Until My Last Breath (Prologue)
First of all, I want to apologize for disappearing for so long. Life has thrown a lot my way, and I’ve been navigating through some major events. But now, I’m excited to get back to writing and continue the fanfiction that I left unfinished.
I also want to let you know that the existing chapters will be republished, as I’ve done some reworking and rewriting to improve the story. Hopefully, you’ll enjoy the updated versions just as much as I enjoyed revisiting them.
Thank you all for your patience and support—it truly means the world to me. I can’t wait to dive back into this adventure with you!
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Summary: When Smaug arrived, he not only killed the dwarves of Erebor, but he also destroyed the lives of the few who survived… whether he did it on purpose or not.After a hundred years, a part of Thorin’s past will come back to haunt him in the form of a dwarf who last knocks on the door of Bilbo Baggins’ house, resurrecting old grudges and the pain of a life no one wants to talk about. Geira, daughter of Geiri, is anything but an open book, an exiled who no one wants around, a warrior who has no one to fight for, but only an oath she must fulfil.
Relationships: Thorin x FemaleOC
Rating: M
Warnings: none.
AO3 LINK: HERE
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I am blood of your blood, and bone of your bone, stone of your stone
I gift you my body so it can fall instead of yours.
I give you my soul so it can wait for yours in the Great Halls.
I lend you my voice so it can order your commands
I present you my sword so it can slay the ones who wish to harm you.
No other dwarf will be mine, no other dwarf will own me,
no one will sleep next to me, no life will come out from the womb of mine.
No one I will serve over the crown, over the Seven Stars, over the Father of all Fathers, over the King of all Kings.
I offer myself to you, until the end of times, until the mountains soar to the sky,
until all the blood dries, until the fires of Mahal’s forge blaze high.
Until my last breath, until my last glance, until my last blow,
until the last time my hands touch the rock our Father gave to us,
my life is yours and your wish is mine.
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The house of Bilbo Baggins was more crowded than usual that evening, and the owner was more than a little disconcerted: not only had his peace of mind been disturbed, not only was his larder completely, utterly, depleted, but his kitchen, indeed his whole house, was overrun with dwarves! Thirteen dwarves! Plus a wizard he had met in the morning whom he barely knew and had marked the door with a rune, thanks to which his guests had recognised the Hobbit's dwelling. Truly, Bilbo Baggins did not know how to begin to drive them out, he had been trying since the first one (Dwalin, if he remembered correctly) had walked in through the round door, obviously without being heard by any of his unwanted guests.
Crockery, knives, pots and pans, everything had begun to fly from one side of the room to the other without ever stopping. He tried more than once to stop them, without ever succeeding! At that moment his Took blood was more useless than a fork is when eating soup. In fact, his Baggins blood had gotten the better of him, leading him to accept the situation with no small amount of annoyance, including those muddy strokes on his yellow walls and the fragments of food scattered on the floor. Oh, not to mention his best wine, totally gone! It had taken him hours to sort out his pantry between days before and now all his food, all his tomatoes, all his wine, all his cheese, everything, gone, vanished, and it was not even the time for the spring solstice party yet!
And now, or in heaven's name, now Gandalf had even had the courage to tell him that he would have to get used to them! To all of them! To the twelve dwarves in his kitchen! And what on earth did the wizard mean by saying that he would have to put up with them forever!
Annoyed, he began to walk down the corridor arguing with Gandalf and putting his hands on his hips.
"I don't understand what they are doing in my house!" he shouted, raising his voice.
The wizard didn't reply, but a small voice behind him did and before he knew it his entire set of porcelains was in the air. His cutlery was being knocked over his table. Knife blades were being dulled by their rubbing against fork handles, and before he knew it, in time to the music, his entire kitchen set was flying through the air. Oh no, no no no, not that chair, no, not that plate, no not that other plate! No, stop, please!
His pleas were soaring through the air, as if they were leaves on a wind, as were his dishes. And Gandalf sat smoking his pipe on a chair with an amused smile while all this happened before his eyes. Bilbo ran to the kitchen to put an end to this madness, but as soon as he did so, he noticed to his surprise that all the things that had been flying over his head until just now were neatly stacked on top of each other on his kitchen table.
He blinked, several times adjusting his braces, unable to believe his eyes.
The dwarves seemed highly amused by his reaction, and began to laugh, until three knocks on the door brought silence and an icy air that he could feel all the way down to his hobbit ankles.
"He is here," Gandalf said.
Aa short while later, another dwarf entered from the doorway and it didn't take him long to realise that he was different, very different from the others who had entered Bilbo’s home moments before. Every single beard turned to face the newcomer as he walked inside.
Bilbo didn't know who it was and he didn't even really care, no one would enter his house unannounced, no one.
