#thehobbit

Chapter 2

She heard her name, but she knew not from where the voice called. She just knew she had to keep moving. Separation. A diversion. Wind deafeningly rushed past her ears and her breath felt raw and dry, her throat almost cold from the strain as her painting became harsher. Blood ran down her temple and it covered her neck and cheeks, though she felt it not, not even knowing if it was hers. She had little time for her own wellbeing. Her horse’s hooves beat upon the ground deafeningly as it snorted, almost screaming with its exertion. The wargs were not far behind, their snaps and bays were heard even over the roar of the wind.

What began as a routine scour of the land had become a planned ambush. A great hoard of orc had poured from the darkest corners of the caves and forests surrounding them. Beneath the waters and atop the trees they came like locusts upon a field, donned with hoods and raw linen as sun clothes. A scourge upon the gentle earth. Glorfindel and the elleth had not prepared for such, and it seemed as though the orc knew it too. They had no choice but to split off, they were almost forced to do so. Yet it seemed, for all their skill in planning, the orc had failed to realise just who they were up against, for the golden-haired elf was a force they were foolish to reckon with, and the elleth was no mere she-elf either.

She heard her name again behind her, and turned to look, her eyes wide and searching. Thereupon a warg had charged from the side, slamming into her horse with force. The animal cried out, its legs bucked as it collapsed under its own weight, skidding upon its chest and side. The wind was knocked out of the elf as she was thrown onto the grass, rolling and landing with a choked groan. Soil and grass gathered thickly under long nails as she attempted to slow her decent.

The pack that had followed her had come a slow pace and soon they began circling her slowly, laughing to each other as they flipped crude weapons in their palms.

“Seems your ‘orse can’t beat a warg, elfling.” One snorted, its voice sounding hoarse like its lungs were filled with fluid, “Poor thing, your friend can’t help you now.”

She heaved herself to her knees, her greatsword firmly planted in the ground to aid her. Her eyes staring, counting, calculating. There were no more than twenty orc, albeit their wargs had unfortunately began to feast on her downed horse. Their maws with slick with red as they cackled to each other, snapping their teeth with sickening cracks.

With a roar she shot up, an angled dagger tight within the grasp of her other hand as threw herself forward. The orc had little time to react, her inner light blinding as she came forth akin to sunlight breeching through the clouds above. She cut through them like a scythe through grass, swift and clean, and she dodged and ducked, rolled and weaved. The way she faught was dirty, like a wolf hunting their prey, not at all like the gentle grace elves slew foe with, no. She toyed and lured. She had the speed and precision this is true, but she was elegant, t’was ferocity she had honed upon.

Vanyar were famed for their skill with spears in battle, the bright white lights from Valinor, yet a spear she did not favour. For when she first beheld them, the swords of the Noldor took her heart more so than any other. The Unseen was on her side also, she drew spiritual power where’re she could, for orcs were powerless against such magic. Their hröa’s almost searing from the inside out with a flick of her hand, writing in pain as they clutched their heads, clawing at their eyes. A light almost forming within their minds too bright to even ponder, sudden spiritual barrages were nothing they had even thought to encounter. Yet such powers were tolling upon wounded forms. She growled as a twinge was felt in her side, causing her to stagger ever so, she never noticed when she was hit, it was both a blessing and a curse.

Her greatsword was imbedded within the abdomen of an orc as she threw him aside, near missing another as she ducked and sliced up with her dagger. Black blood covered her, the ground almost swam in it as the orcs dropped one by one, the shadowed light of their forms fading. Unseen creatures had even come to her aid, taking the wargs that tried to take her down, they too suffered the same fate. She was unclean and swift, a brutal, divine force.

The last standing orc had disarmed her, her greatsword skittering in the grass, sliding upon the mud and blood that had saturated it. He was a lot larger than she was, his skin littered with scars and dried blood. He had been pacing around her for a while, waiting and watching as his companions dropped one by one. He lurched forward, throwing an unarmed punch at her face and snarled in pleasure. She fell to her knee with a hiss, spitting the blood that split from her lip. Yet before he could get ahold of her again she sprang to her feet, digging her heels within the ground and pouncing upon him with all the might she had left, knocking him down to the floor.

Her dagger plunged into his neck with an animalistic cry as light seeped from her fingers and found its way into his wound. He could not even cry out, for his eyes rolled back, and he choked, ink pooling around the hilt and covering her fingers. She ripped it out with a grunt, pushing herself up to her feet. She was unsteady, her own blood had unknowingly soaked her side completely, spreading through her armour and it was only now she had began to feel the burn of her wound.

The remaining wargs, however, were still behind her. She shakily turned to face them, her energy was spent, yet she still gritted her teeth and bent her knees, her dagger raised with a sticky grip.

They laughed coyly at her, stepping slow one at a time, advancing at a purposely torturous pace. Her eyes were piercing and ready. Yet suddenly they froze, their eyes cast behind her, and their advancement halted. Their ear suddenly pinned back to their heads and their heckles dropped to their necks, before they turned and dashed off into the forest towards fighting heard afar.

The elleth was no fool, and her ears angled behind, cautiously staring from her peripheral. From betwixt the trees stood a tall pale figure, massive in comparison to her, clad in crude armour upon his forearms, abdomen and feet. She made to turn, but the action had disoriented her, and she swayed slightly before collapsed onto her knees, head bowed low and breath coming out in ragged gasps. Fingers found her side, warm, wet, and she pressed in with all the might she had.

“Ah,” started a deep voice, “So it is you who has been hunting my scouts, she-elf,” The tongue in which he spoke was unmistakably Black Speech, yet it seemed to reverberate within her core. It was accompanied by a bestial growl, which caused a shudder to pass through her at the very sound of it. Heavy footsteps made their way towards her, he stopped a foot before her.

