— VII —
The shadows swallow us whole. And I, normally so at ease in the darkness, feel like I am in enemy territory. The Dwarves are affected almost instantly. Bilbo keeps his wits longer as he sticks to my side. Together, we lead the Dwarves along the path.
"What's wrong with this place?" He whispers to me. I grit my jaw against the stupor that tries to enter my head. I will tolerate none of it in this moment.
"The woods were not always like this. I have not been here in a decade, but I would remember if they felt this...wrong. The Elves should never have allowed it to turn this sickly."
"A decade?" Bilbo asks, looking at me more carefully. A trivial question for this moment. I smirk, shaking my head slightly.
"We Dúnedain age like Hobbits, my friend. Long lives for a kingly bloodline."
"I did not know that," he tells me plainly. I pat his shoulder.
"Few do. Most believe it a legend, especially considering how few of my race have survived into this age."
"Air," someone gasps from behind us. "I need air." Bilbo inches closer to me, looking at the trees nervously.
"It's starting," I tell him. The branches grow thicker over our heads, blocking out the sun the farther we walk. The trunks of the trees are broad, the growth so ancient even shallow into the forest's edge. The path, usually well-kept and obvious, is overgrown. The roots are lifting the cobblestones, sickly dark green moss growing over the route I once knew so well. Everything looks unfamiliar with this unhealthy cast and I fight to find the right memories to lead us in the correct direction. It's almost like the dark fog affecting the Dwarves wants to prevent me from finding the way. It wants us to get lost.
"My head. It's swimming!" Another Dwarf groans.
I ignore the complaints, leading the company onward with a gritted jaw. I know if I look back at Thorin, I will be lost too. This magic wants me to give in to its urges. Wants me to fold. I will not. The Dwarves are blinking sleepily and groaning with each step. I don't relent or slow my punishing pace through the trees until we reach the bridge. I curse loudly, stopping in my tracks. Bilbo jumps as he runs into my heels, not yet seeing the object of my frustration.
"We found the bridge," Bofur calls back from behind me.
"What was the bridge," I groan.
How long has this been out? Something fell is at work here. Bilbo is right. This place is far too sick. There is darkness here.
"We could try and swim it," Bofur offers. I appreciate the Dwarf's optimism, but Thorin steps forward angrily.
"Didn't you hear what Gandalf said?" I turn to him, eyebrows raising in surprise as he reminds the company of the words of the wizard. "A dark magic lies upon this forest. The waters of this stream are enchanted."
"Doesn't look very enchanting to me," Bofur grumbles. Bilbo nods in agreement, his lip curled in disgust at the tar-black water. A foul odor wafts from it, thick pools of shining oil contaminating the surface. The plants half-submerged in the stream are slimy and appear dead. Flies buzz just above the water, as does a film of thick greenish fog that makes it hard to see too far down the stream.
"We must find another way across." Thorin turns to me. "Léra, do you know of any other bridges?" I'm shaking my head before he finishes the question.
"None within fifty miles of this point." I frown, gesturing at the splintered edges of the bridge. "And if this one is out, it's likely the others are too."
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.
"I hear nothing. No wind. No birds. What hour is it?" Thorin groans.
"I do not know," Dwalin responds. "I don't even know what day it is."
"This is taking too long. Is there no end to this accursed forest?" Thorin cries out, his head dropping back.
I don't hear him. I don't hear any of them. I'm frozen, staring at Bilbo. At his hand, lifted to the material arching across the stump to his right. I didn't see it before, too worried was I about the horrors on the ground. Too consumed in watching our backs to simply look up.
"Bilbo." My voice is cracking with horror. "Bilbo!" Louder. I'm not fast enough between the groans of the Dwarves. They're starting to move, following their leader away from the path. I lunge for the Hobbit around them as his fingers pluck at the white web. Once. Twice. My hand closes harshly around his wrist, yanking it cruelly away from the web.
"Do not disturb the webs! The spiders will come now. You've just rung the dinner bell."
The web is thrumming in great vibrations above our heads. All around us, on every side. I follow the movement, my heart slamming in my ears.
"Spiders?" Bilbo asks dreamily.
"Yes, Bilbo. Spiders," I snap, whirling. The Dwarves are already several long lengths away. "Thorin Oakenshield!" I thunder. He falters, just like he did before. "You do not leave this path!"
