne of Erebor is Thorin’s birthright!” The old man continued. “What have we to fear?”

“Have you forgotten?” Elrond returned, his voice lowered but not so hushed that Thorin could not hear it. “A strain of madness runs deep in that family. His grandfather lost his mind, his father succumbed to the same sickness,” Thorin felt his lip curl in distaste as he elf continued.”Can you swear that Thorin Oakenshield will not also fall?”

Thorin felt his anger fade into a deep, cold feeling, and he ignored the halfling as he turned and left. As much as he hated to admit it, the elf’s words held some truth in them. Even he could not foretell what he would do when faced with the Arkenstone.

Perhaps, he, too, would be driven mad with greed.

“Are you alright?”

He started at the interruption of his thoughts, scowling as the pale elf came into view. She was hanging precariously from a branch above his head, her head cocked at an odd angle as she looked at him.

“What do you want, elf?”

She blinked at him silently, the motion eerie. “You’re not mad, Thorin Oakenshield. Not yet, anyway.”

He scoffed. “Do not tell me what I already know.”

She smiled, suddenly taking on an air of benign maturity. “Even if you were, it wouldn’t matter. Not to them,” she turned her gaze to where the dwarves were settling down to sleep. “Or to me, for that matter. Most folk call Radagast mad, and he’s very dear to me. Why should I treat a friend any differently?” Her smile widened into a grin, and her childlike innocence was back. “We are friends, aren’t we?”

He snorted. “No.”

“Eh? Why not?” She dropped from out of the tree, her dress catching in several places and tearing with the force of her fall. “I thought we were getting on smashingly!”

“You obviously have no experience with friends.” He squared his shoulders and began to trek down to his fellows. He did not miss the way her face fell, and he mentally prayed she would leave.

“Yes, I do!” The elf exclaimed, following him. Her footfalls her harsh, though quiet, not at all like her silent kin. “I was friends with a bear once.”

“Oh, really?” He said, his expression carefully stoic.

She stood straight, pounding her chest with boyish pride. “I named him Artan!”

“And what does that mean?”

Her smile grew sheepish. “Bear.”

He snorted through his nose in derision. “Just as I thought.” He turned to go, but her hand on his shoulder stopped him. He tossed a glare her way, and she removed it quickly, as if she had been burned.

“Right! No touching! I remember. I just wanted to ask you a question.”

He almost rolled his eyes. “Ask. I have elsewhere to be.”

“Which tree is the most beautiful?”

What? He turned to regard her fully, certain it was some jest, but her expression had lost all levity.

He looked out into the garden, unsure whether he should just point and say “That one,” just to get her to leave him alone or to truly consider it. Just as he was about to take the easy way out, something caught his eye. A small, withered tree sat artfully hidden behind two of its brethren, its black branches glowing in the moonlight.

“Ah,” the elfmaid said, following his gaze. “That one. Good choice; I agree.” He looked askance at her and she chuckled. “Though scarred and forgotten, that tree is the kindest, most considerate tree in all of Rivendell. He is humble, but not insecure, and he isn’t afraid to say what’s on his mind. He knows he’s not much compared to the others around him, but he doesn’t let that dissuade him. He’s pertinacious and quick witted. Why,” she paused and met his gaze, the moonlight making her eyes a vibrant white. “He’s a lot like you, wouldn’t you say?”

He kept quiet, having no answer to such honest praise. After a moment of silence, she cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Good night, woman.” He said.

She laughed softly, “Good night, Master Oakenshield.”