The Hobbit, but the Multiverse Does the Macarena (Workshop Cut): Chapter 2
A slightly shorter elf
Hello! Apologies for the brief hiatus, I dabbled in debauchery with my friend for her birthday, and the next day was spent nursing the after-effects of my choices. Anyway! Reminder that you can support my ability to write and get my friends birthday presents with this fun button:
On to the chapter!
Everyone convinces Tauriel not to murder them where they stand (“except you, Kíli, you’re injured” “Injured? Why did no one tell me? I’m a doctor!” “You’re a what now?”), and then they all introduce themselves, in a big old circle, like kindergarten.
William Turner Jr. is not Legolas Greenleaf; he’s shorter, and his hair is darker, and he seems very uneasy about being so far inland– even though the dwarves insist the whole party is already too close to water, being next to Long Lake (Will says it’s not the same, this water doesn’t move on its own, and it’s not horribly cursed).
John Watson is not Bilbo Baggins; he’s much taller (and he smiles as he realizes as much– “finally! Taller than someone!”), with less curly hair. He is the only one who seems more than mildly inconvenienced by the cosmic kerfuffle, since his home universe is the farthest from common magical proceedings.
Erik “Magneto” Lensherr is not Gandalf the Gray, he’s much grumpier, with hair cut short on his head and no beard, and he’s not giving anyone their metal stuff back until they’re all introduced (he explains he has practiced this strategy with some of Charles’ more unruly students, not that anyone knows who Charles is).
Tauriel is annoyed beyond belief. “I can’t go home with Legolas like this! What will I tell Thranduil? ‘Oh, sorry, your son is now a stupid human in love with the ocean and a pair of pirates, and he can’t speak his native tongue anymore’!? I’ll be executed, at best!” She agrees to see the dwarves through with their quest to the Halls of Erebor, if only because they cannot be budged to help her exchange William Turner with Legolas Greenleaf before they breach the mountainous walls of their ancestral home.
Thorin is absolutely nonplussed, and mildly angry, about the whole situation. He has nothing but surly questions: Where is his tiny halfling friend? Why is he left with a mistrustful “doctor” instead? Why do they have to introduce themselves anyway? They’re wasting time! They need to get to the doorway before the last light of Durin’s Day! “We can’t afford to sit around here, making nice,” he concludes, “We’re on a quest.” The dwarves all nod in agreement. They have been mostly silent for these introductions, aside from the occasional hearty grunt of agreement to Thorin’s complaints. It’s uncharacteristic of them, but it could be interpreted as anxiety over the unknown territory of interdimensional hijinx they are now beholden to.
“Durin’s Day is the day after tomorrow,” Gloín says seriously, “We need to get a move on and cross this blasted lake.”
John shakes his head, “This young man– Kíli, was it?– Kíli won’t make it across the lake. I don’t know what did this to him, but the wound’s infected.”
“‘M fine,” Kíli insists weakly, but he leans heavily on his brother, who insists that he is not fine.
“I don’t know why you need to get to that mountain so bad, but Kíli can’t make that kind of trip in this condition.”
“Then we leave him behind,” Thorin intones solemnly.
Uproar overtakes the dwarves– mostly Fíli, outraged that his uncle could treat his own kin so coldly.
“We’re a company– we can’t separate like this!”
“Thorin, reconsider.”
“We can’t leave Kíli.”
“He’s got as much stake in this as the rest of us.”
“There has to be another way!”
And, at that, as with most times in which the impossible is requested, they turn to Not-Gandalf. Erik is also used to being looked at this way, though mostly by groups of people wearing bright yellow spandex and all manner of fancy, power-specific items and weapons.
“I don’t suppose you tiny fools have a metal boat?”
The tiny fools do not have a metal boat.
Tauriel insists she is better at medicine than John, which irritates John more than it helps Kíli, and the two bicker about whether antibiotics or a magical incantation will heal his leg faster– while Bifur insists that what they really need is some weeds from the lakeshore. This is about the state of things when Bard, the Bowman, approaches the lakeshore and hears them just inside the treeline.
“Who goes there?” he calls, cautious and callous as ever.
Balin advocates, silently, for silence, even though Bard has clearly heard them already.
Thorin ignores Balin and emerges from the treeline. “It is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain. And company. Who are you?”
“Bard. The Bowman. Bargeman of Laketown.” Now, looking at Thorin and the sundry members of the increasingly strange party that emerges from the undergrowth, his head cocks to the side. “Dwarves, humans, and elves? In one company?”
“It’s a long story, lad,” Balin sighs
“What he said,” John agrees, “I’m only really here in spirit. I’m probably not capable of physically interacting with this plane of reality.”
Erik groans, “Oh, stop being dramatic,” and he slaps John’s shoulder, “you’re as here as I am– you and that pirate fellow.” Then, he turns to address Bard, “Say, young man, how much of your boat is made of metal, by your estimate?”
“Barely a longboat,” Will grumbles. “Never thought I’d miss the ocean this much.”
At this point, Bard is more than a little unnerved. Such a multiracial collection of party members is already an anomaly in a predominantly human territory like Long Lake, but their words prove even stranger than their appearances, even if their appearances contain Erik Lensherr’s jeans and John Watson’s pajama bottoms, fabrics that don’t exist in Middle Earth.
“I suppose the nails?” Bard offers, “Some of the repairs were done with metal rods, by my father, after the Smaug’s terror.”
“I feel it– in the rudder? And the bottom support– what’s that called? Charles would know. His stupid college degree, stuffing him full of useless knowledge. Insufferable man. Truly, I’m glad he’s not here.”
“Oh, I can feel the hatred,” Will mumbles, rolling his eyes.
Erik is quick to correct him, “On the contrary; after the whole series of events with–” and then he sees the smirk on Will’s face, on the dwarves’ faces, on John’s face, even Tauriel seems to be affected by the clear, barefaced affection rolling off of Erik like a thundercloud. “Hrm,” he clears his throat, “Well, this should suffice, anyway. I’ve moved a submarine, I can move a measly boat.”
Nobody catches the hint. Which makes for an awkward several seconds.
“That means you get in the measly boat,” Erik clarifies, with a wide gesture at said measly boat and the genuinely affronted Bard, who is demanding “my ‘measly’ boat? No.”
taking bets in the comments as to how much of a say bard gets in how his measly boat will be used v v v v