Author's Note: Gaaaah, sorry! Yesterday was super busy and I totally forgot to post! Also, happy Tolkien's Birthday two days late! :D


Chapter 7

Ara slipped through the half-light of the stables, the sunrise just peeking into through the windows. But for her footsteps, the house was silent, and still. She softly approached the little black-and-white mare in the first stall, and rubbed its nose, murmuring soft little nothings as its ears tilted forward.

She slipped the lock from the cage and swung the door open. A slight creak echoed through the house and she started and stood still, her hand resting on the wooden gate.

Stillness fell again, and she carefully reached for the bridle hanging from the wall, and patted the pony on the nose again.

"It's alright," she murmured. "I've ridden before."

When I was ten years old.

She shook her head and sighed. It wasn't as if she were doing anything wrong—just going for a short ride in the cool morning air. She led the pony out into the gardens and through the back gate, the grasses waving in a gentle breeze, and the trees touched with red light.

Before she could stop herself, she was on the pony's back, laughing as it took off through the grass with a kick of her heel.

"Ah!" she cried. "You've been ridden before, haven't you?"

The morning air flowed past her, and the sunrise was in her eyes as she rode. The pony slowed, and bent its head to pull some grass from the ground. She leaned forward and rested her head on its neck, watching as the red sky turned to orange, and the orange to yellow. They moved slowly forward, and the grasses swished beneath them.

She tensed and sat up.

Something was watching.

She slid from the pony's back and held its reigns as she scanned the field around her. Nothing moved but the wind.

Still, the eerie sense that a pair of eyes stared at her from somewhere nearby wouldn't leave. Her hand went to her dagger and she dropped the reigns, taking a few silent, cautious steps forward.

A streak leapt from the tall grass with a hiss. She stumbled backward, and her knife flew through the air with a flick of her wrist. The creature fell to the ground, gasping and choking.

The knife had lodged itself in the throat of an orc.

She closed her eyes, steadied herself, and reached for the knife. The orc snapped at her with its twisted teeth, and its head lolled backward, its eyes rolling back into its head. She felt a shudder run through her as she extracted the knife, streaked with black blood, from the throat of the orc she had murdered. She stepped back and felt her stomach churning.

Her foot caught something in the grass, and she fell backward with a little shriek. She whirled around, clutching her knife, and looked straight into the eyes of another orc, towering over her, its bare chest muscled and its large hands grasping a twisted sword.

She clenched her fingers around the handle. "I killed your companion." She took a deep breath and forced her voice into an even, calm monotone. "And I can do the same to you."

The sword crashed down and she ducked, rolling backward and onto her feet again, tossing the knife from one hand to the other. The orc limped forward, one leg dragging.

"You're wounded." Her voice shook, and she took a deep breath. "That—should make things easier."

She drew back for a throw, and the orc lunged forward. Its knee buckled beneath it. She leaped forward and drove the knife into its heart, landing a solid kick to its leg as it fell. Her breath coming in short gasps, she stood over the huge body, and twisted the knife deeper, turning away as black blood seeped from the wound.

The orc gasped, twitched, and lay still. She wrenched the knife from the fallen body, and whirled around just as the other orc pulled itself from the ground and made a clumsy leap at her.

The knife twirled through the air and landed in its chest, and it fell without a sound, dead in an instant. Her legs went weak and she fell to her knees, her head spinning and her stomach threatening to eject its contents across the dead orc in front of her.

A roar split the air, and large form galloped over the crest of a hill, silhouetted by the morning light. It streaked forward and skidded to a stop in front of her, crouching, growling low in its throat. Its eyes moved between the two dead orcs, and finally rested on Ara, collapsed in the grass.

And his eyes met hers, and she knew them.

She rose shakily to her feet, her hand outreached. "Hello." She touched his snout, and ran her hand up his head, cautiously at first, then gaining confidence. "Hello, s—Beorn."

It was all she could say before she collapsed again, her whole body shaking.

She felt the touch of soft skin on her forehead, and looked up to see his great head level with her face, his nose just touching her. She met his eyes again, and they were dark and deep, filled with memory and sadness.

And she knew, in that moment, that what he said was true.

He was no beast.

