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The Shire at sunset was warm and sleepy, the clouds colored crimson and gold, puffy pink against the fading turquoise sky. Far off the faint ring of bells could be heard, cows coming in for the evening. Along every road dust settled, the motes drifting through the twilight.
At the crossroads huddled a group of dwarves, arms drawn, staring out into the coming night with wild eyes.
Tharkûn had said come to the Shire. Tharkûn had said to follow to pull of the rune etched on a particular door. Tharkûn said that their host would be flighty but to give him time.
Tharkûn lied.
A particularly loud ring of a cow bell made Kíli moan, face still seeping blood, hands twitchy on his bow. He and his brother had entered the Shire in the morning – ages ago now it seemed – with an easy stride and a snitched blade of wheat held between his teeth. The roads were quiet and serene. The fields were lush and green. The sound of their boots was the only thing they heard. Until the first stone came. A whistle, not unlike an arrow, aimed right for Kíli's head. He'd taken the blow, the cut opening up above his eyebrow, before a hail of other stones rained down on them, one after the other, each more painful than the last as they hit and hit and hit . They'd tried to make a run for it, but the stones just kept coming . The last thing Kíli saw before a particularly large stone hit him was Fíli falling through what should have been solid ground.
Then nothing.
He'd woken to something sharp jabbed through his side. More of a graze than a grievous injury, he still felt it every time he moved. Fíli had not been as lucky, getting a pike through a shoulder. They'd both woken at the same time, both frozen when the sound of soft steps came from above them. They'd held their breaths, not sure what to do, when yet another body was thrown down into the pit, landing on Kíli's leg, making him bite back a whimper of pain as Bofur's bulk pinned him to the ground.
There had been the sound of whispers above them, but Kíli had not been able to see a single creature. Not even when he should have . It sounded like they were right above them, peering into the pit, but every time Kíli looked up there was nothing . It made no sense.
Bofur's eye was swollen shut, but he had little other injuries. He could not remember how he came to be thrown in the pit, but he'd been separated from his kin at some point during a walk through the woods. They'd meant to stop in at the Green Dragon Inn, a lively place they'd been told about in Bree, when they'd traveled through the area with the merchant caravans. The innkeeper had said the hobbits would welcome a spot of work from their kind. None of the people in Bree had mentioned this .
It had taken all three of them to escape the pit. Bofur had to help Fíli up, since one arm had to be wrapped close to his chest and immobilized. They'd waited until they heard no sounds above them and then moved, first Kíli scrambling on top of Bofur's shoulders and then helping Fíli up. With Kíli's help they got Bofur out of the pit...only to turn to find themselves surrounded by scarecrows of all things. All of them just balanced on the end of a pole, placed in the middle of the road, like they'd grown there from the dirt. The hair on the back of Kíli's neck had stood on end.
For a long, long moment none of them moved. The scarecrows just stood there, the stuffing poking out the arms and legs rustling in the wind. Kíli had grabbed his brother and edged towards what looked like a larger gab between the silent statues. Then the whistling began again and Kíli just grabbed both Fíli and Bofur and ran for it.
They'd met a bloodied Dwalin and Balin at the crossroads. Soon they were joined with the Ri brothers, all of them bloodied and bruised to some extent, with Nori looking particularly wild-eyed. Ori was crying, shaking as he held his slingshot, but Kíli noted that for whatever reason Ori did not have a single cut on his body, just bruises. Bifur had appeared at some point, but Kíli could not say when. Bifur had grabbed onto Bofur and had been whispering in Khuzdul ever since. Soon after Bifur arrived, Bombur had literally rolled into them, body slack in unconsciousness, his clothes torn and stained with what looked like berries. They'd had to put him in the middle, but when Kíli checked Bombur was still alive, just...asleep, with deep purple stains all about his mouth and chin.
Gloin and Óin had joined them, both of them appearing at a dead run from over the rise, Gloin with the edges of his clothes smoking and Óin without his hearing horn. Last to arrive was their uncle, who had been wild-eyed and pale, shaking for the first time in Kíli's memory, even as he swiped at the empty air around him with barred blade. They'd made a stand in the middle of the crossroads, unsure what to do next. Bombur was still asleep in the center of their circle. Half of them were injured. None of them knew what to do.
