Hello, lovelies :)) So, chapter ten here, and I'm exited. It means I'm getting closer and closer to the place I want to be in the story. This story actually started (well, the idea for it) at what will be about chapter twelve. I've been waiting to write that chapter for a while, as well as two others but those won't come for a while. Anyway, yay! So, without further ado, enjoy:

DARK WATERS

10 / Eyes See True

There was nothing delicate about the way Gilli laughed. Certainly not what one might expect of a young maiden and certainly not as described in sappy fairytale songs about fair dames and noble Knights; some pointless romance tragedy where the hero had to sacrifice getting the girl or whatnot. No, when Gilli laughed it was bellowing; coming from the pit of the guide's stomach into the guide's diaphragm and he filled his entire mouth with sound, like a cliff-side cave in a thunderstorm.

When Gilli laughed it was all chortling like a pig, and snorting and then, in odd intervals, complete silence as the guide ran out of air and simply froze on the spot, eyes closed and teeth bared. Gilli laughed uglier than any male of any race—it was a cacophonous racket, a disordered mess of saliva and tears and strange sounds that came from the back of the guide's throat; sounds that should never be made by anyone's throat.

So when the conclusion had finally come to Kíli that this monstrosity that had a way of knocking everything down in its path belonged to Woman, the young archer all but smacked himself; he had met his share of gross folk, male and female alike, but that a donkey's voice box was implanted within their guide's throat was stepping over a disorienting line he wasn't ready to cross.

Girls, in general opinion of nearly all male counterparts, were supposed to laugh like those small bells that hang over shop doors or wind chimes in a window. No, he wasn't a naïve fool who thought all girls were like that—most lowborn dames were more like their male counterparts; they would have to be, as there was no place for gentleness when one was starving in the streets. Still, Gilli distorted a lot of predetermined facts on the general topics of what made a lady.

There were, of course, a number of exceptions, and it were those exceptions that gave 'him' away as a 'her'.

"Excuse me?" Gilli cried out with every bit of outrage a Man would have had he been accused of being a girl, which gave her points for trying and little more.

"That is what you revert to? Miss Gilli, you insult me; the least you can do now that you have been discovered is take the fall honourably," he told her, his voice and face every bit as cheeky as he felt. Gilli's face dropped into flat anger, none that would rival Thorin's to any degree, but it was impressively intimidating in its own way. In fact it looked much like his mother's: a calm and collected anger; a coal powder explosion held together by an invisible barrier. This made it all the worse because he was never sure when that barrier would collapse and obliterate everything in its way.

"Fine," the guide—the Woman—hissed sourly. "What gave it away? Did you happen to cope a feel when I was distracted?" she said, almost daring him.

"I had been suspicious for some time but you confirmed it when you explained why you carry a weapon you can't use," he explained.

"And before that?" she demanded.

"At first I just thought you were a very prudish, shy person. But then it struck me as odd that you grit your teeth all day, only to run away at night to make your water. And you refused to bathe with everyone else—"

"—I'm sorry… Did you follow my pissing schedule?" Gilli interrupted with a mix of both disbelief and disgust. "How uneventful your life must be."

"Not the most dignifying thing I've done, no, but it was odd!" he argued.

"And you absolutely must investigate all that is strange," Gilli said sarcastically.

"That you would think I'd allow something out of the ordinary go unexplored insults me. It wasn't the only thing: you also walk with your legs too close together, like you don't have anything there between them, and your mannerism is far too neat. You don't curse as often as you should, and you always wash your hands before eating and you always try to stay clean—"

"—Well excuse me for not wanting to reek of two weeks' worth of sweat. Just because I look like a man doesn't mean I have to stink like the lot of you," she interjected.

"Which is odd," Kíli finished for her "Because it's all really very obvious." Gilli leveled him with a glare and narrowed her eyes at the prince.

"What? Is it my fault everybody else is slow? Besides that, you mentioned that it's safer to travel with more weapons and two possible options were narrowed down to one. It really is quite brilliant of you. Although, I do have a few suggestions for improvement."

"But why didn't you say something to me?" Gilli pressed. "If you've known for more than a fortnight, why not corner me? Interrogate me? Hell, why not turn me in and let whatever happens happen? Why keep this with you? And, above all else, how did you manage to keep this to yourself this whole time? You really don't strike me as the kind that is very good at keeping secrets. You're like Bae that way: just grin like an idiot because you know something that everybody else doesn't."

Well, now he was offended.

