— XXV —
Morning filters through the thick tree limbs in a cold light. The winter day is cold, and even the stoic ever-green trees seem to hold their green branches closer together. The woman rises easily, her strength returned by the fitful sleep. Beorn follows Ellidor through the trees, his keen eyes watching her flit through the shadows like a bird.
She's completely at home in the wilderness of the Coldfells. She knows the animal types of this region, easily identifying the tracks they come across in the muddy patches of the scarce clearings. A bird will sing in the distance and Ellidor will tilt her head to listen. A second later, she will imitate the call so accurately that the bird will move closer to them and Beorn can see the round brown hues of the wood thrush she has summoned.
A Little Bird in the great wide world of the cold winter.
Snow falls on them that night.
Beorn forgoes the cloak they have fashioned into a makeshift kilt for him. While his hot skin never grows truly cold in the North, the same can't be said for the woman. She wraps herself in the cloak once more, and Beorn encases her in the large expanse of his furry bear body. The thick, oily black fur blocks out the snow and the wind, keeping her warm until the morning comes again.
They move steadily South through the snow, heading for the High Pass that will take them across the Misty Mountains. He trudges through the thick drifts, his paws splayed wide in order to break a path that will be easier for her to traverse. She shivers as the temperature continues to plunge, and Beorn worries for her slight stature.
They start a fire in the darkness of the second night, the sap-filled branches of the ever-greens popping and snapping as the flames devour them. Leagues away, a low howl rises through the trees. Far enough to not yet be a worry, but still something to keep them cautious.
"Wolf?" He asks. Ellidor shakes her head.
"Warg. The Orcs have been breeding great packs of them as of late. They're larger and fiercer. Big enough to act as steeds." That fact concerns Beorn. His bear form is massive, larger than other furred beasts in the North. The presence of larger Wargs is worrying. Before, he might have been able to take on an entire pack without issue. Now? Several might be enough to bring him down.
"How you know?"
"I arrived in the North a long time ago. Most of that time has been spent spying on the Orc camps. They're organized, Beorn. More than they ever were before. They have a leader now."
"The pale orc."
"They call him Azog the Defiler. He's dangerous. I don't like his presence this far North."
"He dies."
"Revenge may seem tangible right now, but trust me, you do not want to die to his evil ways while he continues to torment others."
"So he lives?" Beorn asks, disgust turning his voice deep and angry. Ellidor leans forward, her eyes flashing.
"He lives until I figure out a plan to ruin him. I promise you this, Beorn, Azog will die by my blade. Now, or in a year, he will die. I don't care if I have to take half of Middle Earth with me, but I will see that his filthy kind falls."
Beorn takes in the heat of her stare. The fire in those molten eyes. She's telling the truth. With a start, he realizes he trusts her word. She will make good on that promise. Something warm burns in his chest, ignited by the spark of her ferocity.
He knows so much, and yet so little about her. He knows her drive, her prowess as a warrior. She possesses the ability to be cruel and ruthless, and yet she is kind to the creatures of the forest. Warming a half-frozen rabbit by their fire before setting it on its way again. Pausing to let a herd of doe elk cross their path undisturbed. Lifting a small bird and carrying it close to her heart until it has enough strength to fly again.
He knows why she prefers black leather over brown, and why spring is her favorite season. He knows that her heart is pure and true and belongs completely to the Wild. However, the actual facts of her life ( her upbringing, her family ), are silent on her lips. She does not speak of them, and Beorn does not pry. It's not in his nature to push for answers he doesn't deserve. He simply learns about her as she is now. The Little Bird who bears the Iron Breaker.
The days under the relentless winter sky stretch into a week, then two. The biting cold is always there, threatening to sap the warmth away from them as they trudge through the snow of the forest and break icicles away from their hair. They find solace in the warm fires each night, clearing snow away from tree branches to burn in the dark hours.
"The High Pass should be a day or two away," Ellidor tells him over the embers of their dinner fire. Their meal was a scarce thing, consisting of the dried berries and mushrooms they'd gathered several days ago. His stomach still rumbles with hunger, but he ignores the pangs. "We could move South more and pass through Rivendell. Will you not allow the kindness of the Elves to bring you to full health?"
"Elves make me uneasy. I no go near them." Her face falls at his words, making Beorn study her more carefully. "Why you want to go there?" Ellidor gnaws her lip, looking away from him. Beorn thinks she will allow the topic to die off, but she eventually speaks.
"There is someone in Rivendell I care very much for."