She gazed up and saw sharp, pale blue eyes staring back at her. She sensed his fëa was dark indeed, large and imposing, yet not as the dark lord would be, no, there was no fire. Her shoulders seem to stoop, at least this being was not Sauron, she knew not if the feeling was relief or disappointment. Yet the more the elleth studied the beast before her, he more she had begun to realise she had not seen an orc such as his like before, and she straightened as much as she could as her eyes raked his form.

His flesh was smooth, yet marred with deep scars across his uncovered, broad chest and face, even down his arms, and she supposed his back too. His ears mirrored hers, pointed and smooth, not many carried that trait. He must be ancient, she thought, a pure Orc bred from the very first Melkor created, for he resembled elf and man more so than twisted the Orc she had fought moments ago. Whomever he was, he was their leader, and he was not in anyway a resemblance to Marion. Dread sat with her then now, for her life was balancing upon the edge of a very thin branch.

He regarded her with a smirk, seemingly enjoying her wandering eyes upon his form as she traced the lines that were imbedded within his scarred flesh. Her eyes then narrowed at him. Most orc cannot gaze upon her for too long, yet he seemed to bathe in her, and it was then she realised he was not even clad in a suncloth. The edges of his lips curled upwards and he nodded down at her, his own eyes leering upon her form, admiring. Roles reversed, it seemed she had become the doe that the wolf had caught.

“You are impressive to have slaughtered so many alone, so much blood,”

“I have had practice,” she growled out, almost lurching forward and snapping her teeth. Black Speech was vile upon her throat, it had been an age since she spoke it, and it raked its way through her vocal cords. She fingered the hilt of her dagger with sticky fingers. Her grip was light, uncertain as she passed it from one hand to the other.

He laughed at that, almost surprised she spoke his tongue. She noticed his teeth were sharp, elongated fangs that seemed to glean, “And energy still left for more, I appreciate your thirst for it,” he stepped closer to her, close enough the heat of him almost penetrated her amour, and took her chin in an unanticipated hold of delicacy. He forced their eyes to meet, gazing darkly at her with half lidded eyes. The pad of his callused thumb brushed upon the split in her lip. Her nose turned up at the sting that went through her as she hissed in response, yet she could not pull away from his hold. “A pretty light amongst the dead, you were intriguing to watch, the way you dance, the way you slaughter.”

She frowned now, but she was on edge, one wrong move, and he could snap her neck in the blink of an eye, “Why did you not intervene?”

He shook his head and almost laughed, “The slaughter of my own at your hands was a delight, a sight to behold,” He leaned down to her then, her pulse thudded within her ears at the proximity, as his eyes scanned over her face, “Their blood suits you, they are unworthy to serve under me if they die by such a challenge,” He looked now to one that had taken a few more hits than usual to fell, and nodded towards him, “Guuthrak did the best, it was disappointing.”

The elleth made to hold his wrist, a pain expression on her face as her jaw clenched. She could not even fit her fingers around his write for how broad it was, as try as she might, she could not call to the Unseen, her finger tips only fluttered with a dull response. Blood coursed through her veins,

it seemed foolish, but his toying would only last so long, and she would rather go out with a fight than nothing at all. She used the might she had left to drive her dagger upwards. Yet he caught her hand, engulfing it in his own, fingers pressed against her pulse point. She pushed up with all her strength, a strained cry escaping her parted lips, as the orc merely shook his head and tutted at her, a sly grin tugging upon his lips. He gripped the blade and roughly took it from her grasp, tossing it aside as if it were a stick a child within a child’s palm. Their eyes locked. Hers were blown wide, frantically searching his face, yet his seemed amused, darkened and half lidded as he continued to study her.

“Fight is still within you, even though you exhaust to the core,” he inhaled deeply and hummed low from within his chest, “Even though you bleed, but I smell no fear,” A growl seemed to emit from his throat, akin dark purr almost, and she dreaded the meaning, “I have never met an elf such as you, no…you are the lightest thing I have ever seen,”

He released his hold on her chin before pushing her backwards. She fell upon her elbows with a yelp, scrambling to sit upright. The orc stood straight, and brought his reddened thumb to his mouth, his tongue darting out to taste her blood. His eyes seemed to roll back, and her face flushed unexpectedly, a rock seemingly dropping to the bottom of her abdomen. Her blood must have burnt him to some degree, yet he seemed strong enough to endure it. His aura seemed powerful, yet it flickered and faltered at the taste.

He chuckled lowly then, and made to speak once more, to take one more step, yet a voice called her name from the distance, and both sets of eyes moved then to whence it came. The far away fighting had ceased. The rest of his orc had fallen. The larger orc seemed to care not, as he let their eyes meet once more. He tested her name upon his pinked tongue before grinning, bowing his head at her.

“Until we meet again, my bloodied dancer,” His voice seemed a promise, as he turned and disappeared back within the brush, the darkness of the shrub concealing him completely.

Mere seconds after, Glorfindel had appeared by her side, gracing over the dead orc as if they were mere leaves in the cool autumn. He dropped beside her, hands upon her back and shoulders, steading her, “Ar-Faeámarth nîn, are you alright? Are you injured?”

He was always one to care, to ensure she was well. The elleth only managed a shake of her head, her eyes fixed ahead. The golden-haired elf followed her gaze, yet saw nothing.

“I met he who commands the Orc,” she said slowly, attempting to pull herself up after the pale orc, “It is not Sauron.” She growled at the strength it took to move.

