Chapter Text
Part 1: Roots
Chapter I
Becoming invisible was easy, Thorin had found. Shedding one’s skin like water from a seal’s back, it was about becoming just another face – uninteresting; un-intriguing; nothing special. People’s gaze passed right over him nowadays, when he wanted it to – should he choose it, they would all cower in fear if he revealed himself.
But not today. Today was about hiding in plain sight, becoming one with the people around him so that nothing would raise suspicion. It raised his hackles that he was using his skills, learned the hard way, for such a mission as this.
Balin had pulled him into his office, ignoring the fact that Thorin was the Head of their Order, and shoved a thick book under his nose, the pages full of black ink markings which Thorin saw were neat columns of numbers, carefully scratched onto the parchment in Balin’s printed script.
“We’ve no money,” Balin had informed him, saving Thorin from having to look too closely. “You’re going to have to consider those proposals.” Thorin grit his teeth. There had been various petitions from members of Arda’s high-ranking society for their services – all petty, minor jobs, more suited to cut-throats and mercenaries, not the most renowned Assassin’s Order in Arda. The fact that they too cut throats and their services could be bought was irrelevant.
“We are the Sons of Durin,” he said carefully, smoothing down his cloak. “It is our priority to rid Arda of this worm Smaug, not play to the whims of cuckolded spouses–”
“Yes, we are the Sons of Durin,” Balin cut him off bitingly and slammed the accounts book back on the desk. “And yes, Smaug is our priority. But Thorin, our allies grow fewer every day and we lack the means to buy them back. Have you forgotten that at the last meet you called, all of thirteen of us showed up?”
Thorin had closed his eyes against the harsh truth of Balin’s words. “Where has the money gone?” he’d asked hoarsely and Balin had given a little hum.
“Into some Templar’s pockets, no doubt,” he replied. “It was given out in bribes to people who have since abandoned us.”
Thorin’s nostrils flared and he curbed the anger he felt building up in his veins. “Then get me Dwalin. He and I have work to do.” He’d turned and stalked to his own office in their underground sanctuary, glaring at the papers and offers of payment that had come in and he now had to accept.
And so he found himself lurking – invisibly, of course – in an alley behind a noble lady’s mansion, hidden in the shadow as he waited for her lover to leave, sneaking through the servant quarters. Thorin had followed him here a few times and watched, noting his movements and timings so that the perfect opportunity could arise. He was to teach him a lesson, nothing more; offer a warning that the man’s wife knew of his infidelity. This wasn’t the first cheating husband – or wife – he’d outed and wouldn’t be the last, judging by the state of their accounts. He’d have many more petty errands to run before they had even a shade of the wealth they’d had before.
He saw a curtain twitch in what he knew to be the lady’s bedchamber and he readied himself, knowing it would be a few minutes at most before the man came scurrying out of the house like a rat. His lip curled as he thought of it. He inched closer, remaining hidden in the shadows until he knew the man’s path would pass him. Sure enough, two minutes later the servants’ door opened and the man hurried out, his face hidden by the large cowl of his deceivingly plain woollen cloak. Thorin tensed as he came closer, closer–
Suddenly a hand grabbed his arm and he whirled around, knives out and ready but they slashed only at thin air, while the hand rested heavily on his shoulder. He froze as he breathed heavily, trying to work out how best to free himself.
“Now now, is that any way to greet an old friend, Thorin Oakenshield?” an amused voice said from behind him and Thorin relaxed infinitesimally as he recognised it. Angrily he sheathed his knives again and brushed the now-unresisting hand off his shoulder.
“Gandalf,” he said shortly. “What a pleasant surprise. Forgive my greeting; I’m not much used to being assaulted by...old friends.” Gandalf merely smirked at his sarcasm.
“Come now, it’s not all bad. You might not have agreed to see me otherwise, and I have matters I wish to discuss with you.” Gandalf always had the way of a kindly old grandfather, which both annoyed and reassured Thorin, depending on his mood. Right now it was irritating.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I was in the middle of an assignment, and now my mark and any chance of payment has gone, thanks to you,” he retorted angrily and was about to storm off when Gandalf’s large hand appeared on his shoulder again and started drawing him off to one side.
