mithril

XXIX.

— XXIX —

"Hey!" I choke out as my side is sprayed with water. The pale horse tosses his head, almost as if he's laughing at me. I narrow my eyes, but can't quite fight my smile. I kick at the creek in retaliation, sending it splashing back at him. The horse dances sideways, whinnying and throwing his head. His wet mane sends droplets flying, each one turning into a rainbow in the sunlight.

Midsummer has arrived quickly, shadowing my long and peaceful days. From Gandalf's departure, I had resorted to spending more time with the lithe Mereas horse. Instead of making my way through the Shire alone, the gelding began to accompany me. There were many evenings where I rode him to the stream bareback and allowed him to cool off from the hot summer days.

In my practice of Khuzdul, I speak to him in the harsh language. He responds to my words with flicking ears now, starting to understand their meaning as well as the tongue of Man and Elf. In my appreciation of the sweet summer sounds of the Shire, I have taken to calling him Zunsh, 'bird' in Khuzdul.

There is something special about being able to speak to the Mereas without judgment, a relief I don't always afford myself when speaking with Bofur and Bilbo. So, with my days spent outdoors with Zunsh at my side, midsummer arrives.

I don't realize it until Bilbo motions at the crescent moon far overhead. The same moon under which I first met Thorin Oakenshield. A year ago, now.

"I suppose it's time to leave, then," I tell Bofur. When the Dwarf doesn't respond, I turn to him. "Bofur?"

He looks troubled, dark eyebrows drawn. He draws a breath from his pipe before speaking. "Begging your pardon, Ruthukhînh, but I'm thinking about staying," he tells me softly.

I almost wish I could be cross with him. That I would grow angry enough to demand that he must accompany me back. That I won't go alone.

Yet I understand. I do, truly, understand.

I would stay here, too, if the cavity in my chest didn't ache so. The ache that grew with each passing week, until the moment I turn to my friends at the edge of the Shire with tears in my eyes. I cry selfishly. I cry not for them, but for this beautiful place. This hidden oasis in a wide, horrible world. I cry because, deep down, I know my body will never survive another trip this far to the West. My friends may travel, but the Shire will be lost.

"You'll visit, the both of you?"

"Of course," Bilbo promises. My arms go around the Hobbit, holding him tight. An embrace I never want to leave.

"You have been the best friend to me even when I did not deserve it. Thank you, Bilbo."

"You always deserved it," he whispers, patting my back. I kiss his cheek lightly, fighting the torrent of tears before I turn to Bofur. The Dwarf squeezes me so tightly I lift from the ground.

"Safe travels, My Lady," he chokes out. He's crying too, the great tears falling into his beard and mustache. I brush at his cheek with my thumb, trying to smile. "Tell Thorin I send him my wishes. And the others. Bombur, and Bifur."

"I will," I squeeze his hands once. He grabs them before I can turn.

"You have been my queen this entire time, Léra Zirakkund. Should you have need of my assistance, I will ride to you, My Lady. Always, no matter the distance. Tell Thorin the same holds true for him."

I hug him again, or else I will burst into a sob. His words mean more to me than I can ever truly express with words, neither in his tongue or mine.

I refuse to look backwards as Zunsh moves away from them. If I do, I will never leave. Tears blur my vision, turning the final steps of the Shire into a bokeh of green. I will never enter the Shire again, and for it, I may never see my closest friends again.