AN: Wow. I have no good excuses for not updating in over a year, but I recently got my muse back for this story. Hopefully I can finish this within this year! A shout out to BreakFree01 who encouraged me to get back to this story!

The chapter is short, but there's more to come, I promise.

~Ere Break of Day~

Chapter Fifteen – The Master of the Lake

Kili couldn't have felt more disgusting. By now he was used to bathing opportunities being far and few between, used to the feeling of dirt and sweat and grime covering him from head to toe. Normally he didn't mind.

But trekking through the forest of Mirkwood had not been an easy affair when compared to travelling on a relatively open road on the back of a pony. And being cocooned in slimy webbing made the fabric of his clothes, which were already frayed with dirt and use, stick to his skin unpleasantly and made him itch. Though the elves hadn't obliged him with a mirror (or anything other than food and drink), he could feel that his hair was thick and tangled. The stone carved cell was damp and cold, and none too accommodating. Not even as soft as grassy soil. It made for a miserable few days.

"I'll wager the sun is on the rise," Bofur said dully. "Probably nearly dawn."

"We're never going to reach the mountain, are we?" Ori murmured, his tone despondent. He sighed and slumped against the wall of his cell.

There was a weighted silence that descended on the dungeon halls, punctuating the great flow of nothing in the musty air.

Until a hobbit appeared in front of Ori's cell, a ring of keys in hand.

"Not sitting in here, you're not," Bilbo smiled.

They made their way down the steps, following Bilbo into a large wine cellar carefully past the drunken, sleeping elves neglecting their duties. They didn't stop until they'd come to several empty barrels stacked on the wooden floor.

"Everyone climb into the barrels, quickly," Bilbo directed them in a whisper. He could already hear the guards above shouting to one another in alarm.

"Are you mad?" Dwalin asked. "They'll find us."

"No, no, no, I promise you they won't. Please, please, trust me," the hobbit pleaded earnestly. It was enough to persuade the large dwarf, as well as the rest of them, into subjecting himself to such means of cowardice.

"What do we do now?" Bofur asked, sticking his head out of a barrel. The rest followed suit.

Bilbo sighed.

"Hold your breath."

"What? What do you m—"

With a pull of a lever, the cellar disappeared from view, and all the dwarves could do was try not to breathe.

Thorin gasped for breath once his barrel broke the surface of a large and winding underground river, though it wasn't long before underground became above ground, and the current plunged the dwarves (and Bilbo who followed shortly after) down an even larger, more dangerous path.

Woodland elves were quick to follow, and sprinted ahead to stop the company's way by closing the gates that would have led to their freedom. Thorin gripped the metal bars angrily, but their situation only worsened as an ambush of orcs attacked unsuspecting elven guards.

Bodies fell into the water where the dwarves were stockpiled, thanks to the current. It allowed Dwalin, Balin, and Fili to grab hold of their weapons and defend themselves, though it was Kili who leapt out of his barrel and onto dry land. Dwalin tossed him a broad sword, which the younger dwarf used to cut his way through the orcs in his path until he reached the lever securing the gate.

Just before his hand reached it, he was struck with a severe pain in his thigh, close to his knee. He glanced down to see a black arrow protruding from his leg, and the pain made it buckle. His hand missed the lever on his way down, and with a hiss he clutched at his wound.

Distantly he heard Fili call for him.

Kili looked up, now weaponless as an orc loomed above him, and was subsequently shot down by an arrow whose make he had seen before.

He looked up, and Tauriel was there, not far, and steadily heading his way by slaughtering orcs in her path as the elf prince, Legolas, and the rest of their offensive band descended on the intruders. It allowed Kili to breathe through the pain of standing, just long enough to pull down on the lever with all of his weight.

The floodgates opened, and he rolled over back into his empty barrel before the current shoved the rest of them along.

"Kili!" Fili called to him, concern deeply set in his voice, but with the arrow now snapped off from his leg, Kili couldn't readily reply. He tried and failed to give a reassuring smile, first to his brother, then to Aneira, who also called out to him in worry.