"You have mate?" He asks stiffly. He's not sure why the notion stirs something dark in his core. Anger. Protectiveness. He doesn't want her to have a partner.
"I have a daughter. She was born in Rivendell not a year ago," Ellidor answers. Her jaw squares as she looks down, fighting an emotion Beorn might dare to call regret. His heart softens, for her tenderness and care should be directed at the child she speaks of. A mother separated from her daughter. That shouldn't be the case. She should be with her instead of her current presence in the great drifts of the winter snow.
"Why you in Wild then?" Beorn asks, trying to smooth the abrasiveness of his question with the tone of his voice. The attempt doesn't work well, but Ellidor doesn't seem to mind.
"My brother resides in the North, and when he called for aid I could hardly ignore him. My people were under attack. They needed all the help they could get." She pushes at the dying embers of the fire, sighing heavily. "I was on my way to the far North when my horse and the Elves I traveled with were attacked by the Warg packs. I took shelter in these woods for many long weeks before I began tailing the pack of Orcs that led me to you."
"Go to Elves," he tells her. "I make it to pass on my own."
"I want nothing more than to return. Truly, there were many times I wished to start running and never look back. But my people still need me, Beorn. My heart is in two places. With her, and out here, with the people of the North. I will go with you over the pass before I return to the side of my kin."
"Your people...who are they?"
"The Dúnedain." He knows that name. The name of the people that had long been friends of his own kind. Noble and just men. Excellent warriors with golden hearts. "They reside near Framsburg at this time."
Beorn will not try to change her mind. Her decision is set, obviously. He knows he won't be able to sway her. The will of this human seems to be unbreaking and constant.
"Does she have name?" He asks Ellidor gently. The woman smiles sadly.
"Léra. Her name is Léra."
"Good name," Beorn murmurs. "Strong name." Ellidor sighs, sitting back from the fire.
"We both miss people, Beorn. We both belong elsewhere. What does that make us right now?"
"Survivors," he grunts. Ellidor laughs, but the sound isn't born of humor.
"You know what I want?" She moves around the fire until she's sitting next to him. Her blonde head falls against his shoulder as she speaks. "I want a big, gorgeous house in a rolling green valley. I want horses and dogs and cats and sheep and pigs and sure, why not a whole farm? Not for meat or anything like that, I just want to have that kind of solidarity with the other living things of the world. I want to be able to put my sword down in the bottom of some chest and never take it out again. I want to raise my daughter to love the world and everything it has to offer. I never want her to be afraid, or to worry about danger. Peace, Beorn. That's all I want."
He can see it. He shudders slightly at the picture she paints. An elegant wooden house nestled in a copse of trees alongside a lazily-flowing river. Horses grazing in the rolling green fields that stretch as far as the eye can see, ending only faintly in the blue smudge of mountains on the horizon. He realizes he wants that too.
"How do I find peace in a world where my own race is hunted for sport?" She asks, voice dripping with sadness. "How do I live knowing each day might be my last? Or my brother's last?" Beorn doesn't answer. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to get moros." She starts to pull away, but Beorn catches her arm.
"My people gone. Feeling...alone. It hurts. I hurt. I killed. I am monster."
Except he's not alone. There is one human woman standing tall between him and that door of isolation. She won't let him fall into that desolation.
"You're not a monster, Beorn." Her soft hand lifts his, intertwining their fingers. She traces small circles against his skin with her thumb in a calming gesture. "You're a survivor. You live another day to carry on the great tales of your people."
He doesn't respond, his heart heavy with grief as he stares into the embers. Ellidor must sense his deep melancholy, for she sits up. She turns his face towards her, a strong expression set on her jaw.
"Do not be so harsh on yourself. Your life has been given to you again. Make something of it."
Given to him. A gift from the pale haired woman with a shining sword. The savior in the shadows. He dips his head, and Ellidor returns to his side. Beorn relishes her warmth. Her touch. This calming companion in the cold clutches of winter.
They rest deeply that night, the great bear wrapping around her tightly. In the midst of his thick fur and the regained muscle and fat stores, Ellidor sleeps soundly out of the cold. It's the last true night under the trees they will get, and the preparation for the windy pass has them savoring the warmth of the forest's low-hanging branches.
The edges of the great forest approach rapidly in the daylight, the thick tree growth becoming thinner and the trunks less wide. Ellidor's steps are cautious as they enter the exposed foothills of the Misty Mountains, scanning the land in all directions. They scale the great ridges, steadily moving towards the pass between the great crags. As they climb, the sky moves from blue to a soft shade of pinks and purples. Night has nearly arrived again, spurring Beorn's mind towards shelter.