But he couldn't admit that his blood ran cold in his veins as soon as that dwarf started talking to him and asking him all those strange questions. What did he mean by axe or sword? Did he really believe that a hobbit like him had ever picked up either weapon? Who did he think he was? He could not hide his confusion at the last statement of the so-called Thorin Oakenshield.
"He looks more of a grocer than a burglar," he joked.
It was all too absurd for Bilbo's poor hobbit ears, all so surreal! His life, monotonous and lonely until a few hours ago, was now changing, he could feel it in his bones, and he could not understand if it was a good thing or not: he had always dreamed of adventure when he was a young hobbit, but now it was different; the walls of his home were so comforting and safe, every object was a certainty for him. His life was there and he would never leave it, no sir!
Calmness, however, continued to reign for a long time, during which the largest of the dwarves, one with a long red beard, went to Bilbo’s kitchen and with an almost surreal care began to prepare a soup. Thorin Oakenshield sat down at the head of the table and was soon joined by the oldest of the dwarves who had entered his house, Balin, and two of the youngest, the two brothers, Fili and Kili.
They began to talk in low voices, in a calm and quiet tone, just like everyone else in his house. It seemed absurd, but at least Bilbo was able to sort out some of the leftovers that had been left behind in the kitchen back in his own larder and eavesdrop, even if he didn't want to (it was rude) on some of the conversations that various small groups of dwarves were having. The ties of kinship were quickly understood, as was the realisation that Thorin was not really just another dwarf. No more flying plates, no more singing songs – not out of fear but out of respect.
He turned his head, watching the almost regal profile as the newcomer spoke to the bear-like dwarf who came into the house first, but Bilbo could not hear what they were talking about, the fact was that their faces were dark, and Dwalin's eyes moved insistently over him.
A short while later Bombur returned with the soup, handing it to Thorin, and in the blink of an eye the groups of dwarves in his house gathered together again, sitting around the table. He wasn't invited: how rude of them, there's a meeting in a house and the owner of that house isn't invited! Not that he cared, of course not, the apple he was putting in the basket in the kitchen was certainly more interesting.
But he couldn't help but listen.
"What news from the Ered Luin, did they all come?" asked an older dwarf with a long white beard and a red coat.
"Aye, envoys from all seven kingdoms," the voice of Thorin was heard, setting off a round of small laughs and joyful murmurs.
"And what do the dwarves of the Iron Hills say? Is Dain with us?"
A long wait ensued in which Bilbo swore he could hear the heart of every single dwarf in the room beating wildly.
The dwarf's reply was sharp and decisive. Disconsolate murmurs rose from his dining room that only increased in volume and quantity when he spoke again. "They said this quest is ours and ours alone,"
They began to talk in low voices, in a calm and quiet tone, just like everyone else in his house. It seemed absurd, but at least he was able to sort out some of the leftovers that had been left behind in the kitchen back in his own larder and eavesdrop, even if he didn't want to (it was rude) on some of the conversations that various small groups in that group were having. The ties of kinship were quickly understood, as was the realisation that Thorin was not really just another dwarf. No more flying plates, no more singing songs, but not out of fear, out of respect.
A coughing noise, however, stopped the murmurs and caused Bilbo to turn to the table from behind the kitchen wall as well, distracting himself from his chores. Gandalf settled into the small chair and began to search the sleeve of his grey robe.
"This indeed, it is not entirely true," he explained as he slowly pulled a long wooden pipe from his sleeve. "There is someone else who has yet to arrive," the sorcerer explained, barely looking Thorin in the eye.
F or all the pipe weed in the world, again?
The dwarf at the head of the table stopped sipping from his goblet of ale, giving him a sidelong glance but remained silent. Instead, the dwarf named Gloin spoke, crossing his arms over his chest. "This means yet another division of profit, all of which should have been agreed upon first," he muttered.
"Agreed, this matter should have been dealt with weeks ago," Dori pinned, pulling himself up.
Gandalf did not even look up at the elder dwarf, adjusting the tobacco in his pipe. "My decision was made after our meeting in the Ered Luin. And Master Gloin, I think that our member does not wish any of that gold in that Mountain."
"Who is it?" grunted Dwalin suspiciously, looking up at the wizard who lit his pipe with his fingertips.
Bofur chuckled under his big black moustache, puffing an avalanche of white smoke from the side of his mouth. "Another burglar?"
"A burglar for the burglar," Fili grinned at the back of the room.
"A burglar made for the burglar," Kili added.
Their banter invited the murmurs from just before. This time, however, they were louder, more confused, as was his hobbit head.
A torrent of questions flooded the room as they all asked questions of the wizard, who, bewildered, tried to answer; only Thorin's intervention put an end to the commotion created, shouting warnings in their native tongue. Then he turned to the sorcerer himself, glancing at him.
"The questions that have arisen around this table are fair," he began earnestly, "I have not been informed of any others, none of this was a part of the bargain, Gandalf."