The current mercifully pushed them along faster than the orcs could run, and the elves seemed to abandon chase by the time it slowed to calmer waters.

"Bind his leg, quickly. You have two minutes," Thorin barked the order to his eldest nephew, all while gazing ahead to the lake beyond that separated them from their goal. They wouldn't be able to cross it without a boat. Orcs would run them down if they tried to go around. But they had to keep moving.

But where?

That was the question he was forced to ask himself, that those following him asked of him.

As fate would have it, it wasn't a question he had to answer, as their answer came in the form of a bargeman. Bard, of Laketown.

"I know where these barrels came from," the man said, his hand inspecting nicks in the wood of a barrel.

"What of it?" said Thorin.

"Whatever dealings you had with the elves," Bard replied knowingly, "I don't think it ended well."

"No one enters Laketown but by leave of the Master," he continued. "All his wealth comes from trade with the Woodland realm. He would see you in irons before risking the wrath of King Thranduil."

Thorin subtly gestured at Balin to offer the man more compensation.

"I'll wager there's a way to enter that town unseen," Balin implored.

"Aye," Bard nodded, and finished setting the load of barrels onto his boat. "But for that, you would need a smuggler."

"For which we would pay double."

This is disgusting, she thought, but couldn't afford to say aloud, lest she breathe in the smell. Nor could she move, lest the sensation of slimy dead fish shift around her in the barrel.

They were forced to hide once again to avoid guards at a port. The barge was halted at the toll gate, passed its inspection by a man Bard greeted as Percy, but was stopped entirely by whom surely was the Master's footstool, Alfred, who ordered the barrels be emptied of what he deemed "illegal fish."

"Come on, Alfred, these people need to eat," said Bard. "Food is scarce, times are hard!"

"Not my problem."

"And when the people hear that the Master has been dumping fish back into the water; when the rioting starts, will it be your problem then?"

There was a long pause which Aneira thought may last forever, but was broken by Alfred rescinding his order and begrudgingly allowing Bard to pass. Albeit not without a few threats tossed after him as the gate was raised.

Once out of the accursed barrels, they were forced to follow Bard through the narrow alleys and docks of the town, though they weren't fortunate enough to escape all inquiring eyes of the bustling town.

"What is this place?" Bilbo muttered.

"This is the world of men," Thorin replied, and brusquely continued his pace. They moved quickly, and eventually were greeted by a young boy, no older than fourteen.

"Da, there are people watching our house!" he said to his father, but upon noticing the dwarves, his eyes widened in surprise. Bard turned to the dwarves with an almost hesitant expression.

"I have an idea," he said. "But you won't like it."

"What is it?" Thorin asked dully.

"Da, why are there dwarves climbing out of our toilet?" asked a young woman. Her younger sister looked on in wonder as her brother helped them out one by one, or at least, those who cared for help.

"Will they bring us luck?" asked the girl. Bard didn't answer, but directed them to bring as much dry clothing and blankets as they could spare and light the hearth. The dwarves and their hobbit were freezing, stinking, and starving, as well as nursing a wounded pride.

Thorin in particular was more sour than most. He attempted to find fresh air to fill his lungs by going to the window—one of very few in Bard's small lake home—and was shocked to see the dwarvish Wind Lance that stood erect upon a tower, not far in the distance.

"You look like you've seen a ghost," said Bilbo.

"Because he has," Balin said quietly. "The last time we saw such a weapon…was the day the dragon came. The day that Smaug destroyed Dale."

Aneira, hearing Balin speak of her mother's homeland, turned to listen.

"Girion, the Lord of the city, rallied his bowmen to fire at the beast," the dwarf continued, "but a dragon's hide is tough, tougher than the strongest armor. Only a black arrow fired from a Wind Lance could have pierced it, and few of those arrows were ever made. His supply was running low when he made his last stand…and missed."

"If the aim of Men had been true that day," said Thorin, "much would be different."