He knows they could enter the mountains prematurely and find refuge in an empty cave along the way. There might even be old wood around to start a fire within. He starts to turn, ready to tell the human of his plan.
Ellidor is standing tall on the stony ridge, her blade drawn. The woman's shoulders are stiff as she stares down the hill. Beorn sees the cause of her sudden attention with a sudden flash of panic.
Orc-riders are approaching them, the foul beasts racing up the hill on the backs of Wargs. Huge Wargs. Bigger than he has ever seen, almost the size of a horse. Just like she had warned him of. Beorn reacts instantly, already surging forward as he changes into a bear. He rises onto his back legs in front of Ellidor, doubling his height. He bares his long teeth and roars at the approaching threat. They don't falter.
The Orcs fall upon them like a tidal wave breaking against shale. Beorn rips through the Wargs, his great teeth and claws shredding them even as they tear at his thick hide in a similar fashion. The howls and yelps of the beasts fill the air as he kills them, one by one.
The black speech of the Orcs follows. They keep a greater distance, jittering angrily as he slays their mounts. They draw bows, needling him with arrows. Unlike before, the shafts mostly fall harmlessly from his side. He's stronger now. His hide thicker. Arrows won't bring him down as easily as before.
Through his tearing and gnashing, there is the steady flash of blonde hair as Ellidor dances between the Orcs. Her blade flashes as relentlessly as his teeth, daring the Orcs to engage with her. She ducks and slashes, avoiding the arrows that fly from all sides. Beorn grows confident. They're making this pack look like fools. The two warriors are overpowering the beasts.
But then it happens.
The skin-changer knows, deep in his heart, that the deep twang of a crossbow firing was meant for him. Such a bolt, fired with force, could pierce his thick skin. It could kill him in one shot.
The bolt finds home. Blood sprays into the air, hot and red. A cry chokes out of a broken chest.
Beorn roars his rage into the darkening sky, feeling the very instant the human is hit deep, deep in his bones. Her cry of feeble pain is enough to tear his soul in two. Enough to break him. His wrath is primal. Unleashing as he whirls in one great circle, his claws outstretched. The force of his drive cleaves the remaining Orcs and Wargs into pieces. A circle of broken bodies surrounding the woman that lays gasping on the blood-soaked ground. Black blood. Red blood. Too much red. It's drowning her out.
Beorn falls next to her in his human form. His eyes are wide with desperation and fear. Ellidor is pressed into the earth where the bolt felled her. Her hands press feebly against the deep, mortal wound in her chest. The bolt has hit deep, punching through her leather jerkin. She will be dead in minutes. He can smell it already. The tinge of Death approaching on the Northern winds. The coppery mix of fear and blood as it covers her skin.
He lifts her gently. The blonde hair falls around his arms, outlining her head like a halo. Beorn holds the Dúnedan to him. The Little Bird. Her wings shattered. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut and block out this sight. It hurts too much. His heart thunders as Ellidor's hand wraps weakly around his arm. The other hand, completely blood-covered, scrabbles against the ground for the handle of Iron Breaker. Beorn reaches over her and lifts the pale blade to her chest. He wraps her fingers around the pommel, ignoring the bloody mess that stains the silver. She coughs slightly as she starts to speak. He tries to quiet her, but she pushes past his noise of distress.
"I'm dying," she croaks.
"No," Beorn tries to tell her. She smiles weakly.
"I know Death, Beorn. I can feel it." She wheezes, the breath that passes through her broken lungs hardly enough to support her words. "Take it. Take my sword. Give it to the right person when the world needs it. If you..." She gasps, her head lolling back against him. Beorn lifts his large hand to push the matting of blonde hair away from her face. "Tell Léra I have always loved her, if you ever cross her path."
"I will," Beorn promises gently. He brings his lips to her forehead, brushing them against her cold skin. A caring touch, just like she had once done for him. The hold on his arm goes limp, her hand falling away. Her chest shudders once. Twice. Then no more. Tears blur his vision even as the light disappears from her eyes. Something deep inside him breaks. The last of his fighting spirit shatters as his salvation dies. He holds her close to his chest, trying to console the ultimate splintering sensation that resides there. He waits until the cold light of the stars is shining over the messy scene before he rises.
With the sword ( Īsonbruchen, he decides in the language of his people...the Iron Breaker ), still held against her limp chest, Beorn stands. He begins to walk, carrying the woman across the ridge.
Beorn doesn't stop until he reaches the river Anduin.