DISCLAIMER: I own no one but Lindan, Ellorme, Finn, Delor, Felor, and Melor
Delor peered doubtfully at the edge of Mirkwood. "Tell me that's not our destination."
"It's our destination," Ellorme replied as she finished packing their supplies.
Delor, Melor, and Felor all groaned loudly.
"Will you three shut up?" Ellorme looked over her shoulder and glared. "We're heading for Elf-King's forest kingdom. Shouldn't take too long—a few weeks at most."
"If we die, I will personally make sure you do not go to the happy side of the afterlife," Delor snarled darkly.
"Oh, go whine to a tree, you scardy cat."
Finn, the only human in the small company, smiled distantly. He was a thin, gaunt boy with an unruly toppling of white-blond hair. His eyes, a strange dark-gray in color, were part of what had gotten him in trouble at the village where he had lived—or so he had told Ellorme. That, and his odd ability to predict the future had caused him to be labeled a "witch," and was to be whipped and burned at the stake before Ellorme and the three dwarves intervened.
"Why did we ever agree to help her?" Melor grumbled, stomping his feet alternately to warm them up. Dawn was cold this time of year.
"Because I saved your lives—remember?" Ellorme called as she filled a few waterskins by the creek.
"Damn her elven hearing," Felor muttered.
"I heard that!"
So the four travelers—three dwarves, an elf, and a human, all shouldered their packs of food and water and marched into the forest of Mirkwood an hour after dawn.
It was dreadfully dark under the canopy of trees, and the dwarves were spooking at every noise. Ellorme, however, elven that she was, was perfectly at home with the woods—even such a dangerous wood as Mirkwood.
"Why is it called Mirkwood?" Finn asked, catching up to Ellorme. She slowed her pace so he could keep up easier after noticing him half-jogging to keep up with her long strides.
"Long ago it was called Greenwood," she replied. "But when evil began to spread from the South—well—it was renamed. To Mirkwood."
"And the elves—they still stay here?"
"They are on the other side of the forest, unfortunately—they keep their kingdom free of the evil creatures here. But we are not yet in their realm. This means we must keep a sharp eye out for any giant spiders—I assure you, I in no way wish to become lunch to a thrall of the Dark Lord."
Finn shuddered in response, and dropped back behind the dwarves, who were muttering together nervously.
Dinner was hushed that night and cold that night. Finn slept uneasily, tossing and turning, sometimes waking to pitch-blackness. Not even the dwarves could see anything in the dark, and their eyes were accustomed to the night. Ellorme stood guard always on the edge of camp—with her keen hearing, she hardly need her eyes, and her nose told her when something foul-smelling approached.
The dwarves grumbled loudly all the way through the forest, until they realized it attracted some rather terrifying eyes—eyes that glowed red, or were the eyes of huge, man-sized bugs. Eyes that never came within the light of the campfire they occasionally built; eyes that emitted an eerie light of their own.
Ellorme was either unafraid of the eyes (just another reason why the dwarves thought she was bonkers) or was so intent on finding the Elf-King and getting someone to guide her south that she never noticed how terrified her companions were. Then one day she came up behind Finn once, silently, touched him and was nearly knocked off her feet as he screeched and swung around, dagger in hand.
"Gods, Ellorme, do you have to do that?" he gasped, sinking back down, shivering. Ellorme didn't answer at first; instead looked closer at him; he was soaked with cold sweat.
"If something truly dangerous is near, I will sense it long before I arrives," she told him. "You have nothing to fear."
"Bonkers," Melor muttered into his beard. "Absolutely bonkers…"
It was when they hit the enchanted stream that things became complicated.
"And how," Felor asked with extreme sarcasm, squinting up at Ellorme's face, trying to look fierce even though it was so dark it was all they could do to keep together, "do you intend on getting us over that thing if we can't swim it?"
"Why can't we swim it?" Finn asked wearily, slumping to the ground.
"First of all," Ellorme replied briskly as she tied her hair back, ignoring the dwarf, "you are too tired to swim—you'd be swept away. Second of all, the stream is enchanted—you'd fall asleep if you drank out of it or swam in it, and perhaps would never wake again. Third, I hate swimming. I'm an elf, not an otter."
"Oh, so we have to cater to your needs," Delor snarled.
