A/N: Hey everyone! I'm so sorry about not updating in a while, but due to some personal issues and loads of family problems, my life has been just too full to leave much room for writing. Cross your fingers though, that this lull is going to be permanent and I can get back to updating regularly. For now, enjoy this new chapter!

And if you haven't seen Desolation of Smaug, it's completely worth the price of the ticket! Peter Jackson plays fast and loose with the plot, but you can see where he's going and I found it to be highly entertaining and in the true spirit of Tolkien.

Thank you for all your patience and support, it has meant the world to me! And thank you for all the favorites, follows, and reviews, please keep them coming! :)

Chapter 26: A Spark Kindled

"Troubling…very troubling."

The wizard muttered to himself, puffing furiously on his worn pipe as he stared out the black doorway. He had eased himself onto a bench near the table as he listened to her second recounting of the assault on Dol Guldur. With each word, his features became more grave, his body more still, the hollowing of his cheeks the only movement. When it was done, he spoke no more than a few murmurs, his eyes blankly watching the shadows dance in the courtyard.

The warmth of the stove was enjoyable against her shoulder as Culurien leaned back and slid her back down the rough wooden planks of the wall until she was seated on the freshly swept floor. Her legs stretched out in front of her and she languidly crossed her bare ankles. Folding her arms loosely across her stomach, she let out a quiet breath and allowed her head to fall back against the planks with a dull thump, braids gently clinking.

She had said too much.

She knew it in her bones. But words could not be taken back once they had reached the air. Retelling the tale had been no less painful than she had suspected it would be. To speak of it, she could stop; the memory was another matter entirely.

Unwilling to continue to let it haunt her, she shook her head, shaking the remembrance away like the spiders' clinging cobwebs and eased her body against the wall.

"When are you not troubled?" she asked, more harshly than she'd intended.

Gandalf didn't immediately answer, his thoughts clearly far from her and the skinchanger's home. Exhaling another soft breath, Culurien rose from her position on the floor and stepped back towards the doorway across from the old wizard, her thumbs tucking into her trousers. When he didn't move, she turned her eyes out towards the same darkness, roving across the moonlit flowers and slumbering beehives. Silence stretched between them as each lost themselves in their own thoughts. The embers in the stove had nearly burned themselves out before he stirred, pale blue irises shifting to her features, still tightly drawn as she fought to hold the emotions the tale had stirred in check.

"Indulge your anger, my dear," he said gruffly, clearing his throat as he took another long pull of his pipe, "It will serve you more than your grief."

Culurien turned towards him sharply, tendrils of smoke rising from her skin as her hands clenched.

"Don't presume to counsel me, Pilgrim," she replied in a low tone, a flush chasing across her cheeks as the air around her heated. "I will not be your or any other's weapon."

Shaggy brows rose incredulously before he started to chuckle.

"Aren't you the one presuming?" he asked, his eyes narrowing shrewdly. "Considering recent events, I can hardly see you fulfilling your oaths to Radaghast, much less take on the Necromancer a second time, even with this new blessing he bestowed on you."

She was barely capable to bite her tongue to keep the curse from slithering past her lips. He was manipulating her and she bloody well was aware of it. Chastising herself silently, Culurien met his gaze as evenly as she was able, she willed her body, and her temper, to cool before she spoke again.

"Perhaps not," she ground out, irritation rising as her emotions were laid bare in her voice. "But I have all ideas that you have a use for me."

When he chuckled again, she had to glance away, wary of how little control she seemed to have over the fire that now constantly simmered just beneath the surface of her skin.

"I can't fathom why you're so suspicious, my dear."

"Gandalf," she said, his name a warning and he held up a hand with a knowing smile. It irked her to no end—and he knew it.

"Very well, very well. Yes, I could use your help, if you're willing."

She very nearly snorted at the provision, for she knew full well that her willingness mattered little. A wizard would use you for as long as he had need of you, whether you were agreeable or not. It was all for your benefit, of course. Culurien held in a sigh. That wasn't entirely fair. Gandalf was not the kind to just use people for his own ends. In most cases, he had a genuine interest not only in the well-being of his friends, but also in helping them surpass what they thought themselves capable. Despite her distaste for his machinations and secrets, she knew that he had a compassionate heart. It was only difficult to see at times.

With that inward admittance, she moved back from the doorway and around the end of the table. Bracing her arm, she easily vaulted up onto it and let her legs dangle over the other side. Comfortable, she leaned her elbows on her thighs and laced her fingers together, a makeshift prop for her chin.

"You would have me lead the company through the Green Wood, as we had originally agreed."

There was no accusation in her voice this time, only a quiet statement. The wizard nodded.

"Indeed. But you are going to have to come to terms with the fact that this is no longer the woodland in which you exiled yourself so long ago." His tone became melancholy as he glanced back out towards the night. "It has earned the name of Mirkwood."

She lifted her shoulder in a casual shrug, indicating a lightness of thought that she didn't truly possess. But she was loathe to admit to him how much the disease ravaging her forest pained her.