“Be at ease, Mellon,” Glorfindel cooed, easing his friend onto her knees as he scanned her form for wounds, “It is done, we shall find him anon,” She had no voice left to speak, and simply nodded, before slumping into his chest, exhaling deeply and almost finally.

Gentle eyes fluttered open. A dull pressure was felt on her lower lip but as she sat up with a start, it faded into a memory. Her side ached, the scar pulsating as if it had been ripped open once more. She had been careless that day, overexertion had gotten to the better of her and she had the cicatrixes to prove it. She had not thought of that time for a while, hundreds of years ago. The day she had met Azog, though then she did not know it, and he had captivated her unknowingly. It seemed this quest had more to it than eyes could see.

The fire before her was cold and naught but a pile of ash. A gust of wind whipped through her hair, causing a chill to find its way into her bones. Her teeth involuntarily chatted together, and she realised then that she was no longer enveloped in blackened fur. She was however stabilised from behind by her horse, whom was doing its best to mimic the wargs warmth and protection. She smiled, a palm moving down its snout, and it made a noise akin to a purr at the connection.

It was known that the elven horses shared close bonds with their riders, a trait successfully bred down from the horses of Valinor. Her horse strangely favoured Lorne, even though they shared no common tongue, they understood one another unusually so.

The elf then looked over to Thorin then. The dwarf was lent against a tree, head hanging low, arms firmly crossed upon his chest. Her nostrils seemed flare in distaste, his words were still fresh upon her mind, and it was no doubt the cause of her sudden vivid dreams. She wondered if he would ever see her as more than an elf, as more than an old enemy, as someone who she was not. Yet the hurt thudded within the base of her throat, and she looked away, no help shall he have, and it seemed even Lorne thought that.

The elleth’s gaze shifted to the distant soft baying of a horse. Looking upon the valley was Gandalf, smoke twirling in the air bore from his pipe. A fine mist hung lowly across the land as the curlews cried and blackbirds sang to welcome the rising sun. She doubted that the dwarves would rise anytime soon and so she stood. Her horse mimicked her, shaking itself right through to its tail, and they made their way over to the wizard. Their horses met with excited snorts and soft nickers.

“How are you, my dear?” Gandalf spoke softly as the elf stood beside him. She did not meet his eyes, instead she focused her view, surveying the rising morning. Her hood was down, exposing her ears to the cool breeze, the dainty charms upon her ears swaying gently.

“As good as I could be, I suppose,” she muttered, Thorin’s words still stung within the centre of her chest, simmering within the base of her throat, she knew not if it was in anger or pain, “Though I did not hold my expectations high for a pleasant reaction,”

A laugh seemed to escape Gandalf with a puff of his pipe, “No, no, nor did I, and yet, it seemed better than I’d anticipated.”

“Truely?” Her brows seemed to raise at that as she stifled her own laugh in disbelief

“Oh yes, for did you see? None seemed to agree with him,”

She seemed to ponder for a moment, and recalled Bofur’s call of her name, and the outstretched hand, “Glóin mayhap."

The wizard made a decisive noise within his throat, “I believe that is old ways, as opposed to refusal,” He shook his head, “No, Thorin likes you, it is this fear that drives his ire,”

Her nose scrunched up, “That I do not believe,”

“Believe it or not, I speak the truth. He is troubled with betrayal still, your very air is threatening, he has been doubted and mocked for the very notion of this quest all his life in the Blue Mountains, but you are needed, he will come to accept that.”

She nodded. It was only then did Gandalf turn to look to her, and his gaze softened ever so, “I would not fault you for wanting to turn back,”

She was silent for a moment, chewing at the inside of her cheek. She had been alive long enough to recognise the mother of Thorin’s fired words, yet that did not mean that they did not burn and scorch her flesh. Her tongue was held impressively, for she was not one to step down, nor to take such vile words. She pondered that she could easily walk away from this, leave them to their quest, but something held her ankle, something kept her there and gnawed at her. She cast her eye back to Thorin, she knew something was to become of this, something large, and she could not deny her curiosity for the king too. She recalled when their fingers had grazed for the briefest moment, even his animosity was halted then. For a pang in her abdomen was all she needed.

“I shall stay for their sake, for Bilbo’s, yet I shall not give my aid, as he requests.”

Gandalf seemed to exhale then, shoulders dropping and his head nodding, smoke rolling out from his parted lips.

They stood both watching the sun rise and the mist roll, until soon the dwarves had begun to rise, and Lorne had returned from his watch. Ever and anon, the warg returned with breakfast for the many hungry mouths, yet this morning he had provided nothing.

He stood aways in the distance, watching, waiting. This was not a decision borne from the elf, no. This was a decision he had made himself, and smart it was, for Dwalin merely cast a stern, knowing look to Thorin as he rifled through his satchel. The kings lip upturned into a sneer and he packed his pony, rather forcefully too, as Dwalin moved to spread the news.

“Is everything alright with Lorne?” Bilbo asked, albeit meekly, standing upon his tiptoes to gaze at the warg. He did not take Lorne’s gifts for granted at all. The hobbit even went as far as sharing the food made with the beast before he left for his watch, yet he also did not want to seem rude - he knew the warg understood all - but it seemed strange. The warg often made his way through to greet them all, yet this morning he seemed cold, impatient almost.

The others had gathered around too, muttering.

“No, Laddie,” Dwalin sighed as he approached, “He will no longer provide for us” He thew a small roll of stale bread towards him.

Bilbo gasped as he caught it, before his brows drew together as he digested the words, “What do you mean?”

“After what Thorin said to our Lady,” Muttered Bofur nodding over to the elf, who was sat hoodless astride her horse making her way towards Lorne, as he threw his pack up onto his shoulder, “The wolf knows, he remembers, Thorin said we don’t want her help, and so he won’t help either.”