Gandalf smiled with the side of his mouth taking a puff of his pipe. "I was told to find the fourteenth member of this company and so I did, the addition of a fifteenth should not be an unsolvable problem."
"As I said it wasn't in the agreements and last minute clauses at a time like this are not convenient, not at all," retorted the dwarf bringing silence again.
Bilbo looked at the dwarves, clouded by the smoke from the pipes and the warmth of the candles around the table. They looked at each other's hands or watched Thorin in silence, not uttering a breath.
Gandalf put down his pipe and crossed his arms on the table, moving slightly closer to the dwarf with long raven hair.
"I assure you that my choice was not taken lightly, and if I had thought it was right a few months ago I would have reported it to you back then. But it was not possible," Gandalf lowered the tone of his voice even further. "You must trust me on this."
"Is this person crucial to what we must accomplish?" he asked quietly, looking straight into his eyes.
The wizard murmured a small "yes" between his lips, nodding slightly as he continued to look the dwarf lord straight in the eye.
Thorin said nothing, watched the wizard for a few more seconds before letting himself go off the back of his chair and then he took a sip of ale from his mug again. The conversation had ended in a few simple sentences, yet Bilbo noticed how the wizard continued to look at Thorin insistently.
Gandalf brushed his gloves around his hands with his fingertips dropping his gaze downwards for a few seconds before turning his head back towards him.
"Bilbo, my dear fellow," he called to him in a manner far more cheerful than his face was capable of showing. "Let us have a little more light".
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She was dreadfully late, which she hated from the bottom of her heart; and she hated the fact that she was going to a strange house of a Hobbit whose identity she did not know, although after all those years she had become accustomed to being in the homes of strangers quite often. Perhaps the real reason for her stomach clenching was not whose house it was but who she was supposed to meet in that house and the reason why she was going to that house. Because when she would see them again, all of them , it would not be pleasant or easy.
She didn't even think it would ever happen, nor did he want it to happen again.
She slung her sack over her shoulder as she climbed up the little dirt road, passing funny grass-covered houses by the round door: if it had been daytime, a riot of colours would have accompanied her path and perhaps, for a few minutes, she would not have thought about the imminent meeting.
She would have stopped for a few brief moments on that bench next to the path and sat there for a short while, perhaps lighting her pipe or watching those very peaceful people go about their simple business. Watching them do simple, mechanical things, perhaps in another life she might even have stayed in such a place, in peace, with someone. But no, too many years had passed, she had seen too much, heard too much, and she would not be able to live like that, not there.
Suddenly, a faint pale light caught her attention: she approached it and, with a thump in her heart, recognised the rune that the sorcerer had traced so that they could all see it. She reached the garden and climbed the small steps that led to the round green door. She ran a hand over her leather bodice and gathered in her heart all the emotions she could possibly feel.
Hatred, fury, pain and anger, so much anger.
She gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the voices she could hear through the door. Taking a deep breath to calm her already jangled nerves, she knocked, hearing a great commotion and excited voices from inside.
The door suddenly opened, and it was the sorcerer himself who filled her field of vision: he broke into a rather smug smile, proud to have been right for the umpteenth time.
He knew she would come at last.
She had met him only a few weeks before and he was exactly as the rumours said. Gandalf's every move was studied and planned and, who knows why, everything corresponded to the plan he had devised; how every cog in that mechanism worked was a great mystery. Yet for that, she could not but admire him.
So, after he had silently nodded his head, she entered the cosy, warm house that smelled of good food and wine and was lit by the soft light of candles; she followed him into a corridor and the smell of ashes and moss entered her nostrils, as well as that of processed tobacco and malt. In a few steps she found herself in front of a small room where, around a table, were crammed all the others who, as soon as they glimpsed their new guest, assumed the most surprised and astonished expressions she had ever seen.
Only one of them stood up so fast that he knocked over the stool on which he was sitting.
"What is she doing here?!"
The rumble of thunder rumbled through the room and like a thunderbolt it brought to light old hidden shadows, old whispered words, broken oaths.
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You're blood of my blood, bone of my bone, stone of my stone,
I embrace your body to let it protect me
I take your soul and forge for it a place next to me in the Great Halls
I take your voice which I will hear above all others
I take your sword and I present to you my shield which will protect you from my enemies.
No other dwarf will be yours, no other dwarf you will serve,
no one will keep you company at night, no life will come out from you.
No one you will serve over me, over the Seven Stars, over the Father of all fathers, over the King of all Kings
I offer myself to your hands until the start to the end, until the skies fall on the ground,
until all the bones crack, until the fires of Mahal’s forge blaze high.
Until my last breath, until my last glance, until my last blow,
until the last time my hands touch the rock our Father gave to us
my desires are yours, your pain is mine.
