Chapter 28

Prince Caranoran slunk around a globular, misshapen boulder, one in a countless stream of them as he followed Brethil's shadow through the dark landscape. The eastern horizon had assumed a faint glow. Sunrise was not far away.

Frustration burned through him like molten gold from a dwarf's forge. So close, they'd been, yet Azog had slipped away. All that effort, and they returned empty handed. Worse, they'd left their post at Radagast's behest, the wizard's plea to aid him supported by Hwinneth when she'd heard whom it was they hunted.

Only later did Belegon inform him of Oakenshield's fate at Azog's hands. Hwinneth had not tried to preserve the time-line, she'd attempted to thwart it. She'd do so again, of that Caranoran was certain. She cared for those dwarves, as unbelievable as it seemed to him. The rough, crude males were unkempt and ill-mannered, yet she plainly harbored a fondness for them, unbathed or not.

She hadn't told them. The first night they'd camped in the Misty Mountains, Hwinneth had revealed much of the future, but she'd neglected to mention the Battle of Five Armies. It was proof positive in his estimation that she intended to ensure Oakenshield's survival. But at what cost? Did she plan to venture onto the battlefield itself to shield the dwarf king with her body?

No, Hwinneth. Ada would never stand for it. He would not stand for it.

What to do? Reason with her, yes, though he had little confidence it would sway her if she was set upon this path. If only they had slain Azog. The die would be cast, the future changed irredeemably. Oakenshield would be spared, and Hwinneth appeased. As it stood, the burden of the choice settled upon him like a cloying mantle. Trust a book that had thus far proved to be less than accurate – painting Ada as a villain? – or do what was right in lieu of the expedient? He could understand Hwinneth's dilemma. Knowing that a person would die if things were restored, he too would have a difficult time not intervening to protect that person.

Brethil signaled a beware. Caranoran dropped into the shadow of a thorny bush, body low to the ground. A glance behind revealed Belegon had masked his presence with his usual lack of fuss. Black Speech floated upon the wind. Orcs were near.

A dagger sliced through the air, puncturing the earth bare inches from his nose. Caranoran stilled, his gaze fixed upon the blade. The hilt was a heavy and solid iron with little embellishment. He knew that blade. Gloin, he identified. Moving slowly as to not draw attention, he slipped the blade free and tucked it into his belt as his gaze sought the gruff dwarf.

He found him in an unusually dense silver birch along with the other three dwarves. They were almost invisible within the foliage. He would have missed them entirely had they not spread the leaves beneath them to allow him a glimpse.

Gloin crooked a finger, his thick red beard doing nothing to hide the monstrous frown on his face. A quick check proved that each of the elves had received equal summons. Brethil hiked one brow, and Caranoran nodded shortly. With orcs swarming these mountains, they needed to determine where the rest of their party might be.

It took seconds for the wood elves to scale the tree and find perches among the tree's unusually dense plumage. Caranoran claimed a branch above and to the side of the younger toymaker, the stranger one. Both were odd in his estimation, though the elder appeared to be more intelligent than the younger.

Not a feat, to be smarter than the younger. He had no idea why Oakenshield would entrust so sensitive a mission to the floppy-hatted Bofur, but from the beginning, he'd disapproved of the selection. Oh, the dwarf seemed brave enough – he'd risked his life to save their Hwinneth during the spider attack – but his intellect was, in Caranoran's estimation, lacking. The dwarf's only redeeming quality was his ability to draw endless laughter from Hwinneth. Still, Caranoran was not completely pleased with the friendship growing between them.

The elves concealed themselves among the leaves not a minute too soon, for orcs mounted upon their wargs rode past in a large herd. Orcs shouted to one another, goading each other on in their hunt for Hwinneth, their speech full of angry, fearful reminders of their fate should they fail Azog and the necromancer.

Valar protect you, young one. He should not have left his young foster sister, no matter the sense of it at the time. He'd not failed to notice the way the dwarves eyed him or his companions with resentment, and he was certain this infraction had not won him any, as Hwinneth would say, brownie points.

The instant the orcs had passed them by, the dwarves shifted upon their branches to look upon him. He waited for Gloin's words of admonition, but someone else spoke first.