"Do as I say," he responds gruffly. "Follow me." He turns, jogging into the expanse of trees. Even Bilbo leaves my side in pursuit of the dark-haired Dwarf. I tug at my hair in frustration, completely torn. I knew the forest would be hard to traverse, but not like this. A part of me wants to curl up and let the Dwarves walk to their shadowy fate. But I can't. I swore an oath.
The spiders will come whether I follow the Dwarves or not.
I leave the path, regretting every step. I catch up quickly, tailing the company and keeping a careful eye on everything. I am worn thin keeping them together. And the deeper we go, the worse the Dwarves get. They're panicked and confused, walking in complete circles in the forest. They ignore my words, forgoing my advice on where to travel and turning instead to the depths of the trees. The deeper we go, the more the fog tries to worm into my mind. My frantic thoughts are making a perfect target for the darkness until I withdraw my senses and focus on keeping the confusion from taking over.
"Thorin, will you ignore my counsel so?" I finally cry out in desperation, despair turning my words into a near-wail as I gesture at the tree we have passed for the fifth time now. Bilbo has realized the same fact, for he's angrily speaking with the Dwarves behind me.
"We're not lost. We keep heading East," Thorin snaps back.
"East," I retort. "And how do you know which way is East? We've lost the sun, Thorin."
He doesn't answer me, but Bilbo's mind is obviously sent whirring by my words. He tugs on my arm, gesturing at a tree.
"We need to find the sun. I'm going to climb up there."
"Good idea. Be quick, Halfling. I fear for our Dwarves if we stay in these depths any longer." I crouch before him, pressing my hand against his shoulder. "If you return and we are not here, climb, Bilbo. I will find you, I swear it."
He nods, pushing away from me and scrambling up the tree's stout trunk as the Dwarves start to push and argue. I step between them, attempting to quell their muddled nerves. The quarrels are foolish and have no foundation, but they don't calm.
I hear it before Thorin does. My entire body freezes in place, fear numbing my limbs like ice water.
"What was that?" The Dwarf leader mumbles a second later. "Enough! Quiet! All of you! We're being watched."
"No," I whisper, drawing Angolain from its sheath. The sword releases with a satisfying hiss. "We're being hunted."
The Dwarves look to me with wide eyes. They start to ramble questions, but Thorin silences them again. I simply look into the canopy with dread in my heart at the sound of jointed legs clicking together. Pinchers snapping hungrily. The hiss of the spiders I had hoped we would never meet, drawing ever closer.
"Take out your blades, Dwarves," I tell them, trying to hide the shake in my voice. "These are foes you have never faced before."
Angolain flashes in the dull light of the forest as I twirl it in preparation. I sink into a position of readiness, but no mental preparation could ever ready me for the beasts that appear next.
They arrive in sets of three. Then more. The Dwarves, with their minds beset, move far too slowly. I am one human slashing angrily at the giant spiders. My sword is true, but not efficient enough. I can do nothing as the spiders drive me away from the party. Wolves driving the collie from the sheep herd. More and more arrive as I back pedal, their spinnerets whirring as they wrap up my dear friends in blankets of web. Frustration and rage pools in my throat until I scream in anger and twist.
The spiders won't kill them. Not yet, anyway. My only hope is to find help before they get hungry.
"Help, friends in the woods! Help!" I cry in Elvish as I run, praying to every god in Middle Earth that there is at least one nearby Wood Elf who will come to my aid. I pelt through the branches, ignoring the sharp twigs that lash at my face and arms. I stumble over tree routes, my desperation making me clumsy.
"Stop!" I almost fly backwards as my momentum is halted by a strong arm. I want to sob in relief at the answering Elvish.
"Spiders!" I gasp out, gesturing behind me with Angolain. I bend over, panting with the force of my sprint. When I finally look up at the Elf, I find an arrow leveled at me. And at the end of that arrow, a face that nearly makes me weep with joy. "Legolas!" I cry out. "Thank every star in the heavens. My friend, there are spiders after my traveling companions."
"I know," the blond prince responds, face unchanging. "We saw them attack. Léra, you brought Dwarves into our Realm and allowed them to stray from the path. You knew the consequences. Why would we help them?"
"Please, Legolas," I plead with him. I glance to the other Elves that have circled us. "We are simply passing through. They mean no harm."
