A/N: I'm sorry this update has taken so long! Between work and other projects, I keep getting sidetracked. And my muse abandoned me for a while.*Sigh* Anyways, thank you all so much for your patience and support! I'm back now and I'm fully intending to finish this story! Please let me know what you think! :)
As always, please read and enjoy.
Chapter 35: Helpless
Culurien inched through the tangled undergrowth, her gaze warily darting to and fro every couple of steps. With painstaking care, she circumvented thick trunks covered in dusty webbing, mindful that the slightest vibration could alert her quarry to her presence. Travel would have been much swifter if she had taken to the trees, and she cursed the Gloomweaver's kin for coating every inch of bark in their thick gossamer. With one eye trained on the slithering trail that zigged and zagged precariously above her, Culurien's mouth tightened perceptibly as she wove her way beneath the thickening brush on the woodland floor. The lack of life other than herself was telling, and not in any way that could be pleasant. Aside from her soft exhalations, nothing stirred. As closely as she had been following the spiders' trail, perhaps that was to be expected; most creatures had the good sense to avoid them, circling well and far around the heart of the spinners' ever widening territory.
Well, she had never heard of anyone praising a dragon for their sense.
Which was just as well, really. It wasn't a trait that she was going to be heavily reliant on when she caught up to Ungoliant's spawn.
Despite the seeming impossibility of the occurrence, the woods gradually darkened the further South and West she went. Even with her draconic sight, she could barely make out her own hands as they gently brushed lower branches and brambles aside. The murk closed in, heavy, hot and wretchedly stagnant. There was an acrid odor lingering in the foliage, stinging her sensitive nostrils and making her eyes water in the gloom.
The silence was perhaps far more disturbing than anything else. It was almost reassuring when it was finally broken.
She could hear shouting in the distance, muffled though it was, echoing down from the north, and she paused mid-step. Then she shook her head, a wave of relief washing through her as she took off beneath the twisting boughs.
There was only one thing that had wandered into this forest that would make that kind of racket.
Frequently, she stopped and checked her course, straining to pinpoint the cries as they reverberated through the trees. From the occasional clanging of steel that rang out in clear notes in the air, it sounded as though there was a fierce battle raging in the distance, and Culurien raced towards it. Her feet pounded over the dank, deadened earth, leaping over small gullies and tiny, slithering creeks. Her breathing was loud in her ears, on par with the clamor that rose in volume as she darted through brown vines and clinging underbrush. But she didn't bother to conceal herself any longer, certain that if any spiders were about, they too were being drawn north. Tear tracks streaked from the corners of her eyes, the stench increasing with every step.
A sharp rustle overhead drew her attention, and instinctively, she dove to the side. And a good thing too. The spider that leapt from the creaking boughs above was quite large, and even a dragon would have been crushed beneath its grotesquely swollen belly, if that dragon happened to be as small as Culurien. Rolling, the smith found her feet, her flesh smoking.
"I have had enough of you and your kind," she snarled, her arm snapping out as a tendril of fire whipped from her fingers.
The foul thing hissed, then screamed as flame lashed across its bulbous eyes, blinding it. Culurien advanced, the metal bindings in her braids clinking noisily as she thrust her arm out again, wielding the flames dancing across her skin as if they were merely a further extension of the limb. It screeched in pain, but she didn't acknowledge its cry, flinging her arm a third time, and a fourth. Again and again she scourged the spider's legs, face, body, every surface she could reach. But even as the fire raged, a palpable expression of her own fury, hot and crackling, it did not escape her control, the leaves littering the forest floor untouched.
The creature fell to the ground with a dull thump, its shriveled flesh smouldering, its screams falling silent; nothing more than a husk.
Culurien extinguished her fire and spat on it. "Drak un beûrn."
If the spider heard her curse, its only sign was the collapse of its spine into the charred remnants of its belly in a flurry of embers.
Scurrying above her head made her look up. The branches quivered and quaked beneath the weight of several large things, all of them moving in the same direction. Baring her teeth in frustration and anger, she dashed into the brush once again, willing her feet to fly faster over the treacherous terrain. The sounds that had first drawn her continued to echo, bouncing among the trees in an odd, almost hollow manner. Her footfalls were the even cadence of a wardrum, steady and insistent as she scampered over twisting roots, reaching up to the lower boughs to swing over deep trenches.