The hobbit pondered for a second, as if processing the words, “Why does Thorin not want her help? She wouldn’t be here if we didn’t, right? Gandalf knows what he’s doing.”

“Right,” Butted in Glóin before Bofur could even make to reply, his finger pointed at the hobbit, “But the elves didn’t help us when we needed it, why should we have their help now?”

“She isn’t a woodland elf,” Bilbo quipped, “She wasn’t there, she isn’t the same, we can’t paint all with the same brush.”

“Gah,” He waved a hand, “We can, elves are all the same, poncy and delicate, she wouldn’t be much help us anyway.”

Óin appeared then, ear trumpet firmly within his grasp within his ear, “You forget, brother, she was sent by the Valar,” Glóin seemed to drop his head back and roll his eyes, it seemed he had heard this before, “I’ve seen the portents with Ori too, watch now, no longer will we see the birds and butterflies sent by Manwë, we’ve strayed from his path.” He tapped his nose and wandered off with his brother tailing him, grumbling to himself. Dori appeared then, Ori had been listening closeby to Oín’s words, and as he opened his mouth to speak, his brother pulled him away. It seemed for all Dori’s like of the elf, he still seemed suspicious of the unnatural.

The hobbit turned then to Bofur and Dwalin, eyes a little wider than before, “She was sent to us?” Dwalin seemed to scoff, broad arms filing scores his chest.

“Who can say? But I dare say we need her, and if Gandalf brought her along…” Bofur wagged his brows then.

“It must be for a reason.” Finished Balin. He had brought over both his and Dwalin’s ponies. They seemed then to nod in mutual agreement, before packing up the rest of their things, with Bilbo in tow whom gingerly picked at the stale bread with a slight grimace.

The day seemed to draw on endlessly and the sky seemed enraged, opening up as rain thrashed at their faces, harsh wind whipped at their coats, and thunder rumbled above them, but ever on they pressed. Everyone seemed cold, wet and miserable, and even their pipes did not stay lit, dulling their vigour ever more with water collecting in their eyes and their beards. The pony’s became sodden, their heads bowed low as they trudged along the forest path, hooves splashing through muddied puddles.

The elleth had kept herself to the back of the company, her horse trailing along after the pony’s a ways back, her hood tight and her head bowed low. Her hair clung to her face almost irritatingly, creating paths of least resistance for the water to flow down her neck and through to her chest. She was soaked to the bone, and she cursed Thorin for the breaking of her clasp, for her hands grew stiff and cold holding closed her cloak. She used the excuse to herself that it was for the company’s protection that she lagged behind, leader at the front, protection at the back, especially due to Lorne’s recent unrest. In actual fact, she wanted to keep as much distance between her and Thorin as possible.

His eyes found her each time he turned to check upon the others, more often than not, and his eyes grated upon her. He wanted rid of her help? She would stand upon his word and watch him eat them when the time came. She had lived thousands of years, she had felt prejudice countless times, why must the opinions of a single dwarf affect her so? The more she simmered on the question, the more she seemed to anger, her knuckles whitening upon her cloak.

“Here, Mr Gandalf!” Dori shouted over the downpour, piquing her ears and staying her rising indignation, “Can’t you do something about this deluge?”

“It is raining, Master dwarf, and it will continue to rain until the rain is done,” Replied Gandalf, who seemed to grimace up at the sky above, yet he himself seemed unaffected by the rain, “If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another wizard.”

“Are there any?” Bilbo called forth, his head seemed to be tilted to the side, his voice laced with curiosity.

“What?”

“Other wizards?”

“There are five of us,” He said, angling back his head, “The greatest of our order is Saruman the White, then there are the two blues…” He trailed off as if pondering , “You know, I’ve quite forgotten their names,”

Bilbo angled his chin upwards in understanding, “And who is the fifth?”

“Well that would be Radagast the Brown”

“Is he a great wizard or is he…more like you?” The hobbits tone of voice suggested he was trying to test the water a little bit, and the elf smiled at his way of words.

“I think he’s a very great wizard, in his own way,” Gandalf sniffed, a touch offended by Bilbo’s choice of words, “He’s a gentle soul who prefers the company of animals to others, he keeps a watchful eye over the vast forestlands to the east, and a good thing too, for always evil will look to find a foothold in this word.”

Radagast. The elleth smiled in recollection. She had not seen him for a long while, she made a mental note to visit him. The last time she had visited Mirkwood however it was dark and dismal, the very air felt rotten and wrong. King Thranduil had told her about the unnaturally large spiders that took residence there, even had one brought to show her. They were no doubt due to Sauron’s growing presence, yet that she did not say, for too many ears could accelerate his already advancing prowl.

“Are you alright, lass?” A voice called from her right, causing her to jolt her head up, brows raised in surprise.

It was Balin. He seemed a little surprised too and held a reassuring hand up.

“Balin,” She breathed, “I did not notice you, apologies.”

He smiled softly up at her. “You were lost in your thoughts, is everything alright?”

“I was, they are easy to get lost within,” she agreed, she did not realise her facial expressions held such tells, “I was thinking of the forestlands to the east.”

Balin seemed to nod in understanding, “Aye, the Woodland Realm has become increasingly ill as of late.”

She offered a small smile, for she knew he was not here for small talk, for none other had spoken to her since. No words were exchanged for a while, only the matching hooves of their mounts splashing within the water below sounded between them.

“I…apologise for Thorin’s outburst last night,” He sighed, filling the silence created, “I want you to know that we all found it unfair and unreasonable and-“

“You need not apologise for actions that are not your own,” she offered softly, meeting his eyes as water trapped into bushy brows, even flattening his curved beard.

