— III —
My path from Imladris does not immediately follow the Dwarves. I did have intentions of leaving before the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, but by some way or another they were gone before I knew it. I followed shortly after, jogging lightly for nearly twenty minutes before I realized I was actually on the tail of the Dwarves. They weren't hard to miss, after all. They were loud, noisy, and certainly rather slow in their pace. At that point, I wrapped my mottled cloak around myself more tightly and slipped easily into the shadows of the cliffs that lined the road.
It took the Dwarves several long minutes before noticing that they were, in fact, being followed. I make myself more and more obvious, walking loudly and more like a human than I ever have. It's the dark-haired Dwarf, Bofur, that finally glances back casually. He looks again with a sharp snap of his neck. His cry of alarm has the rest of the company turning to see what the disturbance is.
The leader of the party falters as I slip fully into the open road. He doesn't relax as I slowly peel the dark green cowl away from my head.
Thorin knows me in an instant. His eyes snap to mine, locking there like he can't look away. For once, I can't fully read the darkness of his expression, but it is more rage-filled than the night before. The Dwarves of his company are starting to pull weapons on me, but Thorin holds out a commanding hand.
"What are you doing?" He speaks quietly. Dangerously. Not hiding the anger in his voice. A quiet Thorin might just be more dangerous than a loud one.
"I am simply following the stars, Master Oakenshield."
"But it's day," I hear a Dwarf whisper to my left. I fight a smile as I step forward.
"And those forsaken stars conveniently led you to my party?" He growls, reaching for his sword. The elven blade, even with the mere handle visible, catches my attention. I pause, recognizing the make of it. Another question for another time. I breeze through the party, pausing in front of Thorin. I sweep a bow at the surrounding Dwarves. And to the Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins.
"Léra Celebdraug, Dúnedan of the North and Friend of the Elves, at your service. Thorin," I turn back to him slowly, tilting my head and flashing him my Draug Rae. "If you wish to know those terrible 'black words' I spoke last night...I said 'I will find you in the morning, Thorin Oakenshield. My sword is yours from this time on.' You did not reject my oath, so I came."
His anger only grows, mounting until I fear he will turn the very air dark in the fashion of Gandalf. His company shifts, stepping back and eyeing him warily. I note the many hands that rest on the hilts of swords or handles of axes. Cautious. Waiting for the call of their leader. Good. Very good.
"I did not reject it because I did not understand your black speech," he snaps, stepping forward. A challenge. Daring me to back down. I raise my chin and stare him down.
"At ease, Dwarf. At the very least, allow me to take up arms as your...Burglar-Protector," I gesture at Bilbo. Thorin stares at me, shock lightening his features. I study him, narrowing my eyes in a response to that earlier challenge. He needs this Hobbit alive. And I, knowing something of the Halfling race, understand that the Hobbit's death is more likely than not in the Wild.
"Absolutely not."
His eyes betray him. He is studying me just as closely as I am him. His gaze rests on my hair, now braided back with the pale strands intricately woven in the fashion of the Elves that will not allow it to fall into my face. So different than the night before where I allowed my hair to lay long against my figure. I note the way he repeatedly returns to the silver circlet I still wear against my forehead. It's a token, a reminder, of my good standing with the Elves. A tiny piece of elegance I will not part with in the Wild.
He has told no one of their conversation the night before. I can tell by the sheer bewilderment of his company as they watch our exchange with wide eyes. Yet there must be something in his gaze, for Bilbo and several of the closest Dwarves watch us closely.
"Thorin," Bilbo starts, his cautious gaze flickering to me. His presence has been mentioned in our conversation, after all. His nerves are understandable. I'm quite aware what image the fitted leather breastplate and light chain mail represent as my cloak shifts. A fighting figure. A warrior. They could go down fighting right here to my blade and some of them would never reach Erebor. "I don't think it would be wise to say no," the Hobbit whispers to the Dwarf. I smile.
And so you have an intelligent soul amongst your midst. Bilbo Baggins, we may yet be friends.
"My friends, as much as I would enjoy standing around and speaking on trivial matters late into the night, we must make haste from this place. The time for conversation will have to wait." I dip my head slightly. The smirk and playfulness is gone from my face. Thorin shifts uneasily, for he knows I'm right. I am not a Friend of the Wild, after all. There are more than Rivendell Elves after his company now.
I am already slipping into myself. Away from the stuffiness and enclosed spaces of Imladris, I am becoming my birthright. A Dúnedan set upon the Wild and destined to slip amongst the mountains of Middle Earth for the rest of my years. I will not be repressed out here, not by Elf, Dwarf, Man, or any other like.
"If you die, I will not mourn you. The road is hard and long and perilous. You might lose your life." Thorin turns abruptly without another word. He knows I'm right. We can't stand around for long in these parts.