"As you say, Gandalf. Whatever its name, you will need a guide through this woodland." Her gaze sharpened. "Lest your little band stray too far from the paths."

Gandalf nodded quietly and she continued, tilting her head towards him.

"You will be taking the Elven road?"

He nodded again, smoke billowing around him like a well-used furnace.

"If they can. I have a notion that the wood elves won't be very pleased if they meet them along the way."

Culurien frowned a moment before suddenly straightening.

"You aren't going with us then?"

"No."

He would not speak more on the subject and Culurien didn't bother to question him further. She knew the direction he was headed, and she knew that her rash decision was a large part of why he planned to go there. A shiver chased down her spine at the memory of the Witch King's visage, causing her to banish the memory's ghost with a rough shake of her head. If the wizard noticed, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead, he murmured to her, something she barely heard.

"The world is changing…and I'm not entirely certain that it is for the better."

The half-dragon suddenly felt all of her ire melt away, for in that moment, she thought that she was no longer looking at the Grey Pilgrim. In his stead sat a tired old man, his face carved and worn by a burden that would have broken lesser men. But then, he wasn't a child of man, was he? Culurien felt that she would do well to remember that, even now as she stared at a wizened face that reminded her strongly of her beloved master, encumbered by age and duty. She had forgotten that she was not the only being that had come to Middle Earth and sworn an oath.

With a tender touch, she laid her hand on one stooped shoulder and when he looked up to her perch on the hewn table, she gave him a small smile.

"Change will come no matter our actions to prevent it. You and I have seen it alter the course of the path many times over, for good and ill, and we will again. All that we can do is to direct our feet to follow as best we can, and not allow them to be swept from beneath us."

Gandalf's chuckle was dry, but warm as he patted her hand before she removed it and set it once again on her thigh.

"Truly, you should be counted among the wise, my dear."

"Perish the thought!" she responded with a harsh bark of laughter, then calmed abruptly. "I would rather be counted among the road weary crafters and the age bent planters." Her gaze traveled across to the coal blackened stove, its soft, glow and reflection of flickering embers softening them to a downy grey. Her voice became a gentle murmur, forlorn and sorrowful. "Place me in the annals of the dust, where my people have resided for ages unmeasured. Let what little wisdom I have fade with the coming of winter, so that no more will carry the weight of my existence. The time of my kind has passed like the darkened heat of my forge…like ash."

She shook herself a little and returned his glance, an understanding passing between them, perhaps the very first. But then a scuffling sound pulled her attention away and she half turned towards the archway that led into the main hall. Bofur stood with his hand lifted, as if to knock on the wall, and an expression of uncertainty and wariness furrowing his features. Her chest tightened painfully at the sight, for she knew that it had been her actions that had put them there. With a grunt, Gandalf rose from his bench and began to shuffle towards the door, his hand grasping his lower back.

"Ah, this old man is in need of his bed at this late hour. Hmm, hmm, yes, well, good night to you both."

And so her ire with wizards and their knowing smirks in general returned, and she barely suppressed a scowl, waving a dismissive hand in farewell. As the bent figure hobbled out of the kitchen past the green-eyed dwarf, Culurien found herself nibbling at her lower lip in trepidation. Now agitated with herself, she cleared her throat and made to hop off the table.

Before she could brace her hands, however, Bofur strode around the table, his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

"Wait, wait! Taal, don' move, please, Ah jus' wanted ta talk ta ya! Ah didn'—"

The words were spilling past his lips so fast that she could barely understand the thickening brogue. Guilt and an odd bubble of amusement twisted in her gut as he rushed to stand in front of her and keep her from moving, his large hands wrapping around her wrists gently, but firmly.

"Ah didn' mean ta do tha', ya know, Ah—Ah jus' couldn' help it! Ya looked so sad! Ah jus' wanted ta make ya see tha' Ah liked yer flute and yer braids and how they shine like gold and catch fire an how much ah love ta see—"

A warm ache was starting to build in her chest and she couldn't decide if she was upset at how frantically he was trying to apologize or that he was apologizing at all. She was the one that should be making amends towards him, for just leaving him without a word of explanation. Fear curled at the base of her spine as she came face to face with just what she had wanted to avoid. And yet there was something else driving it back, replacing the cold anxiety with a…an exasperated fondness at his babbling. His words, as difficult to understand as they were, were sweet and sincere, his emotions swirling bashfully, but earnestly in his gaze as he stared up at her.

And so, because she saw no recourse as she couldn't get a word in edgewise, and because she simply couldn't not, she leaned down from where she sat and softly kissed him.

His last words were caught between them and instead became a gentle hum against her lips. She tugged at her hands in his sudden loose grasp and moved to cup his face, mirroring his action from earlier that morning. Her fingers once again softly explored the scruff that covered his cheeks before they carefully touched the thick braided plaits that fell from beneath his hat. Slowly, she moved her lips against his, a warm shiver chasing up her back as his large, gloved palms were suddenly resting on the curve of her waist. His lips felt rough and chapped as she skimmed her own across them, as light a touch as the brush of a thread's caress across skin. The tightness in her chest eased, and she sighed against his mouth, pulling away slightly only to come back, one blending into two and then three, again and again until she felt the tension in his body relax.