“Perhaps, but the matters I have to discuss with you could potentially make up for the loss of one client,” he said. “In fact, I do believe you have a personal history which would make your listening...worthwhile.” He gave Thorin a look, and Thorin scowled.
“Where are you taking me?” he demanded, again shrugging off Gandalf’s hand and following him of his own accord. He was no child to be led around by the hand. The streets were getting busier now as Gandalf took them from the back alleys to the main streets, and Thorin made certain to slip his skin again, to become unimportant and uninteresting and unmemorable. He knew the streets of the city better than anyone, and could have said exactly where they were, but he wished to gauge Gandalf’s intentions.
“I wish only to take an old friend for a meal and discuss business plans,” he said cheerfully, and Thorin snorted. Eventually they reached The Prancing Pony, a little inn already brimming with people, and Gandalf led him inside. It was warm and noisy and the smell of roasting meat and fresh bread and ale was pleasant as Gandalf settled them towards the back of the inn, in a booth of worn leather cushions.
Gandalf ordered two ales and plates of the roast and then turned to look searchingly at Thorin. “You say your finances are low?”
Actually, he’d never said anything of the sort, but Gandalf seemed always to know more than he should. Thorin sighed.
“Yes, which is why you found me waiting to punch up an unfaithful husband.” He snorted. “Hardly my most memorable feat.”
Gandalf gave a smile. “Indeed. What I have to propose would most certainly be memorable and, if successful, is likely to go down in history books. Of course, you’d also get no small amount of...personal satisfaction from it, I’ve no doubt.”
Thorin didn’t trust the man’s smile. Gandalf was wily and cunning and always a step ahead of everyone else, so much so that he’d been nicknamed the Wizard by most in the underworld; while he was an ally to the Assassin Guilds, it was well known he had shadier dealings too. Although if one thought about it, there wasn’t anything much shadier than an assassin, who was by his very nature shady.
But that grin and the twinkle of the grey-clad man’s eyes were unashamedly knowing and despite himself, Thorin was intrigued. “Go on,” he said, knowing he was playing right into Gandalf’s hands.
“I know how you can bring down Smaug.”
Thorin sat silently for a moment while he digested that, grateful for the all-encompassing noise which hid Gandalf’s words from those nearby.
“What?” he finally asked, his food forgotten on the table in front of him. “Bring down Smaug? How?” It was what Thorin had been trying to work out how to do for years, but always they were lacking in something – money, assassins, often both. The Sons hadn’t been the same since Thorin’s father’s death at the hands of the Templar, Smaug. Well, his lackey Azog; but Smaug had been behind it all.
Gandalf gave another knowing smile. “It will be difficult, and require something which depends upon you to acquire, but I believe that it can succeed. Thorin Oakenshield, how far are you willing to go to get revenge?”
He thought of his father; of Frerin; of his sister cowering in the shadows of their burnt-out house. Of the empty casket where once the pride of their House had sat. “However far I need to,” he said, only a flicker of emotion seeping into his words. But it was enough for Gandalf, who raised an eyebrow.
“You need to work with the Children,” was all he said, and Thorin stood suddenly, the table wobbling dangerously as he pushed himself up.
“Those herb-munching lackwits?” he said angrily. “Why on earth would I ally myself with them?”
“Because they are what you need,” Gandalf retorted, just as angrily, and Thorin sank back down to his seat. “They are far from lack-witted, Thorin Oakenshield, and indeed I might reserve that name for you if you continue to behave so! The Children are rich, you are not; their numbers are plentiful, yours dwindle by the day; they have access to resources you can only dream of at present.” Gandalf’s voice was a furious near-whisper but Thorin refused to back down.
“We do not need them!” he protested, but Gandalf cut him off.
“Have you ever seen someone die of one of the Children’s poisoned darts?” he asked, his voice suddenly calm. Thorin shook his head. “That’s because the Children are so silent and subtle that their victims appear simply to die of a heart attack, or other such failures of vital organs. Simple, and secret.” He looked at Thorin pointedly. “That is why you need them, Thorin.”
Thorin slumped in his chair.
“Fine,” he agreed sullenly. “I’ll meet with their leader, but I will not guarantee an agreement.”