The Dwarves of his party are a merry bunch. Despite myself, I find I enjoy their company after only a short while. They re easy to talk to, starting conversations with me as if Thorin's disgust for my presence matters little.
There's Balin, who is rather miffed and annoyed he hadn't noticed my presence along the path from Rivendell. He is well-versed in his history, and seems interested to hear about my upbringing with the Elves. Among the Dwarves, Balin is the only one who had ever bothered to learn about the world of Man, and his knowledge of the Dúnedain rather impressed me. I take his numerous questions in stride, answering his questions and discussing the many ages of the land we travel across.
Dwalin, on the other hand, was more interested to learn about the fighting nature the Elves had instilled in me. Like Thorin, he wasn't afraid to tell me just what he thought of those 'sparkly little fairies.' He was, undoubtedly, loyal to a fault when it came to the leader of this company. I was rather surprised to find him related to Balin, so different were the two from each other. His questions never once moved to history or the culture of Imladris, but stayed almost entirely on the blade I carried and the nature of my skills.
Óin, when he wasn't scolding his fellow Dwarves about raising the volume of their voice, was needling me about healing information I'd learned with the Elves. I didn't give him much, not once betraying my somewhat adept skills as a healer myself. I was nowhere near as talented as my cousin, who was skilled in the practice even at his young age, but I had enough skill to keep me afloat in the Wild. I keep my smiles hidden with each question the older Dwarf poses, my lips sealed even as he pesters me.
Another relation in the party ( and not the last I will find, much to my chagrin, for Dwarves seem numerous in their family members ), is Glóin, brother of Óin. His deep red beard is mirrored in the image of the child he shows me subtly, proudly professing his son and heir to his riches. I listen to his stories with a slight smile, as I do the others, for I won't so rudely cut them off. It seems like it has been long since the Dwarves had someone other than Gandalf or the Hobbit to speak to who doesn't already know the entire history of their line.
Dori, Nori, and Ori are three fiercely loyal brothers, the elder two watching out for Ori rather attentively. I don't get many chances to talk to them, for they stick to each other like glue. However, they seem a rather happy trio that I don't find fault with.
Bifur and Bombur are much the same, for Bifur's speech seems limited to Khuzdul and I can't say I know too much of the Dwarven language. When Bombur tries to translate for him, the result is rather a mess with me frowning in confusion and Bifur shouting angrily at him in the harsh Dwarven tongue. To ease their troubles, I steer away from them both most of the time. However, Bombur's brother Bofur, the one who first spotted me, is an easier character to get along with. Where the other Dwarves were at first hesitant to speak with me ( not that I blame them ), Bofur warmed instantly. The dark-haired Dwarf and Bilbo are at my side most often, speaking together or to me, usually in a hearty fashion on various food preparation methods. Sometimes, Bofur will sing and play his flute as we walk, the Khuzdul words unfamiliar to me but lilting and melancholy all the same. I know enough of the nature of music to understand when one sings of his home and his people so tenderly. For this, I find I enjoy Bofur's presence over most of the company.
Most, except for Fíli and Kíli. I don't expect to like the two brothers as much as I do, especially after Bilbo informs me they are of closest relation to Thorin, but it doesn't take long before the two figures slide to my side and charm their way right into friendship with me. I have some troubles adjusting to their brazen words, the jokes more crude than any Elladan or Elrohir ever spoke to me. But in time, with each passing hour on the road, I adjust to them. I take their teasing about the color of my hair lightly, throwing back taunts at Kíli's slight beard and his taller height compared to the other Dwarves. They take it in stride, something I rather appreciate when the leader of this company is so serious at all times.
The Dwarves offer kind hands to me as we climb away from Imladris and across boulders. I ignore the gestures, declining them politely. I know I am far more agile than any of them, but do not openly leap away from them at a pace that will offend the company. Instead, I keep my stride set to that of the Hobbit's. When Bilbo stumbles, it is my hand that snaps out to steady him. I try to keep true to my word, even if Thorin still denies my offer. I keep my eye on the Halfling. I will not let Thorin's Burglar be lost.
I'm surprised when a presence falls to my side and I find it isn't Bofur, Bilbo, or the two brothers. Instead, it's Thorin. His eyes lay on the sword that rests at my hip. The weapon is long and curving in the nature of Elvish blades. However, unlike the one he carries, the sword is thin and tapering, curving upwards at the end in the fashion of the Woodland Realm in the East. I don't speak as he crosses the terrain at my side. I keep my face grim as he softly brings up the place we have just left.
"The Elf knew you were leaving, didn't he?"
"Yes. Elrond came to me in the early morn, speaking of all he had seen in his waking dreams. He knew you would leave without heading his counsel. He knew I would follow. It was the Way, and nothing he could do would stop me. Long did I reside in Imladris, Thorin. Elrond knew I ached to leave for many years."
Elrond. My heart gives a strange, aching tug. For decades I turned to Elrond in all my troubles. He raised me, fostering a small human into something stronger. I always regarded his counsel so highly. And I had planned to leave him without uttering so much as a farewell.
When he had come to me, his face was sad, and I knew the nature of his arrival. He knew my plans even when I was not yet sure of the path I was to take. I had simply slid my sword into its sheath and straightened as he paused at my door, waiting for the wise words I knew were to come.
Elrond wasn't a foolish Elf. He had lived for many centuries, listening to his foresight when it was wise. He had taken in my attire and the blade I held close and simply bade me luck on my journey. However, I would not soon forget the oath he made me swear to him that there would be a time I returned to him and took my cousin into the Wild without our Elven brothers to learn all there was to know of being a Dúnedan.
"And now you have left," Thorin speaks again. I nod slightly, melancholy taking my thoughts far, far away.
"Mithrandir will not be pleased when he rejoins us," I murmur.
"The whims of one old man do not determine your path, Léra." He almost stumbles over my name, but it rings out clear and true through the crisp autumn air. I look at him sharply, startled at the way he has addressed me. So informal, yet it pleased me.
"Have you told him that?"
"Léra?" I glance back at the Hobbit. "Gandalf called you a Dúnedan."
"Yes."
"So it's true?" The Halfling asks carefully. As if he knows the meaning behind the title.
"It is true, Master Baggins. And not the last you might meet in this life," I tell him, thinking of the younger cousin that might patrol as close to the Shire as I have before. Bilbo's face twists in confusion as he attempts to work out my words.
"Have you ever faced Orcs, human?" Dwalin asks, not for the first time. I have answered him with smug smiles before, but with Thorin and the rest of the company listening I respond.
"Is your axe true?" Dwalin grins at my evasive answer. "Take ease, Dwarf. My blade has seen many of those fell creatures these past years. I will not fall as easily as I may appear to." The dwarf nods in response, appreciating my words.
"I am glad to hear it. Another warrior at our side will be good if we happen upon more of those terrible creatures."
"And when you spill Orc blood, does it turn your silver hair black?" Thorin growls, venom lacing his words. I turn to him, an eyebrow raised.
"No, Master Oakenshield. When I kill an Orc, I am so efficient that they don't know they've been struck until they hit the ground. Dead. I do not messily slaughter where I don't need to."
"I hope you're prepared to get dirty then," he sneers. "Orcs do not line up and let you kill them neatly. They will push you until your muscles give out and then they keep pushing. You kill fast and hard or be killed first." He wants me to flinch away. To be intimidated. I laugh instead. Thorin can act the part of being moody and dark, but his words of Orcs will not deter me.
"Oh, I am quite aware of the whims, or lack thereof, of Orcs. Do not take me for a soft, naive fool. Your underestimation of people may be your death, Master Oakenshield."
His ignorance of the world will make a fool of him. If not by my hand, then another. He takes my addition to the company for granted, I know that much already. He looks at me with disgust. With regret. As if I will fall apart at the first hardship in this journey and shy away at the face of death. He knows little of my past, but I do not intend to tell him of the long winters I spent in the Wild with my Elven brothers, avenging a mother I never had with them and feeling the Elven wrath of losing a loved one. I turned Orcs to ashes and ruin. I will do so again.
I stride ahead, away from Thorin. The Hobbit follows me, staying quiet as we walk. The company is well into the Wild now, climbing tall cliffs and crossing great green plains on our journey East towards the Misty Mountains.
He's always watching me, despite our squabble hours, then days, behind us. His eyes follow the sway of my braid against my back as we walk. He rests far from me in the long nights, but I feel that ice blue gaze on me over the wavering heat of the fires we create. I keep my shoulders tight when we travel, knowing the flow of my cloak will hide the narrow cut of them and the leanness of my figure from his scraping stare.
In fact, I almost take to slipping between the shadows of tall rocks again just to avoid him. The Dwarves that don't watch me as closely jump when I reappear in their midst from, apparently, nowhere. I smile subtly to myself when the Hobbit glances at me scoldingly. Once again, his mind is proving to be different from the Dwarves. My toying jokes of turning to seeming shadow do not impress him, nor do they catch him unaware.
We pass under and over waterfalls. Along the ridges of giant hills, following passes under the shadowed peaks of white-capped mountains. The grass stays a brilliant shade of green even as autumn's hold on the land starts to turn the trees a green-gold shade. And as summer disappears, the rains arrive.
The mountain path is slippery from the torrent. I half expect the Hobbit to flee under the conditions. He looks thoroughly uncomfortable, but I push him through the slashing water that drenches us to the bone. Even my thick cloak, made for a Ranger and intended to hold off the rain, is heavy with the downpour. I keep trudging as my clothes and hair become slowly soaked as the rain drives sideways into our faces. It makes it hard to see until the rocks before us blur to a dull grey mass.
I pause, shielding my eyes from the rain to overlook the mountain pass. Something is tugging on my senses. My skin tingles. My nose smarts with the smell of something...something alive. Suddenly, my eyes snap wide as I both feel and sense the change around us. The air electrifies.
"Keep moving," Thorin yells back to the group that has paused with me.
"Something is stirring," I call forward to the Dwarf in warning as a clap of thunder rolls overhead. "The air buzzes with tension. We should not pass here."
"We are not turning back," he roars over the storm. Anger. He hates that I question him so.
The mountain groans beneath our feet. It shifts, as if the very rock is alive and breathing. I flinch at a particularly violent flash of lightning, followed by the echoing crash of thunder. A rock sails through the air not far behind us, launched by a splintering lightning bolt. I duck slightly at the whistle of it passing us so closely.
I turn to Thorin, my lips pursed with another warning, when a figure rises in the darkness of the storm behind him. I stumble back, my eyes wide with wonder ( and a bit of fear, I suppose ) at the giant shadow.
"Look out!" A Dwarf shouts, and the party ducks. We throw ourselves against the rough stone mountainside, ignoring the rocks that dig into our backs. The stone splinters at our feet, taking part of the path away. Bilbo cries out at my side, wobbling at the upset of the path. I catch his shoulder and hold him steady. The Hobbit windmills his arms before dropping back against me.
The mountain groans again. This time, the noise is all around us. And accompanied by more of the dark starting to move in the slicing rain, the shadows splintering from the expanse of black and turning into individual shapes. I curse in Elvish, gripping the Hobbit tighter to me.
"This is no regular storm. This is a thunder battle!" Balin cries out. The moving mountain above us slams into another shadow, creating such a crash it reverberates for miles. I wince at the noise, watching as the giants swipe in slow, whistling arcs at each other with arms of pure stone. Arms as large as hills themselves, boulders raining down like pebbles. The mountains are coming alive. Monstrous and towering. These are ancient beings. Older than Mankind.
"So the legends are true," Dwalin mutters. "These are storm giants!"
"We need to find shelter!" Thorin yells at us.
"Move!" I urge with a shout. The stone beneath our feet is writhing. The party runs against the rain, falling over rocks in the path and tripping from the surging stone. I stand for a moment longer, watching with my neck craned upward. My heart thunders with something new. Something that feels a lot like terror.
The brawling stone giants lunge overhead, exchanging blows and sending rocks raining down. I break into a run, ducking and dodging as the path is obliterated behind us. Bilbo almost slips from the ledge, but my hands snap out and catch the Halfling before he slides into the chasm between the mountains. My attention is drawn to the Hobbit long enough that I don't see the next danger as it sails through the air.
Several Dwarves cry out as a large rock hits the path in the middle of the company. I spin, heart dropping at the sudden absence of several Dwarves and the path. Fearing those few lost, I drop to my knees at the edge of the new gap. To my utter relief, the Dwarves are caught on a ledge just beneath the old path. Alive and unharmed, for the most part. I reach down quickly, helping to pull them back up. My arms strain as I do so, but I don't complain about the stress on my muscles. I simply fall back when the last Dwarf is safely on the path. Then, my heart gives a sudden jolt and I am springing to my feet.
"Where is the Halfling?" My voice rises above those of the Dwarves. The fear in my words makes them turn to me. I look around frantically until a noise comes from the cliff ledge to my left. I react, lunging for the edge. I only just catch Bilbo's hand as the Hobbit starts to slip. His fingers are white with the force of holding onto the slippery cliff ledge. Dwalin helps me pull him up the rest of the way. The Hobbit falls next to me, his face pale. Bilbo is shaking with nerves, something that makes Thorin growl with annoyance.
"I thought we'd lost our burglar," Dwalin grins in relief, smacking the Halfling on the shoulder.
"He is lost," Thorin snaps. "He's been lost ever since we left the Shire. He never should have come." Thorin turns on his heel and stalks away from the group. I watch him go, anger and disapproval turning my vision dark. I follow him, taking long steps before pressing close to his side and hissing into his ear.
"Do not be so harsh on those that follow you. He may yet surprise you."
"If I keep my hopes low, I will not be disappointed," he snaps back, pushing off the wall away from me. I watch him go, crossing my arms.
Dwarves hold no loyalty for those beyond their kind, it seems. May the day come when you need the Hobbit at your side and he remembers your harsh words.
A king will not survive if he denies those who would help him.