DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Hobbit or characters created by J.R.R. Tolkien or Peter Jackson. Sona and Sasha were created by JennyWren28 for her story "On the Road to Find Out" and are used here with her permission.

Biriz Akmâth: A Companion Tale to On the Road to Find Out

for DaniellaBlue

Part One

Chapter 1: Ere Break of Day

They said they would not come. Thorin tried not to think about it as he searched through the brush for a suitable place to set camp. He had been searching a while, fighting with the urge to keep going, and finally made headway toward a place for the night by telling himself that, being lost as he was, he would have no better luck finding his way in the dark.

They said they would not come. His attempt to evade thoughts most pressing was not working, evidently. He did not feel particularly upset about it. Just, numb. And who would have expected a different result? He found an elevated spot with a log near a burned out pit where previous travelers had set camp before, threw his pack on the log and dragged out his bedroll, rather too ornate for this homeless life, but Dís insisted. Speaking of, her package: he reached into his sack and withdrew the bundle wrapped in one of his favorite handkerchiefs. One she had gifted him years ago, on Durin's Day, just before they set out to reclaim Khazâd-dum from the Orcs of Moria. Thorin's fingers traced their family name she'd embroidered in silver, remembering. Frerin had gotten its match, the gem-like velvet only lighter in blue. She always found such practical ways to gift them things. He almost smiled as he unpacked the parcel of food assortments, biscuits and dried meat. There had been cheese and nuts, but these he had finished three days ago. But no less, this would do. He took a bite of meat and wondered what the others would think once he found them. Surely they would be disappointed. He followed the meat with some biscuit. The quest is ours and ours alone.

Should it be?

He had agreed with the Wizard and changed his path, and yet his 'Adad, still––roamed. No one believed him, but Thorin knew better. He felt this. Still. There had been not a single lead; no one had seen Thráin in so many years. Would he ever find him? Perhaps, with the Mountain recovered––he had to hope.

He set his food aside and pulled out the harp, contemplating playing it for himself and the owls. He could use the calming he gained when he sang and played. He struck middle high notes and sang low, humming a song of the Mountain before it was lost, and the day it happened, pondering new lyrics. But no words came. The playing did not serve its customary purpose; he was not anymore calm than before. No. Agitation continued flaying his nerves.

For a while he sat, letting his mind wander, wondering where the pent and awkward feelings had come from.

He had passed the strange fogs nine days ago, and that was when he started feeling it, like he was in a hurry to be somewhere, more so than he had ever felt in his life. He came to feel it like a pull on his mind, heart and center, all through him, and began wondering if Tharkûn the Grey One had set a spell on him when they spoke back in Bree. He also wondered why it was taking so long to find the place they were to meet? By all counts, he had really only gotten lost once, turned around by the thick fogs, but it cost days when he took note of the calendar and the way the leaves started turning gold to green. Seemed things happened fast in the Shire, once Spring came.

He returned to the food on the napkin, taking another bite of meat followed by biscuit, when, of a sudden, he heard a growling sound and sprung to his feet, sword in hand, dumping the napkin with his dinner on the log. "Who's there?" He looked past the trees for the next move. Nothing, except a sigh he thought he heard, from somewhere straight ahead, toward a cluster of maple trees. "Show yourself," he commanded, searching the brush.

He took a step, and a brown flash leapt at him from the side, not far from where he had heard the sound, but slightly to the left of it. Blaring and growling, the beast flung himself upon him, knocking him on his backside before springing away. Thorin jumped to his feet in the direction the beast ran, and cursed. Blast it, how many were there? At least two, likely more. Since meeting the Wizard at Bree, he knew all manner of people and beasts could prove dangerous, seeking after the bounty the Orcs had placed on his head.

Thorin gave chase to this one, sprinting after in the direction he had fled. He would not rest before reaching some satisfaction…

On hitting a small clearing he watched the dark streak dash into the cover beyond, and saw he was a Dog, a rather big one, dark brown, of stout muscle. Whoever he was with kept good care of him; so surely these were not Orcs. He slowed his chase, and followed, eventually losing the trail along with his way. He spent the better part of the evening, first finding his own trail, and then re-tracking his steps back to camp.