“No,” He shook his head, and lowered his tone, “But I want you to know that regardless of what he spoke, we are pleased to have you here,” He seemed silent for a breath, wincing as he regretted the words before they left his mouth, “Regardless of you being an elf, lass.”

The elleth narrowed her eyes instinctively, straightening, she understood his meaning yet could not help being slighted.

“I have heard you are not too…keen” Her pointed reply came cautiously.

A grimace set over Balin’s face, “Well, King Thranduil did not come to our aid when we needed it most.”

The elleth hummed, “It was wrong of him, he took the insult to heart,” she adjusted herself upon her saddle, even the leather had become saturated and dark with water, “I understand the protection of his people, to prevent needless slaughter and spilt blood, yet open arms was all you needed, you were not asking him to face down the dragon.”

The old dwarf huffed out a laugh, shaking his head, “No, I suppose you are right, but his actions did not land well with our kin,”

“Then let us hope I am the turning point,”

He met her eyes then, “Aye, let us hope”

The two rode side by side for the rest of the day in a comfortable silence. A few words were exchanged, but it seemed Balin’s words hit the mark he wanted them too, and he prayed that Thorin himself would speak, lest his stubbornness sank deeper until they reached the mountains peak.

The next few nights the elleth stayed far still from the company. She had stoked her own fire and ate very little, and despite Lorne providing hares and rabbits, it was he who ended up eating them. He was yet to provide for the dwarves however, and so they had returned to their trapping ways and using up their stores. Unfortunately this lead to the fact that supper was oft had when the moon hung at its highest, and stomachs growled in hunger. The warg stayed close to the camp, pacing and watching, the closer they came to the ettenmoors the more watchful he became. None had seen fit to approach her since Balin - besides Gandalf - and Thorin had refused to, he kept his chin high lest his eyes wander.

Upon the third night, the company had grown restless with the elleth’s distance, even Thorin had seemed a little off kilter. With some explanation from Gandalf on Vanyar elves, the rest had decided to fill the camp with gentle music, slow tunes played and soft even singing as Bombur prepared their evening meal.

His eyes darted over to the lone elf as he dished out each helping, and once the last bowl was within his grasp, he nodded firmly to himself. He filled it a little more than the rest, and added more bread too, before cautiously making his way over to the lone fire. The other dwarves shushed each other, halting movements as eyes locked upon the large dwarf.

“What is he doing?” Muttered Kíli, sitting up straighter.

Bofur seemed to watch unmoving, shaking his head slowly, “I have no idea…”

This was not something Bombur had talked through with the others, and so they were completely in the dark as to what his plans were.

It was several strides to meet her camp, and he stood before the elleth’s small fire not unlike a statue, swallowing harshly with wide eyes. Bombur was not sure what he was to be frightened of, but he knew which way to run.

The elleth was sat with her knees up to her chest, her cloak tight around her. The cooler nights had meant the cold crept into her bones, chilling her to the core, especially now she slept further away and alone. At his approach, she sat straighter and blinked up at him, eyes flicking between the dwarf and the outstretched wooden bowl he presented to her.

They were silent, and she hesitated for a mite longer, before se released the hold she had upon her cloak and unwound her hands from within the thick material, leaning up and taking the bowl gently. It was sweltering as she drew it towards her, the steam rising as curled tendrils into the air, and heat spread through her hands like a welcome wildfire.

She saw the worry in his eyes, and a little playfulness returned to her, albeit briefly.

“Annon allen, Bombur,” She bowed her head in thanks. Bombur stiffened even more at the sound of her strange tongue, before bending at the waist and muttering a “You’re welcome” before rushing his way back to the company.

The scent was toothsome. She could not be sure what was in it, but she had not complained about his cooking so far. Her mouth almost watered as she gingerly took a spoonful. It instantly tingled her tongue, salivary glands kicking in, and it found itself set low in her stomach, warming her inside and out. She smiled over at the company surrounding their own broad fire. She supposed Gandalf and Balin were right, they had not all taken a dislike to her.

When he returned, Bombur was suddenly yanked to the floor by the tails of is coat.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Bofur hissed, his voice a panicked hush, “Are you trying to scare her? We are supposed to be giving her space!” His eyes swept over to where Thorin was stood. His back was to the company as he talked to Gandalf, eyes into the forest.

“She’s cold, she’s not eaten” he defended, eyes wide and doe like as he reached for his own bowl.

“This wasn’t in the plan!” Kíli replied.

Fíli nodded, “The plan was to give her the pin back, then we work from there,” He eyed Bombur who offered no reply, “Did you not listen to our debrief earlier?”

Bombur slowly shook his head, chewing his food slowly as his eyes darted about. Bombur had no care for the plan they had come up with, his concern for her health was upmost, given he was the cook, and he felt rather pleased with himself.

“Alright, we think of a new plan then?” Nori offered, “I can go over with it right now?”

He had been wanted to catch a glimpse at the pin since he saw it, yet his brother was still adamant he was not to be near it.

Bífir had in fact managed to repair the ancient clasp. Thorin had indeed grasped it harshly, bending the gold as if it were but twigs within his palm. Luckily the tinkerer was a master with metal and so deft fingers worked through day and night. Although he found the gold had stranger properties than the dwarven gold he was used to, he still took all the care in the world. It seemed denser, it oft was heard to hum as he tapped it, akin a long forgotten song floating distantly through the air, and even it sparked a vibrant orchid purple when’re he heated it. Despite its strangeness, it was now perfection, and it shone beautifully. Each dwarf found themselves staring at it for a mite too long, enthralled, he had to bat them away.

