— XIV —
Thranduil waits for us on the bridge into Dale astride his stag. His mouth is set into a knowing smirk as we approach.
"He will give us nothing," Bard tells the king.
"Such a pity. Still, you tried." He looks at me, those pale blue eyes flashing to the bloody handprint against my neck. He knows what our failure means. He knows what the ache in my returning gaze has been caused by.
"I do not understand," Bard mutters. "Why? Why would he risk war?" Behind us, there is a massive clattering of stone as the Dwarves continue to reinforce the mountain face.
"It is fruitless to reason with them. They understand only one thing." Thranduil draws out his long blade, raising it slightly in the midday light.
"My Lord Thranduil, you know I will not let you strike at him," I whisper in cracking Elvish. My will is spent, utterly drained as my entire being turns to focus around the pain in my center. I feel like the surrounding stones, cracked and battered now where they once stood tall and proud. The Elvenking ignores me.
"We attack at dawn."
Bard's hand stills mine as I reach for my blade. He brings my arm back down to my side and presses it there.
"No," he murmurs. "That would be unwise."
Thranduil catches the exchange, raising an eyebrow at Bard's fingers wrapped around my arm. He turns his steed away from the Mountain, spinning his blade.
"Are you with us?"
I slide from Bard's horse as we enter Dale, running after Thranduil. His guards stop me before I enter his tent, their blades passing across the entrance and barring my way. Inside, the Elf waves his hand. The guards lift their blades, snapping to positions of attention as they resume their watch.
"Let me go to him. Please. I will speak better with the Dwarves when I do not have a blade to my throat." I lift my hand to my neck, still feeling the cold ghost of steel there. Thranduil doesn't answer me, moving instead to a table at the center of the tent. He pours a goblet of wine, which he passes to me. He gestures at the seat next to his own. I sit reluctantly, perching on the edge of it in my impatience.
"I would not have you fight against us, Little Wolf," he finally answers me, drumming his fingers against the arm of his chair. "But if I bade you leave, the next time we shall meet is at your funeral pyre."
"Do you truly seek to command my heart the same way you command that of your son?" I ask quietly. The Elf frowns.
"You know nothing of him," he scolds.
"I know enough. Please, Thranduil. The longer I spend in this city the more it aches. I can not bear another moment."
"You are aware I can not directly send you to the Mountain?" He asks, stirring the wine in his goblet lightly. He gazes deeply into the dark liquid without looking up. "Drink, Little Wolf, before I dismiss you from my company. You will not find wine this fine under the Mountain." I sense the deeper meaning of his words. I remember his command in the throne room of his Realm. The one that Tauriel took so literally. I sip the wine, draining the cup before placing it in his waiting hand. "Leave me now," he dismisses me. I rise from my seat, bowing at the waist.
"My Lord Thranduil."
"And Léra?" He calls out. I pause, turning slowly. The Elf rises, moving to a trunk across the tent. He pulls something from it and offers it to me. "I imagine you will make use of this."
It's my cloak. The dark green material is repaired seamlessly, as clean and perfect as it was the day I set out from Imladris. I take the heavy garment gratefully, swinging it around my shoulders. Thranduil steps forward, helping me draw the clasp. He lifts my chin with a gentle hand, brushing against the cut on my cheek.
"I have always admired your courage, child. Do not let your stubbornness kill you quite yet."
I dip my head and step away from him. Thranduil's kind words were a rare thing to hear. In the summers I spent in his Realm, I heard them seldom. But I remember the long, warm nights with a regal king who wasn't above kneeling to braid the hair of a small human girl. He was kind when he saw fit, and I respected him for it.
I leave the tent without a backward glance, my limbs suddenly alight with a sudden fervor. I hurry through the streets of Dale without pausing until I reach the house I share with Bard and his family on most nights. I gather my remaining daggers, stashing the blades into my outfit before slipping back into the streets. I pray silently that my path will not cross Bard's as I quietly press into the shadows of Dale.
All around the city, the men are preparing for battle. There is the steady murmur of voices at the center of the buildings, Bard's familiar baritone rising above the others as he calls out commands. Most of the Lake-town villagers are gathered around him, and I find my path through Dale empty and quiet as I leave its streets.
In the dark of the night beyond Dale, without the light of the flickering torches reaching me, the shadows are plentiful. It's easy to go undetected in the moonless expanse as I use the terrain to my advantage. I flit from rock pile to rock pile, blending into the earth as I avoid the open areas of the plain. The thick clouds are working to my advantage this night, hiding the wan moon and bringing the taste of snow to my senses.