Gandalf gave him a slap on the shoulder and handed him a piece of paper with his spidery scrawl on it. An address and a time. “Meet me there at that time in two days hence. Memorise where and burn the paper – we must be secretive, of all things,” Gandalf urged him. “Should an alliance between the Sons of Durin and the Children of Yavanna become common knowledge, all chance we have would be lost.”
Thorin merely nodded, staring again at the slip of parchment in his hand. “I will give them a chance, for my family’s sake, but do not expect me to pander to their whims.”
“I’m sure you’ll find the Children more than suitable,” Gandalf said sternly. “They are the very epitome of skill and secrecy, and their Leader in particular. I’ve known him since he was a lad.”
“Who?” Thorin asked suspiciously.
“Bilbo Baggins.” Gandalf grinned and stood. “When you meet him, try and not be yourself. That way he might agree to help you – even like you.”
And he was gone before Thorin could protest. Still seated in his booth in the Prancing Pony, Thorin stared at the piece of paper for a little longer until he knew it by heart, and set it carefully to the flame of the table candle. It curled and shrivelled and turned black until eventually it was merely a smattering of glowing ash and smoke; Thorin hoped that this time, their chance wouldn’t go the same way.
***
“I’ve been practicing with your new darts, sir.”
The wooden dart was light, its balance perfect as he twirled it through his fingers. He smiled; of course the balance was perfect – he’d designed them himself. He ran a thumb along the sharp point, resting the pad of it against the very end and feeling the sharpness without pricking himself. While not a fatal mistake for him to make, it would be a silly one.
He flicked it to the young woman in front of him, who caught it deftly despite the brisk breeze and grinned. “Well then, Lobelia, let’s see what you can do.”
Lobelia span around, her curls flipping and nearly whipping him but for his quick reflexes, and suddenly the straw dummy a good twenty yards away was peppered with darts at all the main veins and arteries – two on the neck, one in the soft skin near the armpit, both wrists. She turned back to face him and gave a little bow, a small victorious grin on her face. He nodded thoughtfully and her face fell the tiniest amount before he gave a chuckle and clapped her on the back.
“That’s impressive, Lobelia,” he told her earnestly and she relaxed. “Don’t you worry, you’re well on your way to–”
“Bilbo Baggins,” a voice said behind him and he turned to meet the speaker, one eyebrow raised.
“It’s a wonder they let you in here. You’re not really dressed for company.”
“I never am,” the old man replied, and Bilbo could see the twinkle in his blue eyes before he grinned.
“Gandalf,” he chuckled and Gandalf laughed too, drawing him into a bone-cracking hug. “It’s been a while since you were here last.”
“I’ve had business to attend to,” Gandalf replied airily. “And I bring most important matters to discuss, too, m’boy.” Only Gandalf could ever still call him that, even after being Master Assassin of the Children of Yavanna for a good six years now. Bilbo looked at Lobelia and gestured inside, to the building built half underground and half above, with a turf roof.
“Bring some refreshments to my office, will you, Lobelia? Then go and join Otho with the poisons.” He gave her a quick look and she nodded before scurrying off to do as she was bid, and Bilbo turned back to Gandalf. “She’s one of our best recruits. I think the Children would be in safe hands if I left her in charge after I step down.”
“You’re stepping down?” They’d begun following Lobelia back inside but at a more sedate pace, but Gandalf stopped and gave Bilbo a hard, sharp look.
“No, no,” Bilbo reassured him. “Not for a little while yet, at least. But it’s never too soon to start thinking of these things, is it?”
Gandalf hummed and they made their way slowly back inside. The headquarters of the Children lay outside the city of Arda, amongst the rolling hills of the Shire which was separated from Arda by the Old Forest. The Children knew forest and city alike as well as they knew the backs of their own hands and it was a source of pride to them that they made their living – and profession – from the resources the land gave them. Every Child had grown up learning the poisons and their properties; that knowledge alone was dangerous, but the application of it was fatal for their victims.
Bilbo led Gandalf to his office, a roomy chamber with large windows which let in the light of the sun, slowly beginning to sink in the West. Lobelia had left a pot of tea and some cakes on the desk and Bilbo folded himself into his seat, a cup of tea clasped between his hands. Gandalf stood by the window, looking out.