Fool dwarves. She cursed them as well, her thoughts surly and ill-tempered. Incapable of listening to a single thing, no matter the good it would do them. Far preferable it is to rush headlong into the first sign of trouble than heed the word of those who know better. Who should know better, she amended, sliding beneath a prickly vine. She couldn't claim to always be such a person. Her blunder in Dol Guldur was sufficient evidence of that.
Abruptly, the sounds ceased, bringing her up short. Panting, she strained to hear, double checking that she was indeed still heading the right way. Yes, she was facing north.
Nothing.
Green eyes flashed in her mind's eye and she felt her heart lodge in her throat. Fear drove her then, panic hot on her heels. The webs lessened the further she went, the heaviness that had choked so much of the Wood evaporating. Sunlight now reached the forest floor, dappling the ground in patches of warmth and brightness, the lingering traces of summer. The leaves became richer, brilliant reds and golds that caught in her braids and enhanced their color as she sprinted beneath them.
Bracing her hands on the trunk of a large oak, Culurien barely managed to keep her feet, her haste nearly becoming her undoing. It was only a blessing of fortune that kept her from skidding headlong into the Woodland King's dungeons.
All the noise of the dwarves lost in the night, their cries as the spiders caught them and bound them, and all the sounds of the battle next day, had not passed through the Wood unheard. The feasting people were Wood-elves, of course. While they are not wicked folk, and truly, do not take pleasure in harm or destruction, if they have a fault, it is distrust of strangers. Though their magic was strong, even in those days they were wary. They differed from the High Elves of the West; far more dangerous and much less wise. For most of them (together with their scattered relations in the hills and mountains) were descended from the ancient tribes that never went to the land of the Valar in the West. There the Light-elves, the Deep-elves and the Sea-elves went and lived for ages, and grew fairer and wiser and more learned, and invented their magic and their cunning craft, in the making of beautiful and marvelous things, before some came back into the Wide World. It was in the Wide World that the Wood-elves lingered in the twilight of our Sun and Moon but loved best the stars; and they wandered in the great forests that grew tall in lands that are now lost. They dwelt most often by the edges of the woods, from which they could escape at times to hunt, or to ride and run over the open lands by moonlight or starlight; and after the coming of Men they took ever more and more to the gloaming and the dusk. Still elves they were and remain, and that is Good People; even those that now lived in the far reaches of the Wood, despite their lack of what Culurien would have considered good manners.
And it was that very lack that quite obviously had the best of Thranduil's archers aiming their arrows at each of the Company's heads, his son, Legolas Greenleaf, at their fore.
Culurien looked over her friends, elated to find that none of them seemed worse for wear. From head to foot, all of them were coated in filthy-looking webs and dust, and Culurien felt the tightness in her chest give to see Bofur among their number, his hat still stubbornly affixed to his unruly head. He appeared uninjured, although certainly bewildered and a bit indignant. She couldn't blame him for that. Silently, she counted, frowning when she only could number them thirteen. Her eyes darted over the little clearing. Where was Bilbo?
Quietly, she drew herself up into the closest branches of the tree, crouching as she peered through the brightly colored foliage. There, she watched and listened.
Thorin glared defiantly at the fair-haired elf whose arrowhead barely missed brushing his throat. Their eyes remained locked for the span of several heartbeats, until the taller of the two lowered his bow, signaling to the others. Several of the elves also put away their weapons and began to search the dwarves, the wood now full of their grumbling.
Her gaze was inexplicably drawn back to the summer-eyed dwarf as a tall, dark-eyed elf patted down his pockets and jacket, pulling out knives, a small axe, and his beloved pipe. The tall woodlander paused at the pouch on Bofur's belt, his fingers slowly drawing away with something slender and brightly polished. Culurien felt a rage bubble up inside her belly.
The flute she had given him.
What right did that makk aln ha'ak have to dare place a fingertip on something so precious as her gift?
"What is this?" the elf demanded in a hard voice.
Bofur refused to answer, no matter how many times he was asked, an expression that Culurien had never seen darken his features. It was one she utterly empathized with, her eyes glinting metallically in the failing light when the elf gave the instrument to his prince, who tucked it away securely. Her hands curled into the bark of the tree, blunt fingernails bloody as she fought to keep her ire in check. It would do none of them any good for her to be captured as well. If the elves knew she had been traveling with them, no matter her parentage, she would be just as quickly tossed into their king's dungeons. Wood-elves did not have the same regard for the Valar as their kin, though they respected them as any of the fair folk would. But she knew as well as any that the Woodland King's prejudices ran deep. She would not be exempt. For now, she would need to remain hidden, although her heart ached for it.