"Now, this is an unexpected pleasure, is it not, Gloin?" Bofur smiled at him, but there was no amusement to be found in his dark eyes.

"Oh, aye," the other dwarf chimed in, his voice flat and expression stony.

"Here we were, enjoying the beauty of the night and taking in the cool air when what do we see? Three elves out and about, of the same mind as ourselves."

Belegon's eyes had by this point become slits, and Brethil fingered the shaft of his favored polearm. Neither was amused. Nor was Caranoran.

"We left upon the wizard's request," he told them, his own voice betraying his frustration and self-recriminations. "Hwinneth insisted. We had no way of knowing this army would appear."

Bofur remained cold, his sharp-edged smile never faltering, and his brown-green eyes boring through him like a spear.

"And the purpose of such an undertaking?" Bombur asked. The heavy dwarf sat reclined against the tree's bole, his hands folded across his substantial girth.

Caranoran tore his gaze free from Bofur with difficulty. The dwarf radiated menace, forcing him to consider that, as unbelievable as Hwinneth's fondness for the dwarves, they might truly reciprocate it.

"Azog," he informed Bombur.

The dwarves all tensed, Gloin going so far as to lean towards him, one hand upon the branch overhead to stabilize his perch. The red-headed dwarf examined him from beneath bushy brows. "If ye killed him, laddie, all is forgiven."

Brethil snorted. "It is a good thing we failed."

All heads whipped towards the auburn-haired guard.

"That is not for you to judge," Belegon countered as Gloin sputtered. Bofur, Bifur and Bombur glared.

"The king would agree with me," Brethil returned.

Caranoran stood upon his branch, his weight setting it to bob, and scanned the area in the direction of the cave. "So you have said, Royal Guard. Repeatedly since Belegon revealed more to us."

"You know full well-" Brethil began.

"Silence." Pivoting on one foot, Caranoran found his gaze drawn to the odd-hatted toymaker. Why, he couldn't say, but it was to Bofur he directed his next question. "Did our Hwinneth say aught to you about the Battle of Five Armies?"

OoOoOo

Bofur tugged upon his mustache and maintained his smile, though little did the situation call for it. But by Durin, it pricked the elf so, and what dwarf could resist riling so stiff a soul as an elf?

Battle of Five Armies. I don't like the sound of that, Bofur my lad, indeed I don't. Five armies equaled a heap of danger, and no doubt. He'd seen enough war to easily envision what such a battle would most certainly entail. So why, he mused, had the lass hidden the event from them?

Aye, they had enough with finding that Ring, but no word at all?

"Nay," he answered simply and enjoyed watching as the elf turned white-lipped at his seeming lack of interest. He was interested, all right. Fiercely so.

The elf turned towards Gloin, done with him, and Bofur winked behind his back where only his brother could see. Bombur winked back.

"I would speak bluntly," the elf told Gloin, his back as straight as Bifur's boar spear. "I believe Hwinneth means to intervene to save your king."

Eh…what? Every fiber of him went on alert.

Brethil hissed them to silence, and soon enough they heard the orcs riding towards them once more. Bofur's hand tapped upon his mattock a few times as his bent his head to gaze downward. The sun was nearer to rising. With a spot of luck, the orcs would retreat until sunset, granting them time to regroup.

The instant the orcs had again passed from the vicinity, Bofur joined the others in staring at the elvish prince. Caranoran stepped onto a branch closer to Gloin and squatted down, paying no mind to the branch's sway. Gloin grabbed at it with a bigger scowl. With hands dangling between his knees, the silver haired elf said, "We are not easy allies, the First Born and the Naugrim. You joy in the deep places and in metals and gems while we prefer our forests and living things."

Aye, and elves have no love of precious stones, do they now? Almost all of the woodland elves Bofur had beheld had gemstones of some sort woven into their hair. What was that he was detecting? Aye, that would be hypocrisy, it would.

"My prince," the auburn-haired guard said with caution.