She rose again and walked beside him as he padded along through the field toward his house. "I—I'm sorry about your pony, sir—Beorn," she ventured. "I believe I lost him."

He jerked his head backward, and something that was almost a smile curled around his bearish lips. She stared, fearing she had misunderstood. "You mean…?"

His big head moved up and down, and he lifted a paw and gestured.

In a moment, she was on his back, and he was off with a bound across the plains, her hands buried in his stiff fur. The wind whipped through her hair and their shadows glimmered behind them in the grass. The morning sun shone in her eyes, and she leaned back and laughed in its face. For one glorious moment, everything was forgotten, and she was alone in the world with the bear on whose back she rode with such exhilarating speed.

After what seemed only a moment, they arrived at the gate. She slipped from his back, and they walked together into the gardens, her hand resting on his neck. He slipped away among the trees, and she leaned against the gate, her cheeks glowing, her hair windblown, and her dress smelling of bear.

He emerged from the trees, now in the form of a man. She grinned up at him. "That…was wonderful," she said, and little giggles slipped through her voice.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement and stepped forward, leaning against the gate beside her. "Let me see your wound," he said.

She held out her arm, and he unwrapped the bandage with surprising gentleness for one so rough. His fingers brushed her arm, and they were warm in the morning sun. He ran his large hands over the wound that was swiftly becoming a scar, then placed a hand on her forehead, lingering there a moment longer than necessary. He drew back and rested his hand on the gate, staring over the plains, and his eyes were dark.

She looked up at him, and tried to catch his gaze, but though her eyes met his, he didn't seem to see her. "So…?" Her voice was loud in the dappled morning sunlight of the garden. "Am I healed?"

"You are a brave warrior." His voice was rough yet soft, and the wild admiration of a bear glimmered beneath it. She stared up at him.

"What?"

"You are a brave warrior," he repeated, and there was feeling hiding beneath his words. The dead orc spread out before her vision, bloody and twisted, and she shivered, suddenly cold.

"I'm no warrior," she said, softly, struggling to keep her voice in line. She slumped forward against the gate and stared out over the plains. "How do you do it?" The words trembled and barely made their way out. "I suppose one—grows accustomed to that sort of thing. After many, many long years." She sighed. "I never could."

"I do not take pleasure in slaughter." A harsh, cold wind blew through his words. "I protect my lands, and drive out the vermin that haunt them. I do not kill for sport, and I despise those who do."

"Every night." She spoke more to herself than to him. "Every night, you see dead orcs laid out around you, killed by your own claws." She met his eyes and tried without much success to keep the tears from her voice. "How are you still human?"

"I do not slaughter every beast I see, for even one such as I grows tired of such things." He raised a hand as if to wipe a tear from her cheek, then lowered it. "Some I drive beyond my borders. Some I drive into the wood, to die whatever death they choose. I am no murderer, Ara."

She drew back. "Into the wood?" The image of the wounded orc fleeing into the shadow of the trees flashed through her mind. "People live there. In the wood."

"I am aware."

"And you still drive dangerous beasts past its borders? That forest is dangerous enough without such troubles."

"That forest is good for nothing but to be the grave of vermin, a wasteland haunted by the shadows of sorcery! The men who live there have made their choice, and it is not my responsibility to protect them from it."

She pulled herself up straight. "Is that how you see me, then?" Angry tears and bitter amazement mingled in her voice as she spoke. "Vermin? Nothing but the victim of a misguided choice?"

"So you live in the wood." He crossed his arms. "I thought as much."

"It is my home!" Her cheeks felt hot, and she stood straight as a house beam, her fists clenched of their own accord. "My father and my father's fathers have carved out a home in that wood, and we will never bow, we will never concede that it is not a worthy one!" The words spilled out, tumbling over each other in their haste. "Have you never had a home? Would you not fight to defend its honor against the deadliest of enemies?"

Something flickered deep in his eyes, and he pressed his lips together, his dark gaze resting on her. His shadow grew long, engulfing her and surrounding her with its simmering rage. He pulled back, and he was Beorn again, smaller than she had ever seen him, the trees of the garden looming over him.

Without a word, he walked past her and swung open the gate. And then he was gone, and it seemed the waving grasses swallowed him.