“Well, Wizard,” Bilbo grinned up at him and Gandalf smiled too at the use of the moniker. “What’s your urgent matter we need to discuss?”
Gandalf clasped his hands behind his back and turned to face Bilbo; Bilbo had known the man long enough to be wary of that glint in his eye.
“I’ve got a proposition for you. It would be good for you, I don’t doubt, and most amusing for me.”
“What is it?” Bilbo asked carefully. Anything Gandalf found amusing was often best avoided.
“I’m sure you would like to see Arda rid of Smaug?” Gandalf asked. Bilbo nodded; Smaug had become more than just an inconvenience now and his network of guards and spies and informers was not only nearly as extensive as the Children’s own, but severely hindered their movements. Bilbo could only hope the Sons of Durin were as affected by it as them, if not more; there was no love lost between the two groups although no blood was ever spilt. Every member of their Order, be it Son or Child, had too much respect for the Code. “I have an idea.”
Bilbo leant back in his chair and sipped at his tea. “I’m listening.”
“Ally yourself with the Sons.”
Bilbo would have laughed, if he hadn’t been so busy choking.
***
Thorin was in a foul mood for the next two days, storming around in his swishing cloak and a black expression on his face. Balin couldn’t understand it – as he tried to tell Thorin, Gandalf was offering them a means of regaining their wealth, their prestige. Of getting revenge.
But Thorin wouldn’t be reconciled. “And we’ll owe it all to the Children,” he spat, staring into the flames of the fire in his hearth.
“Better to owe them and have what we’ve worked our lives away for than to live like this for the rest of our days,” Balin said quietly, and retreated. Thorin gnashed his teeth and pulled at his lip, thinking of all the Sons they’d lost – some to Mahal, some to prison, some to the deeper, well-lined pockets of one noble or other; all of them to Smaug. He had to get those back that he could, and avenge those who’d died.
If allying with the Children was truly the only way to do so, then he supposed he had no choice. And so, early on the appointed day, he took Dwalin with him to meet the mysterious Bilbo Baggins, head of their rival Order.
The morning was still dark when the two of them reached the appointed place. They were early, but Thorin had learnt from years of experience that it was better to be kept waiting than to be taken by surprise. He didn’t trust Gandalf as far as he could throw him – respect, yes; value, yes; but trust, never – and the Child even less, so it was only prudent to be waiting for them.
Gandalf had chosen a little alley in the Dale district; as the sun rose it turned the dirty white bricks of the buildings here a rosy pink, as if they were blushing. They themselves were ensconced in the shadow of an outhouse which allowed them a view of both entrances to the alley so they could see if anyone approached. Thorin had seen many a sunrise in his time, but never had he thought he’d see one while waiting to make an alliance with the Children of Yavanna.
Steadily the sun rose and shone brightly down on the houses, any illusionary beauty wiped away in the harsh truthfulness of the morning light. It showed every crack and crevice, every weed and missing brick. The city had never been allowed to go so far to rot before, but under Smaug, things like this were forgotten.
Around them the city started to come to life, but their alley remained deserted. Not a single soul was to be seen, despite the noise that could be heard from the other, busier streets. Thorin couldn’t complain yet, because it was still early; beside him, Dwalin seemed to have no such qualms and Thorin could hear him gritting his teeth. Eventually though the time Gandalf had given him came and went and still there was no sign of either of them; Thorin’s muscles were cramping by now and he slipped out from his spot irritably, stretching as he did so before starting to pace.
“They’re not here,” Dwalin grumbled. “I bet they’re not coming. I say we leave it and go.”
“I promised Gandalf I’d meet with him,” Thorin countered, although his temper was running very low indeed. “Why, though, I’ll never understand. The man’s hardly trustworthy and everyone knows the Children are just – ow,” he muttered, a funny pinching on the back of his neck distracting him. He reached a hand up to rub at it but froze when he felt the thin wooden shaft of a dart, yanking it out and staring at it in horror.
“Dwalin,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Get here, now.”
Dwalin looked at him, saw the wooden dart in his hand and cursed loudly as he joined Thorin, bracing himself so they stood back to back, Dwalin’s axe held aloft threateningly. Thorin could only think of one thing – they’d broken the Code. He’d been right all along, and the Children were just as much a threat to them as Smaug and he’d been a fool to believe otherwise.