Caranoran flicked a finger, his attention never straying from Gloin. "If my king and father were depicted as dying upon the battlefield, I would do all within my power to see the event thwarted. I do not understand our Hwinneth's loyalty to you." And here, Bofur noted he was not the only dwarf to take a severe disliking to his words. "But it is fact. She says nothing about Thorin and his heirs dying at Azog's hands, and I believe I know why."

A knot formed in the pit of Bofur's belly. Och, no, lass. Ye should have told us. "She means to be there," he murmured, his smile and attempts to needle the elf abandoned.

Caranoran's brows winged upwards as his head craned in his direction. "That is my fear."

His patience was done. Bofur delayed no longer, grappling his way to the trunk and climbing down the tree. He'd be happier once he had both eyes clapped onto the lassie.

OoOoOo

Aleks dropped the green glow stick into the hole in the floor. It ricocheted off rocks and protrusions as it fell, dispelling the inky blackness that had reigned a heartbeat before. The glowing tube rattled as it landed upon a flat slab of rock, then rolled a few feet until it hit a wall. By its light, a ghostly passageway littered with tumbled boulders and rocks came into view.

They'd searched these tunnels all night, more than once having to dive for cover as goblins crossed their path. Aleks shook with fatigue. He'd had to call for help on two occasions to avoid detection. He didn't know where he'd found the juice to do that much, but he had. End result: if he'd been wiped before, he was so far beyond it now that they were in different time zones. How he would defend Bilbo as the hobbit attempted to lure out Gollum, he hadn't the faintest. Bilbo had taken over the lead some time ago against Aleks's wishes, but what could he do? He was becoming a liability to the hobbit, and it frustrated him to no end.

"I think this is it, Bilbo," he said, inspecting the newly discovered space beneath them with muddled brain and blurred vision.

Bilbo nodded in a business-like fashion. The more Aleks had degenerated, the more the hobbit had firmed his resolve. Though fear lurked in his brown eyes, he stood with a confidence rarely displayed. "Yes. Well then. I shan't delay, shall I?"

Aleks smiled. So proper and mannerly, his little friend. Aleks handed him the bag of jerky. "I'll trail behind far enough to stay out of the way. If that creature is anywhere nearby, the scent of food should draw him out."

He hoped. Daph had mentioned Gollum preferred raw meat, but they'd have to work with what they had.

Bilbo tucked the pouch into his inner coat pocket before kneeling down. With a deep breath, he backed into the hole. Aleks held onto his arms and lowered him further, aiming the hobbit's feet towards a shelf of stone some four feet below.

"Ready?"

"Drop me."

He released him.

Bilbo landed with knees bent, absorbing the impact. He remained hunched over as he picked his way down from rock to rock to the tunnel floor below. His head panned back and forth, and his hands touched his dagger sheaths more than once. Missing Sting, Aleks figured.

Bilbo pocketed the glow stick, dousing its light. Instantly, Aleks lost sight of everything but Bilbo's energy signature.

Picking a direction, Bilbo set out, one hand pulling out the bag of jerky. By his arm motions, Aleks knew when Bilbo tossed a piece to the floor and walked on.

Aleks watched Bilbo's reddish and honey-colored energy signature as Bilbo progressed further down the passageway. The hobbit remained alert, his head in constant motion. Aleks wiped grit from his eyes, cautioning himself to patience. If he followed too closely, Gollum might not approach. The creature was shy but vicious, Daphne had said.

Plus, Aleks wanted no part of that Ring. He'd heard enough. Thanks but no thanks.

Aleks waited until Bilbo was quite a ways ahead and eased himself down the hole after him, returning to human form to increase his chances of passing undetected. His already challenged eyesight dimmed further, but it couldn't be helped. Gollum could not spot him, especially not as a satyr.

With notched arrow pointed towards the ground, he padded on bare feet after his friend.

OoOoOo

Bofur's left hand rasped across his bearded jaw, his other hand resting upon the butt of his mattock as he watched the elf prince run a light hand upon the trunk of the tree that had sprung up in their absence. A sight it was, and that was for certain. He'd seen naught like it in all his years. The leaves were large and glossy, and the flowers green-yellow. Black berries peeked out from among the foliage.