I pause at the broken bridge before the great wall of Erebor, glancing back at the flickering lights of Dale. I hear nothing from the city at this distance, even if I strain my ears. I wonder if Bard has been hailed of my absence yet. I wonder what his reaction will be. Will he be angry? Will he know that Thranduil sent me?
I look down into the murky water below the bridge. The dark current sits stagnant against the rocks, stilled as the stones were felled by the Dwarves. Perhaps it moved once, but in this frigid air the water is sluggish as it starts to freeze. I do my best to nimbly cross the stream without the water splashing up around me before I crane my neck and assess the massive wall of Erebor.
Scalable, but I have never been a skilled climber. It will be tricky. Carefully, I start to work my way up the wall. My fingers and toes find groove after groove, slowly ascending until I reach a ledge I can rest my entire weight on without fear. From this elevated height, I can see Dale better. It glows warm and inviting, alive once more with inhabitants. The thought of the comforting fires that burn steadily in the hearths of the town makes me sigh longingly. The cold winter wind lashes my face as I press against the wall, bringing the beginnings of a snow flurry with it. My exposed fingers are numb from the frigid air. A fire would certainly be welcome at this moment.
I begin the rest of my climb with shivering limbs, fighting the chill that seeps into my bones. I reach the top of the ramparts, falling over the top and resting on the ground for a long moment. I relish as I escape the wind, relaxing against the stone before rising.
No one is on watch, but I can hear voices echoing through the deep and magnificent halls of this Mountain Realm. My eyes take in the giant caverns. The hewn rock, carved with such detail and care. I hadn't known this kind of work was possible on such a massive scale. My fingers drag across carved columns, down smooth railings. Deep into Erebor I travel, following the echoes. Torches flicker in sconces, guiding my way. When I reach a set of hallways where the voices are the loudest, I pause.
The Dwarves cry out, hoisting weapons as I appear in the passage. All except Thorin, who stares at my hooded figure. He tenses, but does not react. I lift a hand and push the cowl away from my face. The torchlight dances across my vision, bathing everything I see in a warm orange cast. He relaxes at the sight of me.
Thorin wears heavy armor, the likes of which I have never seen before. Dark metal scales, outlined and accented in gold, that sit against his chest and fall down his arms. He wears a coat of brown fur over it, the material also accented in the shimmering gold. On his brow is a winged crown that falls to either side of his face. Around him, his kin are similarly dressed in the hard scales. The armor of their people, lain to rest for far too long in the recesses of this great Realm.
The Dwarves watch in silence as Thorin steps towards me. Slowly. Jerkily. Like he can hardly believe I am standing before him. I see Bilbo as Thorin moves, the Hobbit wearing a shining chainmail shirt. The Halfling's eyes are wide. He shakes his head imperceptibly, mouthing something I don't have time to catch.
Thorin's hand rises to my cheek. The heavy gauntlet is warm against my skin as he caresses it gently. His fingers pause over the cut that runs along my face. The wound is still red and angry, that I know.
"You are hurt," he whispers, his eyes falling to the handprint that yet sits against my throat. My own blood on my own hands, brown now with the age of it in the open air.
"I'm alright," I tell him sincerely, for his touch is healing. He is the tailor sewing me back together again. My eyelids flutter as I finally allow myself to relax.
"You came to me, ghivashel."
"I did. I do not like being used as a pawn in the petty arguments between races."
"I will kill that human and that filthy Elf," he starts to hiss. My hand lifts to cover his and he pauses.
"Don't," I murmur. "Just put it behind you. It's over now."
"How could I, when he tried to threaten you? My star. My treasure. My mizimel."
I feel the eyes of the other Dwarves on us. The eyes of Bilbo, who looks terrified. The eyes of Balin, who looks...angry? The older Dwarf's jaw is gritted and he looks tense. Uncertain. Afraid. I frown slightly.
Yes, the dragon-sickness is upon their king, but he is Thorin. Right?
No, my mind whispers. No, he isn't. This doesn't feel right and you know it. There is a foul feeling in these halls, in his touch. Run away now before it is too late for you. Save yourself, girl. He is lost to this world.
I look to Thorin, a terrible, wrenching feeling in my gut. He lifts my hand, smiling as he leads me down the hallway. My eyes take in the endless piles of armor that cover the cavernous space as it opens. He guides me around the scattered sets, stopping before a particular stand. The armor he gestures to is pale in color, made of silver and much lighter than those that the Dwarves wear. Dwarven in make, quite obviously, but smaller and finer. Intended for an owner of slighter stature than the broad men that stand around me. It might just fit me.