There was a sudden rustle above them and both he and Dwalin looked up, only to see someone drop down from the rooftops. The figure landed neatly on the cobbled street, a large hood pulled over their head, keeping the face in shadow when they looked up. Thorin and Dwalin stood still, staring at the newcomer; suddenly they reached a hand up and pushed the hood back to reveal a surprisingly open face, eyes full of amusement as he took in the sight before him.
“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” the newcomer said. “And I’ll thank you not to insult my order.”
Neither of the Sons said anything for a long moment as the three men measured each other up, until Dwalin suddenly broke the strange silence that had descended.
“You’ve poisoned him!” he growled, sticking an arm in front of Thorin protectively and making as if to rip the other man in half, which Thorin didn’t doubt he could (or would) do; all the same, he placed a soothing arm on Dwalin’s.
The Child snorted. “If I’d poisoned him, your leader would be long dead by now while you panicked like a headless chicken.” He smiled at the growl that elicited from Dwalin. “And come now, why would I poison my new allies? For I hear that’s what we’re to be, if Gandalf has his way.”
Thorin dropped the dart, green wood with the symbol of Yavanna’s fruit on the shaft – the trademark of death at the hands of the Children – and dropped it onto the ground, crushing it with his thick boots. It was extremely satisfying hearing the wood splinter to dust beneath his foot. “That was impressive,” he admitted sullenly. “We’d not have known you were there if you hadn’t thrown that dart.”
Bilbo only smirked again. “You wouldn’t have known I was here at all if I hadn’t chosen to reveal myself,” he replied coolly and Thorin quickly remembered what Gandalf had told him – try not to be yourself... That was all well and good but despite all the time he spent in someone else’s skin, he couldn’t for the life of him work out how to slip his own at that moment.
The Child – Bilbo – had the white cloak and red sash of his order, with very little by way of armour – at least, that Thorin could see – but that was all typical of an assassin. He was more struck by the mop of bronze curls that fell about the man’s face and eyes surrounded by small laughter lines; the man looked more like an innkeeper than an assassin.
His gaze was icy when it turned to him and Thorin realised he’d spoken that last bit aloud. “I assure you, Master Oakenshield, I am a fully capable assassin. I don’t believe many innkeepers can do this.”
There was the hiss of metal on leather and a knife thudded into the wooden outhouse, passing so close to Thorin’s ear he felt the rush of wind flutter his hair; the next thing he knew there was another knife at his throat, the Child behind him holding it there while Dwalin gaped in surprise. Thorin could have thrown him off, he was sure; Dwalin too could have knocked him away but neither did anything, perhaps morbidly interested in what Bilbo would do now.
“I don’t take kindly to my order being insulted,” he said low into Thorin’s ear, breath tickling. Thorin could feel the sharp edge of the knife against his throat and said nothing. “Or myself. Now, you need us; we’re your last hope. I suggest you watch your tongue before I cut it out and find someone else to work with.”
“You wouldn’t,” Thorin said churlishly and the blade pressed closer against his neck for just a second before it was taken away altogether and the Child stepped away from him. Thorin massaged at his throat just a little, unused to the feel of a cold blade pressed against it. He was usually the one doing the pressing.
“Perhaps not,” Bilbo agreed smoothly, his voice and eyes dangerous as Thorin turned to look at him. “But don’t think for one minute that I couldn’t.”
They glared at each other for a long moment, neither willing to be the first to break eye contact but a low warning growl from Dwalin brought them both back to the present, Bilbo turning to yank the knife out of the wooden shack as Thorin faced the figure that appeared at the end of the alley.
“Well now,” a cheerful voice sounded. “I see you’ve all met!”
“Gandalf,” Thorin muttered bitterly. “Where have you been? It’s late.”
Gandalf ignored the question. “I think it’s time we discussed this alliance, don’t you? Come now, I’ll buy you lunch.”
Thorin forced himself to remain calm and not to lose his temper, something which was particularly difficult when Bilbo flashed him a smug smile as he passed; a smile which promised everything and nothing, a smile which told him to be wary. Mahal, he hated the Children.