It was all too brief, but efficient, a flush blooming across her cheeks at her boldness. When she inched back from him completely, her fingers combing through his dark hair, she was undeniably pleased to see that his eyes had drifted closed, slowly opening only when she made no other move.

"Bofur," she said quietly, so quietly that it was almost a whisper. "You've done nothing wrong."

She fought not to wince as the confusion once again settled in his eyes, and she knew that she couldn't keep her reasoning from him any longer. As much as she wanted to spare him, as much as she wanted to keep herself from the loss that she fully expected, she owed him an explanation of her actions. But she didn't have the words to express the turmoil in her heart. For several heartbeats, they simply continued to touch one another as they had been, as still as stone, while she struggled to give voice to her emotions, feeling them slipping from her as soon as she found them. Frustrated, she parted her lips several times to start to speak, only to close them again.

And then, without warning, she saw understanding dawn in his features, and to her mortification, he started to laugh. Peeved, she scowled and drew away from him, but he caught her hands with his and pulled her back towards him. His warm fingers pressed hers to his lips and she felt color rising to her cheeks again, as if she were only a maid at her first courting. The comparison only served to make her discomfort worse, so she swiftly banished it from her mind.

"Taal," he said, still laughing, "You are the strangest woman I've ever met."

"Well, that certainly eases my mind," she replied scathingly, still rattled that her features refused to cool.

"Culurien."

It was the second time that day he'd used her name, but it still riveted her attention. He was grinning at her, clearly tickled about something she'd said or done. At her frown, he scrunched up his face in an attempt to rein in his amusement, but he just couldn't, dimples flashing and his smile so brilliant that she found one curling her own lips despite herself.

"Taal," he said again, more soberly, "I understan'."

Her smile faded completely as she stared at him in surprise and no small amount of skepticism.

"You...you do?"

He nodded quickly and moved a hand to touch her braids.

"Aye, I think I do." The pad of his thumb traced the braided trail of one slender plait, the motion strangely soothing. He continued in a soft tone. "Yer scared."

Her eyes widened considerably and she started to deny his words, but found that she couldn't. He had placed his finger on the root of her hesitance, blast him. So she simply watched him in silence, foreign emotions roiling through her and it seemed that he was able to see it in her eyes, because his fingers trailed down her cheek to tug at the end of her braid playfully, his brogue thickening again.

"Ya don' have to say anythin', ya know. It's enough fer me ta know tha' ya been feelin' the same things Ah have."

She couldn't stop the question from darting past her tongue.

"And just how do you know that?"

He chuckled and tugged on her braid a second time before releasing her with a confident grin.

"Ya wouldn' be scared if it weren' tha truth. Ya don' like things ya didn' see comin'."

She almost asked how he knew that, but refrained. If he knew how she felt without a word spoken from her about it, then she shouldn't doubt that he would know that much about her. And yet there was so much that he didn't. The thought made the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth disappear. It was a motion that he did not fail to notice and he squeezed the hand still held in his gently.

"Don' worry so much. I'll figure ya out before too long."

She marveled at how easily he seemed to be able to pull her from her dismal thoughts. It made her heart warm. Perhaps she was not the one who deserved to be among the wise. The notion made her grin widen. His confidence was bordering on smug and she told him so, making him laugh before she added teasingly, her mood lifting in the light of his good humor. "Are you certain you don't have gifts beyond what you've claimed, master dwarf?"

But he only shook his head at her before tugging on her hand and helping her stand upright from her high perch.

"I told ya before, Taal, ya can't hide anythin' in those eyes of yours. Not when I can see them."

As he spoke, his hand had wandered to her braids again, the bottom of his palm brushing against the bone of her cheek. Embarrassed at their closeness and suddenly painfully aware of where it was that they stood, Culurien shifted, tilting her head towards the hall behind them.

"You should sleep, Bofur. We leave at first light."

His grin became excited.

"Then you'll be coming with us again?"

His smile was infectious, she truly believed that. She nodded and he did this strange hop, grabbing her around her middle and lifting her up in his arms before spinning her in front of the stove with a loud laugh. Culurien gripped his shoulders out of reflex as he burst into motion, braids whipping in the air around them.

"Bofur!"

He dropped her to her feet as quickly as he had scooped her up, blushing furiously.

"Sorry! Sorry, couldn't help it."

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly with one hand, the other still around her waist as she just shook her head at him again. Patting his shoulder, she stepped back.

"I'll see you in the morning."

He nodded and, with a dimpled smile, started towards the hall. He hadn't made it past the table when he stopped. Then, seemingly on impulse, he darted back towards her and stole a swift kiss from her lips with an impish grin. Before she could even react, he was gone and she sighed. Glancing at the now empty kitchen, she couldn't help but to laugh softly.

"Bloody dwarves."