mithril

VII.

This was no accident. Something took this bridge down. Something doesn't want travelers passing beyond this point. Something, or someone.

"These vines look strong enough," Kíli calls out, tugging on the great ropes of brown that hang from the trees.

"We send the lightest first," Thorin commands. I start to protest, but Bilbo is marching forward without complaint. I worry my lip between my teeth as the Hobbit shakily makes his way across the vines. There are several times I fear he will fall into the dark water, but he makes it to the other side. Just barely. The vines won't hold the Dwarves as well. But before I can stop them, they are jumping onto the ropes and swinging across the stream dangerously. Bilbo's eyes meet mine and my heart sinks at his head shaking vigorously. This isn't right.

I can't stop them. I have a bad feeling this won't be the last time they turn from my counsel. Reluctantly, I ease my way across the vines, taking much more care than the Dwarves. I shy away from the vines that hit the water and create splashes of the dark liquid, unlike those in front of me that don't move away from the droplets.

The sound of a bow being drawn makes my head snap up. I follow the aim, and gaze, of Thorin to his target. A white stag, the pale animal elegant and curious. The deer is a symbol of perseverance in this forest, a sign that we are inching closer to the warm and bright lands of the Woodland Realm rather than the entrance. In other words, it's a warning. If we do not return to the path soon, the Elves will kill us for our intrusion and trespassing. Or worse...we will stir up something more dangerous.

"Thorin!" I practically roar, my voice echoing through the forest. The Dwarves freeze, my resounding command clearing their minds slightly. Thorin jumps, the arrow clattering to the ground. His eyes sharpen for a moment, staring at me with the clarity of being freed from the fog.

"What?" He asks, voice strangled and low.

"It would not be wise to kill anything innocent in these woods," I advise him.

"It's bad luck," Bilbo agrees. The cloud returns to Thorin's eyes. His gaze unfocuses and goes dull. Looking right through me as if I'm not there at all.

"I don't believe in luck," he replies darkly. "We make our own luck."

I sag in defeat as he turns, only to jump in panic in the next second at the sound of a splash. It's the last thing I want to hear. I twist on my vine and find Bombur laying face-up in the water, snoring softly in a deep, deep sleep. I curse again. This journey through Mirkwood is already going in a bad direction very quickly. Too fast. There are forces against us.

The Dwarves aren't supposed to make it to Erebor alive, I realize with a jolt. Something doesn't want them to enter that mountain.

My heart thunders with that knowledge. I help the Dwarves lift Bombur carefully from the water, sacrificing my poor cloak in order to avoid contact with the stream. The Dwarves use the cloak and branches to create a makeshift litter to carry their friend. I feel more exposed without the cloak, feeling a hundred eyes on me.

The company carries Bombur as I drag them back to the path. I ignore their complaints, a determined frown on my face. I scan the trees constantly, utter unease flooding my senses.

"We need to take a rest," a Dwarf groans.

"No!" I snap in annoyance. "We do not rest in these parts."

But when I turn, the Dwarves, and even Bilbo, are leaning against trees and sitting on the ground. Some are rubbing their faces. Thorin is testing his balance with a dazed expression.

"What is that?" Bilbo asks, his voice soft and wavering. "Those...those voices. Can you hear them?"

And so goes the Burglar.