It was hours later. In the meantime, he discovered, the thieves had stolen his dinner along with the embroidered handkerchief from his Sister. He cursed and began packing the remainder of his belongings, muttering under his breath. Shortly after he was on his way in the direction of Hobbiton, or at least he hoped he was.

As he traveled his mind kept wandering back to that Dog and his thieves for keepers. Perhaps they would meet again. The idea of catching them curbed his anger and he almost smiled as he slowly trudged on, closing the distance toward his destination.

He stopped to set camp somewhat early that evening, and he was not sure if it was an invitation or a challenge for them to find him. He did not care. What he had left of food he set out on a log. Leaving his last meal as bait, he pulled the flask out of his pack with the dark ale, and drank it, numbing the mild feeling of hunger in his gut. Cursed thieves. But they would be back. He had something they wanted. And he would catch them. He fetched his pipe and his tobacco and stole behind one of the bigger trees to wait.

Sure enough, they had followed and found him. He watched the youth hover warily at the edge of camp for a good quarter hour. He was slender, of Men, but not so tall for a boy of that race, and dark, perhaps of the Easterlings, but why so far west? No armor, no weapons, his toothy Dog sniffing about from another side, snooping for more food. Thorin laughed to himself, glancing at what remained on the log, his bait. But his curiosity peeked as he wondered at the Thief's strange manner of dress. Small, tight laced boots with carvings in the soles, strange, the soles looked like they'd been cast in metal, but that was no metal, nor leather for that matter. He had no idea what they were made of. The breeches appeared flimsy and too tight to move well in, with invisible stitches and many unnecessary seams. He wondered at the reason for them, but his eyes kept wandering up. The strange green tunic appeared too tight as well, and way too short. Perhaps the Thief had out-grown these, and needed coin to purchase something more fitting. Certainly these bits of cloth would provide no warmth at night. A long braid fell down the backside. The hands were empty. No knife. Nothing. Thorin's mind was filled with questions, but the biggest one, considering the oddness of it all, was where in Mahal's name did this Thief come from?

Never mind, Thorin said to himself as the youth hissed for quiet, admonishing his Dog. Thorin took this moment and rushed at him from behind, slamming into him and knocking him to the ground. "Thief!" he cursed, pressing his knee into the youth's back. "You should not have returned."

The boy choked, pulling his hand up as best he could, waving Dís's hanky. "I came to apologize."

Thorin huffed a singular laugh, but stopped at the voice. He eased the pressure off his knee, and the Thief flipped over, allowing Thorin to see the gentler features. "You're a woman––"

Just then the Dog snarled, very close. Thorin whirled about, hands at ready, but the beast was already airborne, his teeth so close to Thorin's face that he could feel his heated breath and smell the jerky he had eaten before. Thorin rammed his vambraced arm into the Dog's jaws and pushed with a twist, flinging him off, but not before his teeth opened a gash in the underside of Thorin's wrist. The Dog circled, biting and snapping, and, though quite tempted, Thorin kept his blade at bay. There'd been something in the woman's expression, and he found he did not want to kill her Dog. He rather meant to ask questions. Why was this woman of Men traveling alone? He had never seen such a thing. And stealing his food? And returning the cloth? It made no sense, and his blood rushed. The Dog lunged and sprung several times, and Thorin was getting impatient, needing to know, but when he turned he saw the woman was gone. Just as quickly, the Dog jumped high and into the brush. Cursing under his breath, Thorin gave him chase, hoping his trail would lead to the woman.

And, aside from a few quick glimpses of the dark brown mass bounding ahead and away from him, Thorin got nowhere besides lost. Soon the brief excitement he felt from meeting the Thief faded back into numbness, but he kept on. It took him a few extra hours to find his way back to camp, where, full of a sour mood, he packed his belongings completely and set off in the direction of the Shire. At least, he hoped that was where he was headed. It was about time to meet with Tharkûn and the prospective Burglar he had enlisted to aide them on their Quest…

Fortunately, the Shire was in the direction he thought. Finding the door to the Burglar's house was another matter altogether. He circled the area twice, over the weaving paths that lead from one Hobbit hole to the next, each looking very much like the last, before centering upon a large oak tree. He veered in its direction peering at each round door he passed, until finally he saw the mark left by Tharkûn— a rather small one, truth be told, when one was left to searching in the dark.