Through the thick covering of leaves, at first he missed it, but as the elf's inspection ran across the length of the bole, it be came clear - the trunk lined up exactly with the cave's entrance, blocking all access.

The lass's work, he didn't doubt.

If that be so, why no answer? Each of them had tried in turn, yet call out as they might, there was no response from within that cave. Not from Daphne. Not from Aleks or Bilbo.

We should not have left the wee ones in the care of elves.

Caranoran was the image of calm determination now, but Bofur had not been the only one surprised by the strength of the elf's reaction to the situation. Aghast, he'd been, and while rightly so, Bofur found his sympathies roused for the silver elf. Caranoran might not share blood with their dryad, but sincere he'd been when calling the lass sister.

Och, my lass. You seem to have a knack for accumulating the oddest mix of friends to your side.

His own outward calm had long since worn like old paint, crackling and peeling away in pieces. That some dire need had presented itself, well, how could he doubt that if the lass grew an entire tree to seal off their camp? His thumb smoothed across the rounded bottom of the mattock's haft.

Why leave after blocking the cave, lass? There was no sense to it, and with every inch the sun gained over the horizon, a cold fear settled in his gut like soured ale. He thumped the head of his mattock upon the ground, brow creased. No signs of struggle, though the earth looked to be churned up like a farmer's fields before the planting, he noted absently. Could the goblins have won into the cave from the inside? His jaw tightened. Bilbo, aye, he would fight with his whole heart, and Aleks as well. The lass… He'd determined to teach her. The elf had lamented the lack of a staff she'd used in the Elvenking's Halls, and Bofur had set his mind to replacing it with a fine dwarvish staff of his own making.

He berated himself for delaying. The Ring was important, but a life was irreplaceable. Better to lose the Ring now and recover it later than to lose one of their companions. Had she been frightened? Aye, she would have been. His grip upon his mattock grew tight enough to snap it if he but rotated his hand.

Bifur clapped him on the shoulder, the face beneath the ax head grim with shared anxiety.

"What are we waiting for?" Gloin demanded as he passed Bofur and his cousin. He hefted his battle ax and stalked towards the tree.

The elf whipped around, eyes flared wide. "Master Gloin," he protested.

"Out of my path, laddie."

Caranoran stretched out his arms to either side, barring his path. Both of the elf guards materialized at his sides, hands upon hilts. "You do not understand, Master Gloin," the prince said.

Gloin rotated his weapon a few times in his hands. "That Ring must be found. Our friends are missing. Ye cost us enough, laddie, though I know ye regret it. Now, step from my path, for I mean to remove that obstacle."

"This is no mere tree," the elf protested.

Gloin heaved a sigh big enough to fell a hobbit. "Elves and their trees," he muttered, shaking his head. "If ye need a tree to be doting upon, Prince, there be plenty just over yon tumble o' rocks. Pick one o' them, but kindly remove yourself from my path, for I mean to find our friends."

"For pity's sake, lower your weapon, Master Dwarf."

They all startled at the reappearance of the Brown Wizard. For a moment, Radagast had sounded just like Gandalf, Bofur thought, commanding and impatient. The thin man waved his robed arms, hissing them all from his path.

All but Gloin. The dwarf refused to budge, instead stomping closer to the wizard in full dudgeon, a sentiment Bofur was increasingly sharing. "Aye, and what were ye thinking, Master Wizard, pulling their protectors from them? Our companions are missing, and I'd like to hear what ye have to say about it."

"Missing?" The wizard blinked down at Gloin, then turned in a slow circle and finally realizing, Bofur suspected, that he'd won himself no friends with that action. Not, he also thought, that the wizard seemed much perturbed by that. The wizard returned to Gloin. "What do you mean, your companions are missing?"

"Masters Aleks and Bilbo and Mistress Daphne are missing," Gloin said, his ax planted at his side like a spear. "Out of my way. That tree is-"

"The dryad," the wizard said with such blandness, Bofur at first missed the words. When they registered, his gaze flew to the tree, and his knees wobbled. His mattock fell to the rocky ground with a resounding clang.

Bombur clamped a hand around his elbow as Bofur struggled to accept the wizard's words. "Would you kindly repeat that?" Bombur asked with an edge, his face devoid of any amusement.