"You speak as if you were there," said Bard, who approached them.

"All dwarves know the tale," Thorin replied.

"Then you would know that Girion hit the dragon," Bard's son, Bain, spoke. "He loosened a scale under the left wing. One more shot and he would have killed the beast."

Dwalin chuckled.

"That's a fairy story, lad. Nothin' more."

"You took our money," Thorin said, ever direct. "Where are the weapons?"

Bard met his gaze steadily, while silently wondering at the brashness of dwarves.

"Wait here," he said, and left the room. Thorin then called his nephews over to speak privately with Balin over their next plans.

"Tomorrow begins the last days of autumn."

"Durin's Day falls the morn after next," said Balin. "We must reach the mountain before then."

"And if we do not?" asked Kili. "If we fail to find the hidden door before that time?"

"Then this quest has been for nothing," Fili answered.

It was then that Bard returned with weapons he laid out upon the dining table, to the grumbling of the dwarves that viewed their wooden hilts and weak, rusty iron with disdain.

"You won't find better outside the city armory!" Bard explained, which made the grumbling worsen. "The weapons are held there under lock and key."

Aneira watched as Dwalin and Thorin's gazes met with similar expressions, and her stomach began to turn uncertainly. Luckly, Balin saw it as well.

"Thorin, why not take this offer and go? I've made do with less," he said. "So have you. I say we leave now."

"You're not going anywhere," Bard said, surprising them.

"What did you say?" Dwalin hissed.

"There are spies watching this house, probably every dock and wharf in the town. We must wait until nightfall."

After helping Bard's daughters cook and divvy out helpings of stew to each of the now dry—but still grumbling—dwarves, Aneira finally found rest on a bench just outside the living room, against a small window. It was farther away from the fire than she would've liked, but it was away from the boisterous laughter and arguments and wagers being made.

She entertained herself by looking out the window, out to the small and bustling Laketown that seemed all at once desolate and lonely. Her thoughts stirred, the image of a tall peak through mist conjured in her mind, and she wondered whether the people of Dale that had settled here missed their home beside the Mountain as much as the dwarves longed for theirs under it. She wondered if those who had always made their home on the lake still dreamt of the days when Esgaroth was beautiful and plentiful.

"Mind if I join you? It's stuffy in there."

Aneira turned and smiled at the dwarf's approach, though it quickly changed to a frown as she watched him limp.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Aneira asked him. Kili settled beside her with his walking stick as gingerly as he could manage.

"I'm fine, 'Neira."

When she only raised a brow at his slow movements, he added a smile that was weak on charm.

"Really."

She didn't appear convinced, but her gaze went from his newly bandaged leg to his face.

"You look pale," she murmured, her brows furrowing slightly in concern. Before Kili could answer, Fili joined them, giving Kili a quick appraisal.

"How're you feeling, brother?"

Kili restrain the urge to roll his eyes.

"I would be better if people stopped asking me that," he muttered.

"Come on, what would you have us do, ignore your pain?" Fili replied, his own exasperation evident. He raised a finger to stop his brother's ready reply.

"And you are in pain. Don't try to tell me different."

Kili sighed and leaned his head back against the window, closing his eyes.

Fili lowered his voice and said, "Why don't you let Oin—"

"It is a scratch, Fili. It will heal," Kili all but snapped. His eyes opened and cut to his brother in agitation. "We have bigger things to worry about."

"I should say so," Thorin said, interrupting his nephews. He stared down at them while adjusting his now dry fur coat.

"Night is upon us," he said. "We're leaving."

"This isn't exactly leaving," Aneira whispered, but still moved as swiftly as she could to keep up with the dwarves around her.

"We need weapons," Bofur replied over his shoulder. "Weapons that won't snap like brittle bark after one swing."

"Quiet," Thorin ordered, and they all stopped against the wall of a house, waiting for a guard to pass by.

"As soon as we have the weapons we make straight for the Mountain," he said, then led them into the armory through the back end. More specifically through a window.