"A fine day is a day I don't get lost," he muttered, opening the gate before the Hobbit's round green door. The motion pulled the tear in his wrist, and he cursed, bringing his other hand up to rub the wound. "And Mahal save me from Dogs," he groused, too tired from the fruitless chase, too aware of an agitation he wasn't used to. An agitation that hounded him since the day of the fogs, bothersome like the bite of the Thief's pet, a fiend he could not catch. He slammed the gate behind him and stomped up to the door. But just before it, he stopped, his shoulders easing at the sound of his Company singing within. A smile turned the edges of his lips and he felt warm. At least he was with them again.

He knocked twice. Hard. Unwilling to wait. Craving light, food, a good ale, a smoke. And to be among his Company once more. Just then something shifted to his left, and he startled, looking into the darkness, half expecting the blasted Dog to jump at him.

He was about to check further when the door opened and Tharkûn stood before him, a Hobbit at his back. Thorin bowed his head in greeting.

"Gandalf." He glared at the Wizard. "I thought you said this place would be easy to find." He glanced at the Hobbit fidgeting just beyond the Wizard. "I lost my way. Twice." He left out the part about the Dog and the Thief. No one needed to know they compounded his delay. "I wouldn't have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door."

"Mark?" The Hobbit asked, frowning almost as hard as Thorin was. "There's no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago."

Tharkûn pulled Thorin in, and they proceeded to spend the next few hours trying to employ an apparently unwilling Hobbit Burglar to fill the Fourteenth spot of his Company. More times than once he glared at the Wizard, who clearly had not informed the Hobbit of any such plans... The Hobbit, a rather fussy being, appeared neither able nor willing to join, and Thorin felt nothing much of it, considering the response from his own kin of the Iron Hills. They said they would not come. This quest is ours, and ours alone. And yet, as he said to Balin, his Company was with him. Loyalty. Honor. Willing hearts. He could not ask for more. He ended the evening with a smoke by the fire, preparing to sing the Misty Mountain Song, his last entreaty before their reticent Burglar retired for the night. Balin and Tharkûn had suggested he sing it as persuasion, to wake adventure in the heart of their Fourteenth Member, the Lucky One. Thorin scoffed at this, but as he rather enjoyed singing, and he saw no harm, and so he let his voice rise through the chimney into the dark.

He started with the low bars, humming, and the others joined.

Hmmm mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm

For some reason Thorin recalled the fog almost eleven days past. He could feel the dampness of settled clouds as the music hummed through him. It should have felt cold, but he was warm.

Hmmm mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm

Thorin smiled slightly, his soul welcoming something new. He would claim this quest and give his all; for those he loved, he would do this.

And then the words... Composed on the way back from the Blue Mountains... They would sing them together.

Far over the Misty Mountains cold

Around him, outside, just out of reach...

To dungeons deep and caverns old

The road pulled like it never had before...

We must away ere break of day

He had never been so ready...

To find our long forgotten gold.

The window, just beyond it. It was there, and yet far out, beyond what he could see.

The pines were roaring on the height,

It called. Why had it taken so long?

The winds were moaning in the night,

He felt eyes upon him, out of nowhere, without hint of danger, a blending of senses he never placed together.

The fire was red, it flaming spread,

How could one so watched feel safe?

The trees like torches blazed with light.

He glanced at Tharkûn, who gazed beyond the window frame into the dark with a bemused expression, like he had exchanged a joke with himself, something none but Wizard-kind could fathom. Thorin blinked. Did the Wizard just wink at nothing? He took a last pull from his pipe, shrugging off questions as the music faded from the room.

Once the pipe-weed was finished and his companions had tidied the place to the point of seeming they'd never ever been there, aside from the unsigned contract as the final lure for the Burglar, he ordered his Dwarves to make way–– Ponies awaited them. The Quest beyond. They would leave before the hour was up and the sky grew light. He would answer the call of his People, and Mahal willing, he would win back their Homeland, for all of them.

They said they would not come. They did not need to come. He would succeed with forethought, where an army could not hold. And with Company such as these? No. He could not ask for more.

/T\oSo/T\oDo/T\