"Is this some kind of jest?" Gloin demanded, his voice climbing as his temper fired. "Do you mock us?"

"Oh, for pity's sake. Spare me from dwarf theatrics," the wizard grumbled, shuffling past Gloin to the tree itself.

Bofur followed in his wake, his shock beginning to wear off. Aleks had told them, hadn't he, about satyrs. Back in Mirkwood when they'd seen that white stag, he'd told them all about the legends associated with such creatures from his world.

"I suppose that answers that," Bombur murmured by his side.

Aye. Though Bofur was most displeased to have such proof under his nose, and it being the lass, no less.

"Answers what?" Guard Belegon asked, the guard's face marked with lines of strain. By Durin, the guard looked harried. His pale blond hair had escaped its braid in three places, and his face was white and pinched.

Worrying about his neck as much as the missing ones. If the Elvenking was fond of their dryad, Bofur could not blame him. The dwarves might despise the elf king, but they'd never failed to understand how dangerous he could be.

"Ye mean the white stag young Aleks spoke of," Gloin said to Bombur.

Bofur's rotund brother nodded his head, hands folding before his belly over the thick braids of his beard. "Aye. If Aleks could become a white stag, it stands to reason that this is what our dryad becomes," he said with a sad nod of his head at the tree in question.

Was it as dangerous to the lass as the white stag would be for Aleks? Och, lassie, what prompted you to take such a risk? Well did Bofur remember the way Aleks had fidgeted, his hands never still on his bow as he'd warned them, saying that if he ever allowed himself to change so much, he'd lose himself to the beastie and become a danger to all, forgetting any ties.

Bofur walked up to the tree to stand opposite Caranoran, bracketing the humming wizard. The wizard's eyes had closed and his palms rested upon the tree's odd trunk. Pale, it was, and thick. Fragrant, too, but what else could a dwarf expect from a lass-turned-tree? Bofur found his first smile as he settled inside. He'd be teasing the lass about this, for sure. What business did a dryad smelling of maple have becoming another type of tree?

The wizard dropped his hands and reclaimed the rowan staff he'd propped against the trunk. "Stubborn. Dwarf, elf, naiad, makes no difference," he mumbled. The wizard's gaze filtered through the party as he returned to his rabbit-drawn sled.

"Well?" Gloin demanded.

"She is a tree, Master Dwarf. A laurel tree, to be more exact."

Gloin growled in frustration. "So ye claim. What I'm meaning is can ye…" His hands fluttered before him. "…change her back?"

The wizard again scanned the lot of them, his piercing gaze pausing on both Caranoran and Bofur. After a minute in which the wizard seemed to lose any remembrance of them, Gloin growled, and the wizard roused himself with a small shake. "Her mind is scattered. I may perhaps be able to rouse her. The Elvenking would most certainly succeed," the gaunt man added, for all the world sounding as if the Elvenking was taxing his patience by not being present when needed.

Bofur rubbed his mouth to hide an untimely smile. The elves had no liking for Radagast's disapproving tone, and that was a fact.

The wizard proceded to rummage through the supplies lashed to his sled, muttering all the while.

OoOoOo

The others clustered together just beyond the tree's sheltering shadow, none saying much. No one was really sure what to say if they'd had a mind to speak anyway, Bofur suspected. 'twas not every day a lass under one's care turned into a tree.

The wizard had waved smoking bundles of pungent herbs around the laurel and tried an incantation or two. From where Bofur sat at the tree's base, neither had done aught to help, but he waited patiently. If there was one time to hope the lass was right, it was now. She'd claimed the wizard intelligent. Canny, she'd insisted. Radagast would help her. Aye, he had to.

If not, a part of him decided, he'd have another long ride before him. He'd drag the Elvenking himself here if he must. A tricky venture, to be sure, stealing away the king of the woodland elves, but if it became necessary, that is exactly what he set his mind to do. Like as not, he'd not survive the attempt, but a dwarf did what a dwarf had to do.

Prince Caranoran murmured in elvish with a face set in stubborn lines, but for all his words, the lass didn't seem to hear.