They grabbed as much steal as they could fit in their arms, though they would never escape with it, as Kili accidentally stumbled with his load down the stairs, tumbling down with a large crash that alerted all the guards within the vicinity. It wasn't long before the dwarves were captured and corralled into the courtyard outside the Master's rather large house. It was more of a mansion in comparison for the small shacks that passed for houses in this town.

The two front doors opened to a tall man, who on first sight made Aneira wince. Though not as unpleasant as the king of Goblintown, the Master's long, greasy hair and beard hung against an ashen face. He wore thick robes of thick fur and hobbled down the steps furiously. Alfred followed.

"What is the meaning of this?" he exclaimed.

"Caught 'em stealing weapons, sire," Alfred supplied.

"Ah. Enemies of the state, eh?"

"A bunch of desperate mercenaries if ever there was, sire."

"Hold your tongue," Dwalin growled, withheld fury in his eyes as he stalked forward from the group. "You do not know to whom you speak. This is no common criminal, this is Thorin. Son of Thráin, son of Thrór!"

Thorin stepped forward from the crowd as well and laid his hand on Dwalin's shoulder, acknowledging and silently thanking him for his praise.

"We are the dwarves of Erebor," Thorin announced. "We have come to reclaim our homeland."

He approached the Master of Laketown, who now looked decidedly uncertain, perhaps even wary.

"I remember this town in the great days of old—great boats lay at harbor, filled with silks and fine gems," Thorin continued, and looked to the crowd watching him with wonder and curiosity. "This was no forsaken town on a lake! This was the center of all trade in the north."

Aneira watched as the town residents began to murmur in agreement amongst themselves, and silently cheered Thorin on, despite the misgivings she still had against him. While his social skills where elves were concerned was distinctly lacking, he made up in abundance with those he knew he could sway.

"I would see those days return, would relight the forges of the dwarves, and send wealth and riches flowing once more from the halls of Erebor!" he shouted, and it was to the cheering of Laketown.

"Death!" shouted a voice from the crowd. "That is what you will bring upon us."

Bard pushed his way forth until he stood in opposition to Thorin, while the Master watched the scene unfold.

"Dragon fire and ruin," the man continued. "If you waken that beast, it will destroy us all."

The people quieted at this. There were those still old enough to remember the flames that destroyed their first home.

"You can listen to this naysayer," said Thorin, "but I promise you this: if we succeed, all will share in the wealth of the Mountain. You will have enough gold to rebuild Esgaroth ten times over!"

The people rallied for him, until Alfred spoke again.

"Why should we take your word for it?" he asked. "We don't know you. Who here can vouch for your character?"

There was silence.

And then a hobbit stepped forward.

"Me," he said, loudly enough to pierce the quiet. "I'll vouch for him. Now I have travelled far with these dwarves through great danger, and if Thorin Oakenshield gives his word, then he will keep it."

Thorin's smile was small, but the hobbit did see it, and returned it as the people's cheers filled the courtyard.

"Listen! Listen, all of you!" Bard shouted, earning their attention yet again. "Have you forgotten what happened to Dale? Have you forgotten those who died in the firestorm? And for what purpose? The blind ambition of a mountain king, so driven by greed, he could not see beyond his own desire!"

"Now, now," said the Master," We must not be too quick to lay blame. Let us not forget that it was Girion, Lord of Dale, your ancestor, that failed to kill the beast!"

"It's true, sire," Alfred fanned the flames. "We all know the story. Arrow after arrow he shot, each one missin' its mark."

Bard, with his anger clearly simmering under the surface, addressed Thorin quietly.

"You have no right, no right, to enter that mountain."

Thorin's stare was as hard and unyielding as solid stone.

"I have the only right."

He turned upon his heal and gave the Master his proposition, to have the prophecy fulfilled and bring riches to Laketown once again in exchange for the means to reach the mountain, and the supplies to do so.

With once last sweeping gaze at his hopeful subjects, the Master of Laketown smiled slyly.

And he accepted.