"A set of Mithril for the one who is the mithril of my people," he whispers as he moves along my back. His hand brushes my shoulders, moves my hair away from my neck. I shudder as his hands brush my skin. "You, the jewel of all jewels. You are worth more to me than the Ark-" He pauses, frowning, as if the silent presence of the other Dwarves is suddenly made aware to him. He looks around us carefully. Cautiously. Guarded and moving protectively to my side. He takes my hand, the metal gauntlet pressing into my fingers. "I value your loyalty. I trust you with my life."
"Thank you, Thorin," I murmur, dipping my chin. There's a worm of doubt burrowing through my heart. It makes me nauseous as I watch the Dwarf. His eyes aren't the same bright and ruthless blue. His thoughts aren't guarded like they once were. They are black with the sickness of greed. "Thorin, the Elves—"
"Put it behind you," he echoes to me, catching the intent of my words. "I see that your heart was true to me even then. You were smart enough in your actions that the Elves never knew you were working behind their backs to aid our time there."
I think guiltily of Mereth Nuin Giliath, the night where I drank the enchanting wine of the Woodland Elves as a true, welcome guest. The night when I danced and sang and laughed at the side of an Elven prince just as I had promised him I would. All without allowing my thoughts to stray to the Dwarf who had cursed me out in his own tongue in the dungeons of that Realm. I had allowed myself to drop the worry of Thorin for the long hours of the great feast, and the Dwarf still believed my heart had always been true in that Realm.
Besides, Thranduil was not a blind king. He knew of my allegiances. They all did, as I fear it was more than obvious in both my actions and words. And if I had not acted as such, the smart Elvenking would still sense my intentions merely in the set of my jaw or the cast of my eyes whenever the Dwarf was mentioned. Thorin's words are not exactly correct, but I won't foolishly betray myself when he has welcomed me back like this.
The Dwarf watches me eagerly as I lace myself into the light armor. Mithril, unlike the wrought armor of the Elves, is much lighter. It sits easily on my shoulders and across my chest in smooth, flexible plates. When I move, it goes with. I find no resistance as I lift and roll my shoulders. In the exposed area between the metal plates, namely down my side, is sturdy chainmail. While made of a different metal than the reliable mithril, the scaled chainmail is similar to the tunic Thorin wore throughout our journeys. I had seen how well it performed. Very few blades could pierce my side, and with any luck the opportunity would never arise.
The mithril plates extend down my arms and legs in light braces, ending in the familiar Elven boots I have not yet parted with. I replace my light leather harness over the armor, clipping Angolain to my back and the daggers to my belt. The sword almost matches the armor in color and make.
I should feel powerful like this. I should feel unstoppable in the unpierceable armor that likely costs more than anything I have ever owned ( or will ever own, for that matter ). Instead, I feel sick. I feel shaky, uneasy. I have no wish to fight Bard or the Elves. I decide, silently, that if it comes to a fight, I will act in defense of the Hobbit and nothing else. Just like I promised Thorin I would do all that time ago.
I step back from the Dwarves, pressing one hand against my chest. The air feels tight in my lungs. The warmth now suffocates me, choking at my throat.
"I'm going to clean myself up," I tell Thorin, gesturing at the blood that still cakes my skin. He smiles easily, nodding at my words. He misreads the dazed look in my eyes.
"Go rest. You will need your strength in the morning. Bilbo will show you to a bed," he gestures at the Hobbit. The Halfling rushes to my side instantly, his large feet pattering to keep up as I stumble from the armory.
"You should not be here!" He hisses to me as we leave the Dwarves. He looks back, as if fearful someone is following us.
"I'm starting to realize that," I answer, rubbing my face. "Why won't he stand down to the Elves?"
"Because he is stubborn, and sick. You and I..." He looks back fearfully once more before taking my arm and tugging me down a long and dark hallway. The voices fade as we ascend away from the deep hold of the Dwarves. "You and I are in the most danger here."
"Why?" I ask him carefully. I look at the Hobbit again. At his nervous, flitting gaze. His shifting posture, restless and uneasy. He doesn't feel safe in Erebor, and that makes me feel like I should adopt that caution.
Again, the Hobbit's eyes flicker to our surroundings before he reaches into his coat. His hands withdraw, clutches something glowing. My jaw drops at the gem he holds, the white stone shimmering and reflecting fractal light that isn't present in the depths of this hallway. I reach out to drag my fingers across its cool surface. The gem is cold, smoother than anything I have ever felt. The King's Jewel.
"The Ark-" I start to whisper. Bilbo's hand flies to my mouth.
"Shh!" He hisses fiercely, immediately tucking the jewel into his coat again.
"You found it? But you didn't give it to him? Why?"