"If we catered to yours, we'd be feasting on carcasses," Ellorme snapped back, her temper rising. "If you're such a big, brave, terrifying dwarf, figure out a way to get across it yourself!"
And with that, Ellorme, thoroughly put out, sat down with her back against a tree, took out her whetting stone, began sharpening her dagger, and refused to give anyone any advice.
"Just like an elf," Felor said disgustingly. "Blabbering nonsense they call 'wisdom' when you don't need it, and stingy when you do."
A snort was his only answer.
The three dwarves huddled together to try and outdo Ellorme. Finn wandered off near the stream, watching the waters roll by. Ellorme watched him through partially lowered eyelashes—she wouldn't let him fall in, because it he did it would slow them down considerably, since he'd be asleep—and they'd have to carry him.
"So," Delor muttered, eyeing Ellorme over his kinsman's shoulder, "any ideas?"
"Notta one," Melor replied.
"Don't look at me," Felor said quickly when both dwarves turned to him.
"So what do we do?"
"Beg for mercy?" Melor offered. "Only kidding," he added quickly.
Ellorme ran her tongue over her lips and winced as they cracked. She'd been taking less than her share of water, and it was beginning to show. Shrugging to herself, she plucked a slender hair out of her head and ran it lengthwise along the blade of her dagger. She smiled, satisfied, when the hair was neatly slit in two. Then she pulled her hair around her shoulder and began hacking away at her locks with the same knife.
The dwarves stopped muttering and stared at her.
"What are you *doing?*" Melor demanded.
"Cutting my hair," Ellorme answered through gritted teeth, wincing when she nicked her neck with the edge of the blade.
"That's no way to do it!" Delor protested.
Ellorme stopped cutting and scowled at him. "You're right," she replied with deadly calm. "I should cut your beard instead."
The dwarves scattered like fallen leaves.
* * * *
"Well?" Felor that evening over a mouthful of dried meat.
"Well, what?" Ellorme was counting her arrows, lips moving silently as she lightly touched each feathered shaft.
"Well, how are we going to get over that stream?"
"We're not."
All four of her companions stopped and stared at her.
"What?" they cried, pretty much simultaneously.
"You heard what I said."
"But then we've come all this way for nothing?" Finn demanded.
"Not so loud! You think just because there's a stream between us and a clutch of spiders that they won't be able to get at us?"
"Huh?" Delor said intelligently.
Ellorme sighed and put her quiver down. "I was listening last night, on watch, and I could hear the sounds of giant spiders across the stream."
"So, what? We turn around and go back?"
"No," Ellorme replied with great patience. "I'm going to call my kindred."
"What, the squirrels?" Felor snickered.
"Keep it up, Felor, just keep it up." Ellorme stretched, reaching out with her hands as though to touch the treetops. Then, with a brisk "Wait here" she leapt up into the trees above them and disappeared.
Ellorme climbed for some time until she broke through the canopy. For a moment she simply sat in the branches, letting the cool flow of air wash over her, air that was fresher than its dusty brother under the treetops. The trees cradled her in their branches, and she sleepily watched the sky above her, the stars winking in and out. It was only when the dwarves began hissing her name that she remembered her mission.
Cupping her hands around her lips she imitated the call of the nightingale. It was one of the few good animals still remaining in Mirkwood—and it was fast migrating to Lorien in the south.
But only one small bird, barely able to fly, answered her call. Ellorme caught the poor thing as it collapsed in her hands. On closer examination it appeared on of its wings had been torn by a claw. Ellorme cradled the thing close to keep it warm, and sang her song a few times more. But no more nightingales came.
"So, you're the last?" she asked the little bird. "Poor thing—I'd better clean you up."
She slid, disappointed, down through the branches one-handed. She landed, and was bombarded by questions from the dwarves.
"Oh, leave me alone!" she snapped at them, kneeling down to tend to the bird's wing. "I want to be left alone for a while! I need to think."
The five of them went to bed discouraged that night. Ellorme sat with the bird in her lap, her head bowed with despair. Finn curled up with his back to the fire and slept deeply for the first time in weeks. The dwarves didn't sleep at all, and for all their gruffness they felt pity for the young elf that sat across the fire from them, bent over the small form in her hands, her eyes shining in the flickering light as tears trickled one by one silently down her cheeks.