"I will have you know I am very good at keeping secrets where it counts, thank you kindly. And, I wanted to," he admitted. "A number of times, I wanted to ask you; but then you started fighting and talking about your son and teaching Bilbo to ride and pulling double and it stopped mattering. I thought, as long as it is not hurting anyone, why bring it up if you went to such great lengths to keep it? Except, if only there was a betting pool on this…" he trailed off. He could have been so rich right now. "Which reminds me: what happened there?" the prince asked, brushing his thumb over the corner of his lip to indicate the red gash and diminishing swell in hers.

Gilli ran her tongue over the split and pursed her lips, "Not entirely undeserved consequences," the Woman answered curtly, wiping away the saliva with her thumb and wiping that off on her tunic.

So. "Are you and Thorin are trying to kill one another again?"

"Mm, you can say that. Is he always like that? Doing the exact opposite of what people say because it's the opposite and he can spite them? Is that the tactic I need to adopt: tell him to keep walking when I want him to stop?"

"You say it as though you're any different," the brunette archer commented naturally. If she wanted to say something about that, she chose against it a moment before the words came out, snapping her mouth shut. She cracked her knuckles one by one, causing the young prince to cringe at the horrible breaking sound.

"All right, so… now that you know something you shouldn't, what are you planning to do with this information?"

"Why do you insist on doing this? It's the third time within the past half hour you give me insult. Have you so little faith in me? It's been more than a fortnight and I've yet to tell Fíli!"

"All right, I concede," she said with a sigh of broth frustration and relief. "Though, I do find it curious that you have yet to ask me why I play for a Man."

Kíli shrugged, "I do want to know, but if I know you at all, I know you wouldn't tell me even if I did ask. On top of that, you mentioned that weapons cost money; that more often than not you have to make sacrifices just to afford the blades and bow you carry with you. To my understanding, you'd only purchase a weapon you don't know how to wield for one of two reasons: either you are a completely witless fool," she glared dangerously at this, and Kíli grinned unabashedly, "or there truly is something for you to fear. If you fear something so much that you hide who you are, then it isn't my place to ask, is it? So long, that is, as it doesn't hurt anyone," he added as an afterthought.

"You're right: I'd not have. Thank you for your consideration," the guide said solemnly, offering a sad and distant smile, her mind not where her body was. She blinked rapidly and shook her head. "So, if I was so obvious that you guessed within a fortnight, what would you suggest I do?"

~{VVV|o0o|VVV}~

They spoke as they walked back to join the others. From the fallen tree where they sat they could hear Thorin bark out an order to pack up and get moving, so they thought it best to subtly reappear and blend into the movement of the camp like they were there the entire time; that way they might not incur the King's foul mood upon them. The Dwarf in question made no comment, so they hoped against hope that he hadn't noticed—though, judging from the heat burning her back as Gilli moved, she had a feeling he noticed at least partially that they had been gone.

Even as they were ordered to search for a cave, the Troll Hoard, she and the archer spoke quietly with one another. Helpfully, he made contributions as to what she should do to sell it better ("Don't sit with your legs so close together. It looks very uncomfortable" "Belch when you eat" "Don't sneak off to bathe so often. You're a Man and you're in the wilds: you're supposed to smell like a pigs' pen" "Curse when appropriate. Curse when inappropriate. You made a number of crude jokes before, which was good. Make some more, occasionally" "No, don't walk like that. When I said with your legs farther apart I meant like this. Normally. You look like you dumped in your trousers" "Laugh more often. Nobody will ever guess you are not a Man if that is how your amusement sounds; you sound like a regurgitating donkey. Ow! What was that for?" "Stop talking so proper and literate. You are a lobworm Man, not a noblewoman or blushing maid; speak the part").

They found the cave shortly, though few dared go inside. The stench was foul, and not just that of the Mountain Trolls. What lay hidden within was not for those weak of mind and stomach.

Gilli walked closely at the back of the small group consisting of Gandalf, Thorin, Nori, Glóin and Bofur, second to last in the line. She would gladly have gone at the very back, but the back was reserves for those who watched everybody else's backs. The guide pulled the V of her undershirt up over her face, breathing shallowly thought the fabric as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Underneath the natural foul stench of Troll was another smell, a smell unlike any other. She had only ever smelled it a handful of times when she came upon what thieves and murderers left behind when they attacked unprepared traveling parties. It was pungent and nauseating; unsettling her empty stomach and forcing the nothingness from her in sharp gags like the ones that came once everything was in piles and the sick vomited stomach acid.