“I thought we already had a plan, and Bombur decided to do his own thing, we can’t have another plan,” Bilbo grumbled. He felt like he was one of the most affected by the elleth’s withdrawal, alongside Bofur, for he was greatly enthralled by her, even before he knew she was an elf. He enjoyed their discussions, and he felt safe with her and her warg, he was right that he would feel at ease with her. Truth be told, he felt something within the air when’re he was with her, a fuzzy feeling, warm and pulsing like the beat of a heart. Magic. He knew then she had to be akin to Gandalf somehow, for her to be an elf? He felt dizzy, but hurt Thorin would shut her out so, his heart ached to aid her. He supposed he was to learn first hand just how stubborn Dwarves can be.

“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Glóin warned with a shake of his head, he still felt a deep mistrust of the elleth, the only other dwarf alongside Thorin who seemed to openly declare so, “She will draw us in again.”

“And do what?” Balin pressed, opening his palm in waiting for his reply, “She is a gentle soul, what could she possibly scheme?”

“If she was to have killed us, or lured us to our death, she’d have done it by now,” Dwalin grumbled, rolling his eyes.

“She to us lied once, she can do it again!”

“No no, It was Gandalf who did that,” Bofur interrupted, “Gandalf lied for her-“

“I don’t think Gandalf lied at all,” Bilbo butted in now, “He just didn’t tell us, knowing how you all distrust elves,”

“Aye, and he wouldn’t do it without a good reason.” Balin said firmly, holding up up his chin.

“Well I don’t think-“

Kíli thumbed the pin absentmindedly as the others argued back and forth, rubbing it gently as he stared over at the elleth.

“I think if we are just doing things, i’ll just take it over,” He muttered to himself, pouting with a shrug. He looked up and still found the others deep in their arguing, and so decided to stand and make his way over.

The elleth was sat still beside the fire huddled still beneath her cloak, a book open upon her boots, and her empty bowl beside her. She heard Kíli approach before he had reached the breadth of the fires light, yet she made no move to look over, but a smile did tug at the corner of her mouth.

“Your songs were beautiful.” She spoke once his feet came in view.

Kíli froze a few feet before the fire, unsure of where to put his hands. He had not expected to have been spotted so soon, “It was for you, Gandalf told us the fair-elves like music and song,” He stepped a little closer, “and so do we.”

She laughed a little, looking up at him, “It was beautiful, though I’ve heard your little songs on the road, you are masters of tune,”

“We can be fun too,” he smiled, before motioning to the spot beside her, “May I?”

She seemed to eye him wearily, yet she could not quell the playful look that was still about her. She nodded slowly, closing her book and placing it beside her as she shifted her weight, sitting with her legs crossed. Kíli moved slowly then, sitting upon his heels beside her.

“Do you sing?” he asked after a few moments, picking at the grass beside his knee.

She smiled, “I do, though not as often as I like,”

He seemed to sit up straighter at that, “Would you if I played? O-or if we all played?”

Another small laugh came out of her nose, Kíli’s eyes seemed to glisten with each noise, “Our voices are power, an expression of magic, history, our very souls, for even grief and celebrations of joyous times, the world we know was sung into existence by those higher than us,” she peered up to the stars above then, Kíli followed her gaze.

“Our songs carry weight too, they are picturesque, to remember ancient stories of old and to… morn our lost, they are memory,” His face seemed to scrunch up then with a smirk, “Not just the silly ones we make up to lighten the mood,”

“Dwarven songs from years past, were a marvel to listen to, with your creativity our voices would be powerful indeed,” She mirrored his look, grinning. It was then that a more comfortable silence settled between the two for a while, the fire spitting and popping, an owl hooting distantly.

It was only the distant raised voice of another dwarf that caused the elf to speak again, “What brings you to sit with me? I’m sure your uncle would disapprove,”

Kíli’s nose turned up at that as he shook his head, “That doesn’t matter,“ he reached then into his pocket and held out his hand, “I came to bring you this, as both an apology and a… reassurance.”

The elf narrowed her eyes, unmoving as she looked between his fist and his face. He raised his brows and nodded to his hand, to which she let out an unsure breath and reached over. He dropped the pin gently into her opened palm, fingernails delicately grazing her smooth skin.

Her eyes widened then, and her lips parted. “My pin?” she breathed, drawing it closer to herself as she flipped it over, inspecting. She had lost hope of seeing it again. In her rage with Thorin, she had neglected to pick it up, and so thought it lost to the mud forever more.

“Yeah! Bífir has been repairing it,” Kíli beamed, “It was Bilbo who picked it up, all of ours idea, really”

She did not reply straight away, only admired her pin with wonder. There was no sign that it had ever been damaged, heat seemed to swell within her chest. It had been a gift, made for her within Valinor, one of the few jewels she had left from her home.“Thank you, I cannot tell you how much this means,” she met his eyes then with a smile she could not quell.

“His actions and words were wrong,” Kíli started, shifting to sit up straighter, “We all would like you on this journey with us, if you’ll have us.”

Then from the darkness appeared the rest. Bilbo, Dwalin, Balin, Fíli, Bífir, Bofur, Bombur (who took a sneak glance within her bowl), Dori, Ori, Nori, Oín and even Glóin, albeit he had firm arms crossed.

She met each and every eye before her, a smile set upon her ageless face, broader than she had since they met her, “Annon allen, raen-nîn naugrim.” Before she bowed her head.

They bowed lowly at their waists too, their own faces fixed with grins. It was then that they took their places beside the fire, and it seemed then that the elleth was a lot more at ease, for reassurance was indeed given.