The distinct ring of steel being drawn caught her ears, and she immediately looked towards Thorin, watching the play of emotions Legolas could not hide cross his handsome features when he gazed at Orcrist.
"Where did you get this?" he asked in a deadly soft voice, sliding the edge of the blade beneath Thornin's chin briefly, his gaze piercing.
But the dwarf prince was neither moved nor intimidated, it seemed. "It was given to me."
And she thought the elves even more foolish than any of Durin's Folk when their own prince heard the ring of truth in Thorin's words, and ignored them.
"Not just a thief," he hissed, dropping the sword to his side. "But a liar as well."
Without sparing another glance, he ordered his men to bind and blindfold them before leading them away in single file.
As stealthily as she could, Culurien followed.
In a great cave some miles within the edge of Mirkwood on its eastern side there lived at this time the elves' greatest king, Thranduil. Before his huge doors of stone a river ran out of the heights of the forest and flowed on and out into the marshes at the feet of the high wooded lands. Above it was the bridge that led across the water to the king's doors. The water flowed dark and swift and strong beneath; and at the far end were gates before the mouth of a huge cave that ran into the side of a steep slope covered with trees. There the great beeches came right down to the bank, till their feet were in the stream. This great cave, from which countless smaller ones opened out on every side, wound far underground and had many passages and wide halls; but it was lighter and more wholesome than any goblin-dwelling, and neither so deep nor so dangerous. In fact the subjects of the king mostly lived and hunted in the open woods, and had houses or huts on the ground and in the branches. The beeches were their favorite trees. The king's cave was his palace, and the strong place of his treasure, and the fortress of his people against their enemies.
It was also his prison.
Across this bridge the elves thrust their prisoners, but Culurien hung back, hiding in the shadow of the great beeches. With a clang, the gate closed behind them, with only two sentries left on her side. She glanced at the western bend of the river, noting the low set of the sun and grimacing.
She would not be entering the Woodland Realm this night.
Nor, she felt certain, would she be able to enter it without help. That left her with very few options, and none of which that would allow her to free her friends any time soon. They would be at the elves' tender mercy far longer than she would like. She wasn't concerned that they would be mistreated. The Fair Folk could be cruel when they wished, but it was truly against their nature. The Company would be well fed, and well looked after, though they would not be allowed the freedom to roam the Woodland King's halls as they wished. Kindness did not always extend to trust.
Trust…
Culurien groaned and buried her head in one hand. She did not want to approach Orna for aid. The woman was insufferable as it was, and Culurien felt she owed her more than enough. But she was trusted implicitly here, and her presence would be a great help in swaying their King's opinion. It would be nothing but politics, and the smith knew herself well enough to admit that she had no ability when it came to that arena; her tongue could boast of no craft but song.
What choice did she have?
A question that she was loathe to acknowledge, its answer all too clear. She gnawed on her lip as her hand rested on the beech's smooth trunk. The temptation to burst down the doors and retrieve her friends was nearly too alluring to resist. Magically sealed or not, there were few things in this world that were impervious to dragon fire.
But what would that accomplish?
The Company's current predicament notwithstanding, she had no quarrel with the elves. They had been stalwart defenders of the Green Wood, and in her absence had likely been one of the last lines of defense against the forces in Dol Guldur and the spiders' expansion. She couldn't, in good conscience, raid their stronghold and hope that the offense would be overlooked in light of her reasons. Not even Nienna herself could be that understanding.
Her path was set in stone. She cast a longing look across the bridge, then let her eyes drift closed. Somewhere in the labyrinth of tunnels beyond the high walls that ringed that Realm, her friends were waiting. It was unlikely they awaited rescue; that wasn't in a dwarf's nature.
They rescued themselves, more often than not, with little need of another's interference. They were, however, probably wondering what had happened to her. One, in particular, she had no doubt had wished her good riddance. Others may simply be hoping to see her again. Despite their limited time together, she had made friends among the Company.
Whether they wanted her help or not, it was certain that they wouldn't be able to leave Thranduil's dungeon unless he himself released them, or someone else managed to slip them out beneath his nose. Either scenario was less than likely without Orna. Eru's Blood, she could already hear that harpy's cackle in her ears.
Her eyes snapped open. Right, dawdling got nothing done. With a deep breath, Culurien withdrew deeper into the shadows and turned her back to the bridge, a lead weight settling heavily in the pit of her belly. Reluctantly, her footsteps turned south, back into the depth of the Wood.
Perhaps dragons had more sense than most folk had ever dared to believe. She wasn't hopeful.