It was like walking into a wall, only it was not cold that knocked her a few steps back and sent goose bumps scattering across her flesh like freckles. If asked, she couldn't quite liken it to anything, except maybe meat, left out in the sun for a month in the summer because there really wasn't anything quite like the smell of a decomposed body. She tried hard not to look down when she stepped on something; she told herself it was an uneven tree root and kept walking. Not looking down, however, was a mistake as she followed the group of five through the cave into an area stylized as living quarters by the looks of it; as there were more things in this area then there were in any other part of the cave.

A pile of shit surrounded by flies was in the corner, alone with ragged remains of what used to be clothing, small in size. A child's clothing.

A sound began raising in her throat, one she couldn't name, but her mouth was open and her eyes were wide and her heart was in her stomach—quickly rising with the bile. She tore her eyes away forcefully, making herself look away, and her eyes landed on a large bed-like structure and on one of the posts was… something black and round and glistening wetly, with tendrils falling like a thin curtain of threads from the top. It was not large, about the size of small watermelon. Next to it was a hand.

Somebody screamed, a woman by the sound of it. Gilli's face was wet. Someone knocked into her side. No, she had knocked into them when she spun around to look away, crashing into a very short but immovable stone wall. She stumbled around the Dwarf until she fell into a wall, bracing herself on the rocky surface. Everything was dark. The light had gone out—no, wait, it didn't go out; she just closed her eyes. Somebody was making strange wailing noises and it took her a moment to realize she was the one making them, gasping, choking, trying to breathe but there was no more air in the cave. Only decomposing bodies of children and their parents, only death.

"I can't be in here," she choked out between trying to swallow oxygen and stumbled towards the exit, grabbing the wall for support until she grabbed something that wasn't a wall: it was a makeshift torch made from the bone of somebody's leg. She screamed again and fell away from it, crawling backwards until the stone scratching the skin on her hands turned to grass but even then, even in sunlight, everything was dark.

Her face was wet. Her eyes stung with salt. Someone grabbed her under her arms and hoisted her up effortlessly, inquiring if she was all right. She shoved them off her as hard as she could and stumbled away until she fell again, against a tree and tried to breathe.

"They were all right!" She wept. "They held m—held my legs and… and pleaded me to tell them stories. They la—they laughed and ran after me into… into… into the field when I left! They ran half way—and laughed and—waved! I—they—I… promised them that I would come back with more—with more tales to tell if they were good boys and listened to their mother… they were all right! They were waving at me and they were all right! Oh… gods, they were all right!"

Her nose was stuffed and she really couldn't breathe now; sobbing and wailing obnoxiously and making snorting noises every time she closed her mouth to breathe through her nose. She knew the family was dead. It was inevitable, but seeing it made it real.

They buried the remains. Despite this being a complete waste of precious time, no one argued once they heard from those who went inside what they found. Gilli, forgetting to wipe her face from tears, took up a shovel too, and when four shallow graves were dug she went back inside the cave and tried to distinguish which bones belonged to whose remains. Each grave got a skull and the other body parts were distributed according to size, though most were inaccurate. Some looked older than the others. They must've not died together.

There was hardly enough to lay out half a skeleton, but it was enough and when they covered the bodies—when they covered what was left of the bodies of the farmer and his family—Gilli dropped to her knees facing perpendicularly to the row of shallow graves and closed her eyes. The guide laced her fingers together, with her two index fingers pointing upward, hovering just about her lips, and began to whisper in a tongue long forgotten by most of her people.

Ta yém na'quaa wé tšan eyém temtê h'ottam. Tawé liàtûisé taw'uet awata léma péawe nam attooté témé püé n'ôhot mahÿm…

No one interrupted her as she continued to pray, eyes closed and voice shaking as she called to the God of her people, summoning him to collect what he was denied and ward him off from the Company and herself all in a single song to the God of Death.

Awamaa Aléo. Natûmtám ewedé Awamaa Aléo

"What tongue is that?" someone asked, but their voice hardly registered in her mind; only the words.

"An ancient tongue all but forgotten by all of Middle-Earth," Gilli replied mechanically, only half aware that she was speaking Westron once more. It was the mother tongue of Blackwater.

"Where did you learn it?" the same Dwarf asked, but his words were as distant as the wind, a faraway whisper that was half-drowned by the sounds of the world; the leaves in the trees overhead, the woodpecker drilling bark, a squirrel scaling a tree.

"My mother taught it to me, and then my brother when my mother was gone from me." It wasn't a lie. Gilli took a deep breath and stood up as she opened her eyes. "Take what you will if you've not already. I pray we are forgiven for desecrating the resting place of these people; the gods should see we need these things more. Ten minutes, then we move," she ordered. "We have a lot of ground to cover."

She went inside the cave swiftly, kneeling down next to a slowly diminishing pile of Golds and Silvers and took three small pouched from her bag, each with a word in writes in embroidery. Food—Shelter—Emergency. She filled each with no large number of coins, just enough to last her to the end of the journey to Dale and packed them away, then found Thorin and Gandalf discussing weaponry in the back of the cave. They stood next to a rack of swords, Gandalf holding a long and narrow blade in its sheath and the Dwarf King a sword of wave-like designs, thin at the hilt, than broadening in the middle and becoming a fine tip at the end. Gilli looked at her own sword, then at the web and dust coated blades on the rack. There was a number but each of them too great for her to carry by the look of it.

The blades were Elvish, if Gandalf was to be believed. Thorin was examining his when the old Wizard said this and the King went to put the sword away with no small amount of irritation written across his face. Gilli would have rolled her eyes. Something did, however, catch her eye. It lay on the floor behind the rack and she felt it there more than seen it. It was layered with too much dust and it was all too dark to truly make anything out, but the call of the blade was unmistakable.

Certainly, she had heard stories of the Nymph kind living willingly among Men and Elves and Dwarves on land, but all along she had assumed these to be just tales. No Nymph would ever want to live away from the waters, this much she could guarantee personally. There wasn't a feeling worse than being cut away from the waters, bound to a mortal form. Yet there it lay, on the ground in the dust and dirt, covered by the hand of time so thick that at this point it was less sword and more… everything else. Nymph kind rarely used weaponry, let alone bringing it to the land-folk, but she supposed it was here for the very same reason an ancient rack of Elvish blades was: bad timing.

Gilli moved behind Gandalf to push the rack aside, having to resort to lifting it off the ground a little in order to force it elsewhere, ignoring the inquiries as to what she was going. She could feel the Fireglass and magic in her blood like a Siren's Cry. It was the same kind of pull that constantly tugged at her mind, pulling her southeast to where her people lived, to a place she could never again set eyes upon unless she returned the Queen of Heavens. It called her to what was not hers to touch, not hers to keep.

She wrapped her fingers around the cold crystalline hilt and picked up the blade and at once the glass warmed in her hand. It was designed for the smaller size of the Nymphs, and light enough to carry easily, all the while heavy enough to have a good swing. She brushed the dust and spider webs from it, revealing the dark blade beneath the grey particles.

"A Nymphean blade," the old Wizard commented as he traced his fingers over the flat of her newly acquired weapon. "Forged by a Dwarven hand, designed by the Elves and sealed with Blood Magic of the Nymph folk. What is it doing here?"

"I don't know," Gilli admitted, admiring the find edge, sharp as the day it was forged, in her hand. Such was Nymphean magic. "The Nymph kind has not willingly set foot on land since the Dark Years, not since The Last Great Alliance. They left once the One Ring was cut from Sauron's hand. It must've looked like a fancy trinket when it was stolen," the guide said, handing it to Thorin to take a look. The King's eyes widened as he recognized the alloy from which the blade was forged. He ran the pad of his thumb over the now-dull edge, scoffing because it would not cut a twig, much less a body part. Oh, how it must've looked to him, a steel alloy sword as dull in his hand as though it has never once been sharpened. She took it back from him at his look of disapproval over the poor maintenance of a once-beautiful and deadly weapon.

"Nymphean magic works in such ways that the blade will be useless in any hand but that for which it was destined. A hand worthy to wield such a powerful weapon alone can sharpen its edge." It was a lie. The blade was only sharp in the hand of a Nymph. "An Obsidian-steel alloy—I always thought it was just an embellishment… nobody could meld glass and metal together," she mused to herself, for even with all the stories she had never actually seen one up close, let alone held it. "It can only be sharp for he who is worthy of it. Only three of these remain from the War, and all are in Blackwater," she explained. "This one must've been stolen before it could make it home."

The dark hilt was warm to the touch, the magic binding the sword alive under her fingers as it recognized a rightful wielder.

"I guess then, Dwarves found a way to combine Fireglass and steel, if only for a short time; only fifteen were ever made," she said quietly, more to herself than anybody else. "I've not heard it done since the end of the Second Age."

Fifteen, for an entire army of her people, but each sword had cut down more enemies than any other. The magic used to bind the swords was forbidden since it was been discovered in the First Age, too powerful and overwhelming was its allure. The Queen who performed the spell paid for it with her life.

Sword still in hand, Gilli turned to walk back outside. Thorin stopped her.

"You should not take that," he warned—no, not warned; advised—her, "nor do you need a blunt sword at your hip. It will be a hindrance to you and everyone else should the need arise to fight. Its historic value means nothing if it is of no use."

"No, but it belongs with its people," Gilli said. "I will see it returned to Blackwater to rejoin its brothers and sister."

"You would seek Blackwater? The Nymphean Realm has been sealed for an Age," he reminded her.

"Indeed it has been. But I think, for this blade they would open their gates. It was thought to be lost with the other eleven. They would have it back gladly."

"For a pretty price, I imagine," he growled. Gilli's first impulse was to punch him in the face, stopping half a moment before she could strike the King. Of course he would think that, she reasoned. He knew not what he spoke of for she had not told him who she was. She was but a Man to him, and in his experience (and hers) the race of Men was petty and violent when it came to getting what they wanted. Many would seek to return this sword to its people for a pretty price… not that anyone would see a coin. The Nymph folk had no currency to speak of, a little-known fact to the rest of the world.

Understanding his logic did little to sate her anger at his words, however. Had it been any other, she would have laughed and walked away because their opinion didn't matter, because who the bloody hell were they to assume anything they didn't understand? He was not anyone else. He was Thorin Pain-In-Her-Arse Oakenshield Durin.

"Am I some lowly liar and thief that you would assume I would ransom an ancient heirloom," Gilli said harshly, her voice just short of an angery shout, "or do you say it to spite me? Don't insinuate this again, Thorin Oakenshield Durinson. Not ever," she said, standing straight and her head high, looking down on him with every drop of royal blood in her veins hardening her pride. Her face was a thunderstorm that rivaled his—not beat, but it certainly gave him something to think about that someone could match his anger ounce for ounce.

"I have yet to be proven wrong in my assumptions," he told her, his eyes on her but his head straight. She would not crane his neck to look at her. Part of her respected that, but she shut that part up fast.

Oh, that… impossible Dwarf! She didn't need to prove herself to him! Not herself, not her intentions, not anything. She owed him nothing!

Only, she did have to. She did need to live up to his high and mighty standards, because like Hell she would let him be better than her.

Outside, the wind howled like a bloodhound, nearly hard enough to knock a grown Man down, throwing everything light enough to lift into the air like a tornado. Dust and sand and earth picked up, turning the day brown and grey like a sandstorm. Gandalf placed a firm hand on her shoulder, causing Gilli to look at it sharply and then at him. The Wizard's eyes told her what, enough for her to look around, to feel the wind even within the cave, blowing hair and clothing in every direction, lifting the decades of dust into the air. She look down at her hands, expecting to see her ruby pendant but found them empty save for the scratches she acquired earlier.

When the realization hit it was like a pale of ice water, sudden and chilling. The stone was a focus point used to channel the power in royal blood. If she hadn't the need to hold it… Heart thundering in her ears with fear she clenched her hands and willed herself to calm down before she made it worse. This was getting out of line. She was getting out of line. She should never have taken that thrice-cursed pendant from Gandalf; the cursed thing was never meant to be wielded by a mortal. The mortal mind was too weak to control it, too susceptible to distractions.

She left the cave, breathing deeply the (contaminated by the stench) fresh air, carefully avoiding the four hills in the ground as she whistled to Little Brother a short four-note tune, calling the horse from wherever he was. He was likely lazily breaking his fast somewhere and she was reading him away from his patch grass. Gandalf, it turned out, had discovered another sword in the cave, if the blade could be called that. It was more of a large dagger than a shortsword, but it was a good size for the Hobbit as that was precisely who the grey pilgrim gave it to—the look Gandalf cast her as she observed told her they would speak of this incident extensively later, a prospect she wasn't too happy about.

Shortly after at they encountered the Brown Wizard, Radagast (whoever would want 'The Brown' attached to their name?), the crazy forest elderly with bird feces having dried along the side of his face (maybe that was why he was called 'The Brown', Gilli thought bitterly, then smacked herself for the unwarranted, rude thought). He spoke of important matters with the Grey Wizard, and then there was a distant howl, one she had dreaded to hear for all this time.

When the first Warg appeared, she was useless as she froze in utter fear, the implication of the beast's arrival a rushing weight in her chest. She stood motionless with her mouth agape in a silent scream as it was cut down, then shocked into action as the second appeared. She approached Gandalf as the Brown Wizard offered to play bait and murmured in his ear.

"The Hidden Pass."

The Wizard nodded to her, giving her the clearance to lead them to the safe route etched into the mountains, and then it was chaos.

So. Good? So-so? Bad? Let me know!