If Daphne had become a tree, where then were Bilbo and Aleks?

Bofur leaned back, the oddly shaped root and trunk system of the laurel proving to be quite the comfortable perch. It soothed him, strange as the fact was. He was connected to the lass, close enough to protect her should aught else arise to threaten her.

"You're not getting away with this, my lass," he said, sticking his pipe into his mouth and lighting it. He ignored the elf's sharp look and puffed away a couple times. "You've been hurt, and aye, being a tree probably feels right fine. But you're ours now, lassie." He smiled, pleased to make the declaration. "We dwarves, we don't give up. Stubborn as the mountains, they say." A bigger grin. "I'm the worst of them. It's fair warning I'm giving you, so you'd best be heeding me, now."

Aulë had a sense of humor, Bofur decided, pairing him with such a One. He rather thought better of him for this turn of events, for he could not imagine a dwarrowmaid so full of surprises as Daphne. Nor one that smelled so sweet. He'd never been one for sugary treats, but he'd changed his mind of late. "You naiads know how to keep things interesting, don't you, my lass?"

The elf's head canted to the side, a right peculiar expression upon his face.

Bofur set his pipe upon one knee. Pulling out his clarinet, he began to play a jaunty little tune. In no time at all, Bifur joined him, sitting cross-legged with his back to the cave's outer wall. 'twas something they'd done countless times, goading each other and changing the tune as they went.

"This is your answer?" Caranorin interrupted. The elf's hand rested upon the tree's bole, his silver fall of hair blinding at this angle, Bofur thought, squinting as he drew the refrain to a close. "She's trapped, and the best you can think to do is play music?" the elf continued.

Bifur grumbled a number of unflattering things under his breath, and Bofur debated passing on a few of them for amusement's sake. A wee voice reminded him of the lass's affection for the elf, so with a sigh, he let them go. No sense antagonizing the prince when Bofur might be needing his support in the near future.

"I will not be leaving here without the lass," Bofur told him without any heat to the words. Best the elf understand where things stood now. "I'll wait her out. But carrying on and waving my hands will not be of much help, will it?"

The elf began to speak but then halted, his head turning back towards the tree. "Perhaps I spoke too soon," he said in a low voice. "Master Bofur, if you please, play something."

"Eh?" Hope flared, and his own attention flew in the same direction. "Is she…?"

"No, I don't think she's changing but I think…" His hands skipped across the trunk's surface, and Bofur bit back words of protest. He didn't much like any other hands upon the bark of the tree.

You're a jealous fool, Bofur, my lad. Upset over such a thing? He must be daft. Bifur nudged him with a knowing look and low snort. Bofur shrugged with a grin.

Lifting the clarinet to his lips, he chose another tune. Where the last one was perky and bright, this one was low and haunting. The ballad of Erebor, The Misty Mountains Cold, the very song they'd sung so long ago in Bilbo's cozy house in the Shire. If the lass was hearing the music, he'd tug at her heartstrings with his every note, he would.

The wizard returned for another attempt to rouse the lass as he and Bifur played the poignant melody. Hazel eyes drifted his way, but as the lass had once told him, they did not make contact.

"She hears it," the prince whispered to the wizard.

Radagast hummed and nodded. Bofur's lips twitched around his clarinet, for the wizard's nod seemed more towards the ferret draped across his shoulder than the elf. Caranoran's eyes flicked heavenward, and one corner of his lips dragged downward.

"Perhaps songs from her homeland might return her to herself?" Belegon interjected. The heavily armed elf considered the tree with hands upon his hips.

"And how, Master Elf, are we to provide that?" Radagast asked with a bite of annoyance in his voice.

A sharp look from his prince halted Belegon's first response. With an irritated twist of the lips, the guard said, "She has a small box that remembers and plays music from her lands."

Radagast perked up.

"It is, however, in the cave," Caranoran added.

"Oh?" Radagast blinked at the outer wall of the cave. With a thump of his staff upon one section, rock crumbled into dust, falling away in a thick gray cloud of particles.

"Ye mean to say ye could have done that from the beginning?" Gloin sputtered.

The wizard waved a distracted hand. "You never asked."