Back at their camp, Thorin stood firm, arms crossed and eyes narrowed as he watched on, whilst Gandalf stood beside him leaning upon his staff, a coy smirk upon his face. He knew the others also had a distrust of elves, but it seemed his elleth had won them over, or rather they themselves had won themselves over, and for that he was pleased. There was just one more mind to convince.

Thorin scoffed, he was not sure if he felt angered, or mayhap it was jealousy? For they could converse easier with her, for him his past still blocked what’re his mind tried, and so, even though he was still set on not wanting her help, his heart thrummed with something lasting.

“I see you haven’t spoken to her yet.” Dwalin’s voice was smooth as he came beside Thorin, following his gaze ahead.

Thorin’s shoulders seemed to drop as he tapped the blade of his dagger upon his palm. “I have not,” his reply was even, yet the words were said through gritted teeth.

The following afternoon, the path had taken them to a small spring surrounded by soft rushes and large rocks, and once the pony’s had set their eyes upon it, there was no deterring them. Even Lorne had stopped, for their mounts only drank when the warg did.

The spring fed into a wide downward stream and it was here the pony’s had set themselves that afternoon, pawing at the water and drinking their fill.

The dwarves had no choice in the matter as the wolf lay beside the waters edge, and so they took the chance to relax and stretch out themselves. They filled their waterskins to the brim, and washed their faces and beards, all else was strictly downstream.

The elleth had sat herself alone upon a rock opposite Lorne, peering down into the steady water below, but it was not long before several of the company had joined her side. Bofur had moved to lean up against the backside of the rock with his hat draw down upon his eyes. His legs crossed at the ankles and his arms folded atop his chest, with his pipe hanging limply from his mouth.

Fíli and Kíli had removed their boots, their trousers rolled up to their knees as they waded in the water before her sending ripples this way and that. Bilbo and Ori were sat either side of the elf, and even the hobbits feet were dangled within the cool water. Hobbits had no love of water this was true, yet Bilbo had allowed his Took side to shine and was eager to try new things, especially at the elleth’s side.

She was pointing out the wetland creatures with Bilbo, explaining their lifecycles and how she exactly identified them, as Ori nodded eagerly, jotting down his notes and drawings in the broad leather bound book he carried. The brothers, however slow, were trying their best to catch the said creatures. Lorne watched curiously, his head upon the ground between outstretched paws, his eyes following every movement with wonder. It was the closest the warg had been to the company in several days, mayhap it was the spring itself bringing them together.

“Why not?” Dwalin knew it was the elf his friend was watching, just like he knew the answer to the question he asked.

He aimed to sound indifferent, but it was thinly veiled, “Is there a reason I should?”

Dwalin looked at him then, narrowed eyes, but Thorin merely kept his eyes ahead, “Aye, there is, you insulted her in front of the whole company, needlessly,” He tilted his head to the side then, “Dís wouldn’t be pleased.”

“Do not bring my sister into this,” Fired eyes met then, a strong gaze held, “She was questioning my judgement,”

“Gandalf said-“

“I do not care what Gandalf said,” Thorin almost growled, yet kept his voice low and hushed, “I will not trust an elf with any part of this quest, not even its camping locations,” He looked away then, his eyes flickered to the elleth upon the stone, but Dwalin caught them.

“She is not those who betrayed you, Thorin, your anger should be aimed at the woodland king, and the fire drake who stole our home, who desecrated our halls, who slaughtered and burnt thousands of our own,” his words cut deep as he leant closer, “Not an elf who has willingly come to help us fight for our home, when even our own kin within the Iron Hills refused to come to our aid.”

Thorin exhaled deeply, his eyes skating across the grass, for those were words that he could not argue with. It seemed to make him uncomfortable, the truth shown to him like a mirror. Was he wrongfully holding onto the past? Holding onto a version of the elf he had already placed upon her through prejudice? She even had a different air about her than the woodland elves he was familiar with. Mayhap he had, but he had yet to see anything to contradict those thoughts, and nothing to verify them either, save her offering her insight. It was King Thranduil and Smaug whom his ire should be aimed at, and here she was, ready to aid them, knowing the fact a dragon lay in wait at the end.

Dwalin studied Thorin’s face, following the lines that had been drawn upon it in thought, and was pleased his words had hit their mark.

“I am not asking you to befriend her, but she’s here whether you like it or not, and there may be a time where we need another fighter,” He added, albeit his voice was softer this time, “Besides, we’ve seen how wargs fight, with one on our side we’d be unstoppable.”

Thorin huffed out a laugh at his jest, a slow nod in a silent agreement, though he knew he needed more time to mull it over. Dwalin smiled too and pushed himself to stand, clapping his hand on Thorin’s shoulder. Only then did their eyes meet softly, a solid understanding of friends shon between them.

“Though, I have seen you staring more than once,” He added with a sly grin, slapping his shoulder again before walking towards the small group.

Thorin’s face turns hard once more, his cheeks tinge with red, he could easily blame it upon the sun. His eyes found her once more, the gold that littered her pointed ears glittering back at him. He had never been to The Woodland Realm, an offer was granted once when he was younger, yet he could not make it. He was unsure how elf maidens looked, but he was sure the Valar had indeed created her in their image. She looked so strong yet so graceful, delicate, could he trust himself to not break her? Not only physically, but emotionally? Mentally? could he bring himself to break through the version of her that he had formed within his mind? He seemed to sneer at himself.