Delor peered doubtfully at the edge of Mirkwood. "Tell me that's not our destination."
"It's our destination," Ellorme replied as she finished packing their supplies.
Delor, Melor, and Felor all groaned loudly.
"Will you three shut up?" Ellorme looked over her shoulder and glared. "We're heading for Elf-King's forest kingdom. Shouldn't take too long—a few weeks at most."
"If we die, I will personally make sure you do not go to the happy side of the afterlife," Delor snarled darkly.
"Oh, go whine to a tree, you scardy cat."
Finn, the only human in the small company, smiled distantly. He was a thin, gaunt boy with an unruly toppling of white-blond hair. His eyes, a strange dark-gray in color, were part of what had gotten him in trouble at the village where he had lived—or so he had told Ellorme. That, and his odd ability to predict the future had caused him to be labeled a "witch," and was to be whipped and burned at the stake before Ellorme and the three dwarves intervened.
"Why did we ever agree to help her?" Melor grumbled, stomping his feet alternately to warm them up. Dawn was cold this time of year.
"Because I saved your lives—remember?" Ellorme called as she filled a few waterskins by the creek.
"Damn her elven hearing," Felor muttered.
"I heard that!"
So the four travelers—three dwarves, an elf, and a human, all shouldered their packs of food and water and marched into the forest of Mirkwood an hour after dawn.
It was dreadfully dark under the canopy of trees, and the dwarves were spooking at every noise. Ellorme, however, elven that she was, was perfectly at home with the woods—even such a dangerous wood as Mirkwood.
"Why is it called Mirkwood?" Finn asked, catching up to Ellorme. She slowed her pace so he could keep up easier after noticing him half-jogging to keep up with her long strides.
"Long ago it was called Greenwood," she replied. "But when evil began to spread from the South—well—it was renamed. To Mirkwood."
"And the elves—they still stay here?"
"They are on the other side of the forest, unfortunately—they keep their kingdom free of the evil creatures here. But we are not yet in their realm. This means we must keep a sharp eye out for any giant spiders—I assure you, I in no way wish to become lunch to a thrall of the Dark Lord."
Finn shuddered in response, and dropped back behind the dwarves, who were muttering together nervously.
Dinner was hushed that night and cold that night. Finn slept uneasily, tossing and turning, sometimes waking to pitch-blackness. Not even the dwarves could see anything in the dark, and their eyes were accustomed to the night. Ellorme stood guard always on the edge of camp—with her keen hearing, she hardly need her eyes, and her nose told her when something foul-smelling approached.
The dwarves grumbled loudly all the way through the forest, until they realized it attracted some rather terrifying eyes—eyes that glowed red, or were the eyes of huge, man-sized bugs. Eyes that never came within the light of the campfire they occasionally built; eyes that emitted an eerie light of their own.
Ellorme was either unafraid of the eyes (just another reason why the dwarves thought she was bonkers) or was so intent on finding the Elf-King and getting someone to guide her south that she never noticed how terrified her companions were. Then one day she came up behind Finn once, silently, touched him and was nearly knocked off her feet as he screeched and swung around, dagger in hand.
"Gods, Ellorme, do you have to do that?" he gasped, sinking back down, shivering. Ellorme didn't answer at first; instead looked closer at him; he was soaked with cold sweat.
"If something truly dangerous is near, I will sense it long before I arrives," she told him. "You have nothing to fear."
"Bonkers," Melor muttered into his beard. "Absolutely bonkers…"
It was when they hit the enchanted stream that things became complicated.
"And how," Felor asked with extreme sarcasm, squinting up at Ellorme's face, trying to look fierce even though it was so dark it was all they could do to keep together, "do you intend on getting us over that thing if we can't swim it?"
"Why can't we swim it?" Finn asked wearily, slumping to the ground.
"First of all," Ellorme replied briskly as she tied her hair back, ignoring the dwarf, "you are too tired to swim—you'd be swept away. Second of all, the stream is enchanted—you'd fall asleep if you drank out of it or swam in it, and perhaps would never wake again. Third, I hate swimming. I'm an elf, not an otter."
"Oh, so we have to cater to your needs," Delor snarled.
"If we catered to yours, we'd be feasting on carcasses," Ellorme snapped back, her temper rising. "If you're such a big, brave, terrifying dwarf, figure out a way to get across it yourself!"
And with that, Ellorme, thoroughly put out, sat down with her back against a tree, took out her whetting stone, began sharpening her dagger, and refused to give anyone any advice.
"Just like an elf," Felor said disgustingly. "Blabbering nonsense they call 'wisdom' when you don't need it, and stingy when you do."
A snort was his only answer.
The three dwarves huddled together to try and outdo Ellorme. Finn wandered off near the stream, watching the waters roll by. Ellorme watched him through partially lowered eyelashes—she wouldn't let him fall in, because it he did it would slow them down considerably, since he'd be asleep—and they'd have to carry him.
"So," Delor muttered, eyeing Ellorme over his kinsman's shoulder, "any ideas?"
"Notta one," Melor replied.
"Don't look at me," Felor said quickly when both dwarves turned to him.
"So what do we do?"
"Beg for mercy?" Melor offered. "Only kidding," he added quickly.
Ellorme ran her tongue over her lips and winced as they cracked. She'd been taking less than her share of water, and it was beginning to show. Shrugging to herself, she plucked a slender hair out of her head and ran it lengthwise along the blade of her dagger. She smiled, satisfied, when the hair was neatly slit in two. Then she pulled her hair around her shoulder and began hacking away at her locks with the same knife.
The dwarves stopped muttering and stared at her.
"What are you *doing?*" Melor demanded.
"Cutting my hair," Ellorme answered through gritted teeth, wincing when she nicked her neck with the edge of the blade.
"That's no way to do it!" Delor protested.
Ellorme stopped cutting and scowled at him. "You're right," she replied with deadly calm. "I should cut your beard instead."
The dwarves scattered like fallen leaves.
* * * *
"Well?" Felor that evening over a mouthful of dried meat.
"Well, what?" Ellorme was counting her arrows, lips moving silently as she lightly touched each feathered shaft.
"Well, how are we going to get over that stream?"
"We're not."
All four of her companions stopped and stared at her.
"What?" they cried, pretty much simultaneously.
"You heard what I said."
"But then we've come all this way for nothing?" Finn demanded.
"Not so loud! You think just because there's a stream between us and a clutch of spiders that they won't be able to get at us?"
"Huh?" Delor said intelligently.
Ellorme sighed and put her quiver down. "I was listening last night, on watch, and I could hear the sounds of giant spiders across the stream."
"So, what? We turn around and go back?"
"No," Ellorme replied with great patience. "I'm going to call my kindred."
"What, the squirrels?" Felor snickered.
"Keep it up, Felor, just keep it up." Ellorme stretched, reaching out with her hands as though to touch the treetops. Then, with a brisk "Wait here" she leapt up into the trees above them and disappeared.
Ellorme climbed for some time until she broke through the canopy. For a moment she simply sat in the branches, letting the cool flow of air wash over her, air that was fresher than its dusty brother under the treetops. The trees cradled her in their branches, and she sleepily watched the sky above her, the stars winking in and out. It was only when the dwarves began hissing her name that she remembered her mission.
Cupping her hands around her lips she imitated the call of the nightingale. It was one of the few good animals still remaining in Mirkwood—and it was fast migrating to Lorien in the south.
But only one small bird, barely able to fly, answered her call. Ellorme caught the poor thing as it collapsed in her hands. On closer examination it appeared on of its wings had been torn by a claw. Ellorme cradled the thing close to keep it warm, and sang her song a few times more. But no more nightingales came.
"So, you're the last?" she asked the little bird. "Poor thing—I'd better clean you up."
She slid, disappointed, down through the branches one-handed. She landed, and was bombarded by questions from the dwarves.
"Oh, leave me alone!" she snapped at them, kneeling down to tend to the bird's wing. "I want to be left alone for a while! I need to think."
The five of them went to bed discouraged that night. Ellorme sat with the bird in her lap, her head bowed with despair. Finn curled up with his back to the fire and slept deeply for the first time in weeks. The dwarves didn't sleep at all, and for all their gruffness they felt pity for the young elf that sat across the fire from them, bent over the small form in her hands, her eyes shining in the flickering light as tears trickled one by one silently down her cheeks.