Nothing had happened for almost a candlemark. The sun had begun to set. Out in the fields little lights began to flash, each little explosion making Kíli flinch. They should have been making their way to the Burglar's house. They should have met hobbits on the road. There should have been not a lick of danger in so soft a place, where all the tales spoke of fat folk who were concerned over their crops and their mushrooms and little else.
They should not be huddled in the growing dark, nerves strung taut, all of them waiting for the next blow to come.
Then, ears primed for it, Kili heard a whistle . Not like the stones that had rained down on them, nor like the strange stinging insects that had chased them down the road, no, this sounded like someone whistling, a cheerful tune on a summer's eve, a walking tune for a wanderer on the road.
From around the corner came a figure. It was smaller than a dwarf, with nut brown breeches and a yellow waistcoat buttoned over a white shirt rolled up to the elbows. Golden hair caught the last of the light. The hobbit just kept coming, like he didn't even notice them, until he was just beyond the reach of Thorin's sword, coming to a rocking stop, whistle fading.
“Why now,” the hobbit said, hooking his thumbs into the straps of his suspenders. “What do we have here?”
“We will fight,” Thorin growled out, still trembling, sword angled towards the hobbit.
“But why would you do that?” The hobbit tilted his head. There was something...something strange about his eyes. “I'm not armed at all, as you can see,” he held out his arms. There was a flash of gold on his finger. Kíli blinked away spots from his eyes. “Are you lost?”
“We were told to find someone here,” Thorin retorted. “We came here on business, and little more. Instead we have been attacked and almost killed! What say you to that!”
“I think,” the hobbit said, softly, “that your Manners need some polishing.”
“My manners are my own! I am –”
“Oh, I know who you are, Prince Thorin of Erebor,” the hobbit laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the growing dark. “But do you know me?”
“...I do not.”
“Once upon a time we hobbits of the Shire were rather trusting folk,” the hobbit shook his head. “It's been a strange spell for a while. I suppose it was Gandalf that told you to come this way?”
“Yes. How did you...”
“The wizard,” the hobbit's teeth were very white. “Is a disturber of the peace. Haven't you heard?”
Kíli wanted to whimper. He could feel the press of his brother's shoulder against his own.
“We weren't told,” Thorin said, still holding his sword at guard against the unarmed hobbit. “We came here in good faith.”
“Not that,” the hobbit's smile grew. “Is a bald faced lie.”
“But we –,” Kíli wasn't sure how it happened. Between one moment and the next the whole world felt like it went sideways. He heard his uncle shout and then let out a groan that made Kíli's skin grow cold. He thought he heard Dwalin roar a battle cry – only to then hear him cut off with a shriek that seemed to echo in his ears.
When he woke next – and really, Kíli hadn't expected to wake, not after that – he found himself on the East-West road beyond the river, piled on top of his brother and uncle, both of whom still seemed to be breathing. By the time they all untangled themselves, they found that most of them had been shaved bare-faced, nicked in places, as if cut by shears. Their weapons were notched and scratched, with Kíli's bow in two pieces broken beneath Bombur's body. All of their supplies were gone, as were Gloin's coin pouches. None of them knew what had happened.
They had little choice but to head back to Ered Luin, to see if they could find more funds and supplies for the road. The entire time they kept looking over their shoulders, feeling like something, or someone was watching. There were no paths that led off the main Road. The little cartways that used to appear were gone, with tall hedgerows lining the road. The Road was strange too, curving too far south when once Kíli would have said it cut straight through the heart of the Shire. They saw no one on the road, not a cart, not a pony, nothing. They hurried through, not looking back.
By the time they were resupplied it was too late to start again that year. Tharkûn arrived on midwinter, looking more Wild and unkempt than Kíli had ever seen the wizard be. They could get no answer from him about their prospective Burglar. When spring arrived once more, though, news had come from the Men who lived in the area. The Shire, they said, was gone. The cheap food and sweet jams and all the other odds and ends that once came from that soft place were gone. A whole forest had grown up around it, almost overnight by some tales.
And as for the hobbits inside...no one ever saw them again.