Legolas frowns down at me harshly for a moment before gesturing to his companions.
"Go," he commands. "Kill the spiders. Bring the Dwarves to me." His cold blue eyes soften slightly as he glances back down at me. My gaze turns to stone as I step back.
"You will not let us pass through so easily, will you?"
"I can't. You know that. Don't worry. I'll ensure the king doesn't treat them too harshly."
"You're still a prick for this," I curse at him.
"Come," he gestures, ignoring the insult I've just thrown at him. He could kill me for my words, considering I've just easily sworn at the prince, but he won't. "Let's see if there are any beasts left for us to kill."
The Dwarves are already surrounded by Legolas's guards when we arrive. The spiders lay dead around them, long legs still twitching as the beasts curl on their backs.
"Search them," he commands. I sheath Angolain, prepared to have the blade taken from me. But when a male Elf approaches me, Legolas holds out a hand. "Not Léra." He speaks in Elvish, but my name is recognizable. Thorin's icy stare turns to me accusingly. Rage boils in that familiar blue expanse. Betrayal, too. I look away, knowing that he's right to feel such things. I have fully handed them over to the enemy.
"Are the spiders dead?" I ask bitterly, still using Elvish.
"Yes, but more will come," a red-haired She-Elf answers as she approaches Legolas and I. "They're growing bolder."
"There have been others?" I ask Legolas. The blond elf is facing Thorin and doesn't answer. I watch as he takes the Dwarf's weapons.
Legolas turns to me, holding out Thorin's Elvish blade with wide eyes. He might not know it by name, but he recognizes the Gondolin make.
"This is an ancient Elvish blade. Forged by my kin." He swings Orcrist into the air, testing the weight of it in his hands. "Where did you get this?" He demands of Thorin in Westron.
"It was given to me," the Dwarf answers, lip curling. Legolas levels the blade at Thorin's neck. I step forward, a warning pursed on my lips.
"Not just a thief, but a liar as well."
"Not a liar, Legolas. Nor a thief, unless you want to call saving that blade from the greedy hands of Mountain Trolls thievery," I hiss. He looks back at me, a dark eyebrow raised. I narrow my eyes, warning him with my dark glare.
"Come," he commands his guards. He sheathes Orcrist, holding it at his side. He turns on his heel to lead the party from the clearing, but pauses as his eyes find me. "Léra," he gestures to the path at his side.
If looks could kill, Legolas and I would be in pieces from the slicing stare of Thorin Oakenshield. I have no doubts Khuzdul curses are pursed on his lips. Ready to slash at me with the full force of Dwarven hate. But the faint whispers of his kin freeze his insults.
"Where's Bilbo?" It's Bofur.
Oh, Bofur. So attentive to our friend.
I hope he's long gone from this place. Run, little Hobbit. Run, and don't look back.
"Take them to the dungeons," Legolas calls as we enter the great double doors of the Woodland Realm. "This one and Léra go to the King." He shoves Thorin forward. The Dwarf won't look at me. I wish I could tell him why the Elf prince is using my name so casually, but nothing will ever make up for the way Legolas stops in front of me and holds out his hand for my blades. "You know the rules, my Pîn Draug," he speaks softly in the common tongue. I pull the Elven blade from my back, then unbuckle the scabbard from my waist. His eyes skate over Angolain as I place it in his palms. "You have a new blade. A very fitting weapon for you, my friend."
"Do not taunt him like this," I warn Legolas in Elvish. "Oakenshield is my friend and I will fight before I see you make a fool of him."
"Perhaps you should have thought of that before you came to us for help," he responds. Still in the common speech of Westron. Still toying. I step forward, fingers twitching for the hidden dagger in my belt. Legolas levels Angolain at my throat, a smirk toying on his lips.
"Easy, Little Wolf," he slides forward, pulling the dagger free. He was smart. He'd seen me move towards it. I don't relax, even as he speaks in Elvish to me. "Like I said, my father will let them go if they agree to his arrangements." He switches back again, addressing both Thorin and I. "Now go, he is waiting."
Dread blackens my heart as my eyes rise to the level above, where I know the fierce Elf King is waiting. Thranduil. Elvenking. Protector of the Realms.
Of the great king and his son, I had always found Legolas more agreeable.