"Because it will only make him worse. He can never have it, Léra. I will make sure of it. I'm taking the stone to the Elves tonight."
"You can't Bilbo! What if it makes the sickness better?" My heart jumps with hope. If the stone is returned to Thorin...then perhaps the Thorin I know will return to me.
"You have not seen what I have, Léra. He is too far lost to the sickness. The only hope of stopping this war is taking it out of this cursed Mountain."
I know, deep within me, that the Hobbit is right. Erebor feels so wrong. The air is heavy. Stagnant and dead. Evil. Goodness and life will never blossom here while the dragon-sickness sits in Thorin's mind. The stone must leave.
"I fear you are wiser than I will ever be, Master Baggins. You are correct in this. It must go to Dale. When do you plan to leave?"
"Tonight, if I can."
"I will come."
"He will not part with you so easily. You are a part of his treasures now."
"I will come," I repeat more stiffly. "He cannot stop me, Bilbo. His mind is sick, and it aches me terribly to see him so, but I will leave him. There is no other way. Meet me on the wall when the moon is risen. Then we will go." The Hobbit nods slightly, releasing a long breath. I start to turn, but pause. "Bilbo?"
"Hmm?" He asks.
"Don't get caught," I whisper. The Halfling smiles sadly at me.
Several hours later, we meet in a stairwell just before the ramparts. Dwalin is speaking to Bofur far below us, distracting the dark-haired Dwarf from his watch duties as I push Bilbo up the stairs. I make quick work of the rope, untying it for Bilbo. I decided in my silent hours where I cleaned and rested myself away from the Dwarves that it would be quicker for us to leave together. The only problem was the existence of a singular rope. I would have to scale down the side of the Mountain face without one.
Bilbo motions me forward as soon as I finish detangling the rope. I slip over the top of the ramparts, easily finding holds in the carved stone. I wait for Bilbo to appear. When the Hobbit does not immediately follow, I freeze, fearing the worst.
"You should be inside. Out of the wind." Bofur. I curse silently, gripping the wall even tighter. My knuckles go white as I hang there. If the Dwarf looks over the side, I'm done for. I will be caught and the entire company will know of our betrayal.
Walk away, Bofur. Walk away.
"No, I, uh...needed some air. Place still stinks of dragon," Bilbo laughs nervously. I curse again.
"The Elves have been moving their archers into position." I see Bofur's hand gesture over the edge of the ramparts.
"Ah," Bilbo replies quietly.
"The battle will be over by tomorrow's eve. Though I doubt we will live to see it." Bofur's voice is filled with melancholy, but I can barely hear him over the pounding of my heart as I sense him move to lean against the stone balustrade. I don't dare to look up. I stay completely silent. Hanging there, frozen.
"No, these are dark days."
"Dark days indeed," Bofur agrees with the Hobbit. "No one could blame a soul for wishing themselves elsewhere." He steps away from the edge, walking closer to where Bilbo is standing. To where I am perched on the wall just under them. "Must be near midnight. Bombur's got the next watch. It'll take a bit to wake him," his voice holds a knowing smile. "And Léra?" The Dwarf peers over the ramparts at me. I look up at him, fighting a sheepish smile. I have nothing to fear from him. Bofur's heart is true, that much I can tell.
"Yes?"
"Don't fall, alright lass? I imagine Thorin would have my head if you splattered against the rocks during my watch."
"Of course, Bofur." He winks at me before disappearing.
"Bofur," Bilbo calls after him. The footsteps pause. "I will see you in the morning."
I know the implications of those words. The intent of the Hobbit has been clear to me since this afternoon. Bilbo means to give the stone to Thranduil and Bard before sneaking back into the Mountain almost immediately after. I don't blame him. Thorin's wrath at our disappearance will be dangerous, yet I know my path will not follow the Hobbit's. We will reach Dale together, and that is where our paths will part.
"Goodbye, Bilbo," Bofur responds sweetly. A moment later, the Halfling is dropping down the wall next to me, the rope cascading away from us. He is much quicker at descending the wall, but I still make good time. My fingertips are numb and raw from the rough stone by the time I land lightly on a solid rock. The water around us shifts, ice moving as we disturb the stones. With my dark cloak around my shoulders, I step into the open night. I keep between Bilbo and the plains, the Hobbit staying in the shadows just as I have instructed him to. The moon is brilliant this night, so much more than yesterday's cloudy and snow-filled darkness. Together, the Halfling and I creep carefully but quickly across the ground. We reach Dale shortly.
Dale and the race of Man. Dale that holds Bard, Thranduil, and a fate I am resigning myself to.
Tug tug.