mithril

XV.

"Why show his hand now?" Thranduil inquires.

"Because we forced him. We forced him when the Company of Thorin Oakenshield set out to reclaim their homeland." Gandalf freezes suddenly. "Where is the Dúnedan if she did not enter Erebor with Thorin, and she is not present for this council?"

Bard looks pointedly at Thranduil. The king doesn't falter.

"She is a shadow that has flown to the darkness. You know her nature, Mithrandir. It would be unwise to stand in the way of the storm and the sea," the king answers smoothly.

"Then we must hope she has better luck than you in convincing him to make peace and join with us." Gandalf paces away. "The Dwarves were never meant to reach Erebor. Azog the Defiler was sent to kill them. His master seeks control of the mountain. Not just for the treasure within, but for its strategic position," Gandalf motions at the mountain they are now overlooking. "This is the gateway to reclaiming the Lands of Angmar in the North. If that fell kingdom should rise again, Rivendell, Lórien, the Shire, even Gondor itself will fall."

"And so we place all our hopes on the shoulders of a Dwarf who is no better than the dragon he replaces?" Thranduil's words are condescending.

"He is not alone, Thranduil. He has Léra now."

"Léra is a human. Weak and prone to the whims of Man," Thranduil scoffs.

"She is also a Dúnedan of the ancient blood," Gandalf reminds him. "Raised by your kin and spending many summers of her extended life in your own halls. She is more than what you think of her, and you are quite aware of it. Her will runs deep and strong in the well-being of this earth. Have faith in the Silver Wolf, mellon."

"One girl against the Orcs of the enemy, then? Is that it? These armies you speak of, Mithrandir, where are they?"

Gandalf looks away, no answer rising to his mind. Bard paces away from the two tall figures. His hand rises to his mouth in thought. He believes the wizard, but there is little they can do if Gandalf does not know from which direction the armies will come. He glances back at the king, a memory rising to his mind of the short Dúnedan speaking almost as harshly to him as she had his son. A biting tone, even to a prince. To a king. She bore the marks of her words like trophies, proudly letting the blood trickle down her skin as she won the verbal battle. Bard admired her stunning courage.

Such a fiery soul, her rage at most things in the world surprising. For Léra appeared fair and beautiful, her hair so light and fine. She was small, even for a human. Sigrid was taller than her at just fifteen, and the Dúnedan only just came level with Thorin. And though he was tall for a Dwarf, Thorin still only reached Bard's shoulder.

Her movements were graceful, each step calculated. Her voice was soft and lilting, until the moment it turned dark with anger. She was an excellent fighter, something Bard knew from the words of his children and the fact she had appeared practically unscatched from her match with the Orcs. She was witty and harsh, never mincing her words. She was obviously loyal, even if it was to the Dwarves, and that meant a great deal to Bard.

He would never meet the likes of her again. He might live for decades more and someone like Léra Celebdraug would never cross his path. It's why he hates the thought of her in the company of Thorin. In that cursed Mountain.

Erebor is stoic and silent as he turns to it. Bard likes to imagine he can see a figure, pale of hair, striding easily across the ramparts. Sword strapped across her back and hair pulled away from her face in a tight braid. A cunning smirk on her lips, fighting words waiting to leap free. Bard watches the Mountain face until the moon is full and bright in the sky. He moves to Thranduil then, listening as the wizard and the Elf argue.