Dwalin had appeared behind elleth, arms folded, peering over at Bilbo, who was now in the water too, pointing at the group of iridescent minnow that swam amongst the gravel. She looked behind and offered a curl of his lips, a smile that he matched with a curt nod before he then motioned to her palm. A bright lapis damselfly had landed upon the elleth’s fingertips, folding its wings gently in rest. The youngest dwarf froze. This was the first flight borne being to have come near her since Thorin’s outburst, for even the birds and moths had ceased their visits. He looked upon with wonder, even Dwalin seemed intrigued, as Ori began to noted it down, thrilled to tell Oín later.

Twilight had settled over the camp, and the inky blanket above held tight onto the moon and stars that lit the ground below. The winds were calm and slight, but cold enough to creep into their bones, so much so, a light frost had formed over them, knitting itself into beards and long brows. The crystals twinkled in the moonlight, mirroring the shroud above, yet even the puff of weak embers from their fires could not keep such ice at bay. The horses had drawn together in one bundle, keeping each other warm as they grazed slowly upon their nosebags.

The dwarves seemed unfazed by the cold, snoring deeply and curling into their fur bedrolls, even Bilbo had managed to find a sweet warmth between Bombur and Bofur. Gandalf had shut himself into a state of torpor and had settled against the trunk of a broad oak. The elleth however, felt the chill through to her flesh. It seemed to meld into the sinew surrounding her joints and kept her locked together.

She had began the evening setting up her own fire, yet when’er her back was turned, less and less of her collected wood there seemed to be. That was until she caught them in the act. Nori was slowly making off with her bedroll and his face paled at her glare and the raised heckles of the warg behind her. It was only after Bofur tried to return to steal more sticks that the rouse was revealed.

They had indeed began confiscating her firewood to deter her from camping alone, and it was a good thing too, for the dwarves surrounding her offered a little more warmth than she would have had alone. Her cheeks and nose had flushed a deep crimson, and the ice gathered itself upon her lashes. She shuddered, her teeth clicking together as she drew herself tighter together, eyeing the dying fire. The embers twitched and flickered, yet no amount of twigs added would relight its fire. Lorne was nowhere to be seen, and on nights like this he often curled himself into her, keeping her warm. Yet the further they travelled, the longer he would stay watch, and the more his unrest grew.

Although a watch was always assigned regardless of Lorne, Thorin oft stayed awake too, he preferred to be the one to know first of trouble when’re the warg returned. He preferred the cold winds to the mild ones, it reminded him of the winds that would whip through the mountain, that would whistle and sing and bring in the air worth breathing. His pipe was clutched gently between his teeth, the smoke curling in wafts as the light of its embers casted a soft dappled light upon his face.

Such as Gandalf, he too was lent against a broad tree, positioned so that he could see each member of his company. Thorin felt loyalty from each one, and his gaze fell upon each dwarf, pondering, a warmth within him spreading. The ones that answered his call to join him on his quest, no matter how dangerous and unpredictable it seemed to be, they still came to him. To aid his cause. They believed in him, and he them.

The sound of chattering teeth shook him from his trailing thoughts. He sat straighter, his ears piqued, his eyes scanning as his pipe hovered near his lips. They finally settled on the elf, her bundled form quivering beside the dying fire. He felt an inward groan, and he dropped himself back against the broad trunk. The elf was of no use to him, that he had already deemed so, especially if she could not survive in the wilds, in the frigid temperatures they would find themselves in.

He tried to force his indifference, yet instead he felt a pang of guilt within in the base of his throat, though he knew not where it came from. He had noticed over the past few days the efforts of his kin to try and encourage her back with them, to try and talk to her when she pushed away. For it was his words that caused this rift, and it only seemed to glimmer in his mind after Dwalin’s words that afternoon. It seemed however, irritation was still imbedded deep. His body seemed to move on its own, before he had even gave the movement thought.

He steadily made to stand with a low grumble, quiet enough that he would not wake the others, and slowly made his way towards her.

The elleth noticed such movements betwixt her shivering and froze, almost becoming the ice that had formed upon her cloak as her breath stopped within her throat. Heavy boots approached her achingly slow in their best effort to be silent, yet she could hear the wingbeats of a Barn Owl, she realised the dwarves forgot such things. Her heart thudded within her chest, the blood staring to surge as frozen fingers numbly felt for the knife upon her hip. Mayhap Thorin had decided to be rid of her whilst the others slept, she would not put it past him for the look he gave her was filled with venom at the best of times.

In the space of a heartbeat, a thick weight was dropped upon her and a squeak left her throat in surprise. She was instantly enveloped in warmth, and her body welcomed it with a deep set shudder. Woodsmoke and pine filled her nose, petrichor and sap, and a scent she could not name, other than Thorin himself. Blue eyes rested upon her for a moment, pondering, as if battling between words unspoken, before making to walk off.

“Dolzekh menu,” She called out meekly from behind the fur that lined its collar. The words felt rough and sounded foreign on her tongue. They were rustily used for it had been an age since she had spoken their speech, and the quiver in her voice was elevated with her lilt.

He froze at the words and slowly turned to look back to her, his eyes slightly wider. Their eyes met, boring into one another for silent seconds. Khuzdul was a secretive tongue that was rarely spoke by outsiders, and for her to speak it sent a spark through his fingertips. It was spoken in such a way that showed she had learnt this years ago, and his interest seemed to heighten. He broke the contact as looked to the floor, his face almost flushing as he grunted in response, followed by a curt nod of his head.

He turned and slowly made his way through his companions and back to his place beneath the oak tree, where his fingers uneasily found their way back to his pipe, an unsteady breath settling him against the oak tree.

Sindarin:

Ar-Faeámarth nîn - My Spirt of Fate

Annon allen - Thank you

Annon allen, raen-nîn naugrim - Thank you, My sweet dwarves

Khuzdul: