Author's Note: Welcome back everyone! You are up for a very eventful character, so make sure to wear your seatbelts! (: Many thanks to Guest45 for their review of last week's chapter, although your comment did make me wonder: why do you dislike Bard? Now, enjoy the chapter!
Chapter thirty-seven: I see fire
It had been another day of frantic, but fruitless searching, only aggravated by the fact that today was their last chance. They had started on the grounds below at sunrise and, when this yielded no more results than it had in the last few days, Thorin had demanded they move back to the small, enclosed clearing by the flat slate of rock. At first, the Dwarves had resumed their careful search of the stone, calloused hands exploring every inch of the cold rock. Then, when the sun had started its descend from the sky and they were still no closer to the discovery of the key hole, they had picked up their axes and had attacked the rock with brutal power. And still, the key hole that would give them entrance to the mountain remained elusive.
Under the last, red rays of sunlight, Bilbo had sat down heavily on a small rock. As the Dwarves were still pounding desperately – and vainly – on the flat stone as the sun slowly sunk below the horizon, Bilbo realised that they had failed. Their Quest was over. They had had this one chance of finding the secret entrance to Erebor, and they had failed.
The Hobbit became aware of a quieting around him, and as he looked up he noticed that several of the Dwarves had also sat down heavily beside him in defeat. Although not a word was spoken, the shared despondency was almost palpable in the air. At last – and at the same time, far too soon – the last sun of autumn disappeared from the sky and Thorin's sword slipped to the ground with a echoing thump. All was quiet for a moment, realising but not yet truly accepting that their kingdom was well and truly lost.
Then, Thorin spoke gravely, 'We have failed. It is over,' he looked around him wearily, tired eyes meeting each of his companions'. 'You have done all that…-'
Bilbo was distracted by a small bird that had perched down on the rock beside him. It was holding a snail in its pointed beak, which it then – most vexingly, Bilbo thought – started to knock against the stone surface. Then, a distant summer memory returned to the Hobbit. 'A thrush!' He cried out, jumping up from his perch – and causing Thorin to turn to him with a raised eyebrow and a less than amused expression at being interrupted. 'It's a thrush,' Bilbo repeated, pointing at the bird. '"Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's day will shine upon the keyhole."' As he said those words, the Hobbit turned to the flat slate of stone. And noticed that the moonlight illuminated a small crevice in the rock.
'By my beard,' Balin exclaimed.
'The last light of Durin's Day,' Fíli whispered, eyes wide in awe.
'It's the light of the moon!' His brother realised, getting up painfully from his seat to run his fingers over the small indent. 'This is it. The keyhole to the secret entrance into the mountain!'
Thorin solemnly made his way through the crowd of Dwarves who all parted for their leader like the sea does for the rocks, the ornate key clutched safely in his right hand. A short, weighed moment passed in which he stood before the keyhole, then his arm extended, the key disappeared into the hole, and under no small protest, the ancient door unlocked.
Amidst the Dwarves loud exclamations of relief and joy, Bilbo stood somewhat forlornly. That is not to say that he was not joyous like them. However, now that the door was open, he was reminded quite painfully of the next obstacle – one that breathed fire, and could reduce them to a pile of ashes with a single puff of air.
'So what happens now?' He asked softly to Balin, who stood nearby. Somehow, the sound carried further than just to his neighbour, and the clearing went silent once more. What was worse, to his horror now all eyes were trained on them.
'Now,' Thorin started, an eerie sort of smile stretching his bearded cheeks as his eyes fell on the poor Hobbit, 'The time has come for you to prove your worth, Master Burglar.'
As it turned out, Neneth, Aglaron, and Bruihel had had some difficulties with acquiring the provisions for their upcoming journey to the mountain. The only food they had been able to procure was fish from the lake which would quickly spoil, and some black bread, which even now was stale enough to use as weapon in an upcoming battle. If that were not enough, it turned out any available horses had been gifted to the Dwarves when they left for the mountain days ago – leaving the company of Elves with no other choice but to make the journey on foot.
They left at the dawning of the second day after Ardhoniel's visit to Bard the Bargeman. The morning air was chill as they stepped outside the inn and into the slowly awakening town. Many a head turned as they passed through, many of the townspeople still not used to the presence of the Elves even after several days. Fortunately, however, none of them – despite their curiosity – approached them, and so the company marched out of town without delay.
By noon, they had left the lake behind them, and they had a simple meal of bread and fish on the scorched bases of some trees.
'We shall have to ration our food,' Aglaron said thoughtfully as he gazed at the wasteland around them, 'I doubt we shall be seeing any wildlife around here.'
'I had heard of a dragon's power for destruction, but to see it with my own two eyes..' Bruihel eyed their surroundings with sorrow. 'It is reminiscent of the Berennyr. No grass, no trees, or living creatures. It feels wrong.'
Little was said after this, but the sentiment was shared among all members of the group. The Elves finished their meals, repacked their bags, and resumed their journey up the steady slope towards the distant mountain. At nightfall, they camped on a rocky outcropping which, although it did nothing to shelter them from a potential downpour, provided them with a good view of the Long Lake in the south, and the Lonely Mountain in the north. It was a strange sort of in-betweenness, Ardhoniel thought; not part of the company she originally started out with, but not part of those simply carrying on with life either.
For one moment, the Elleth envisioned what would have happened had she decided to go home after all. Surely, her father would have been displeased with her, even angry, but she knew that his ire would have soon made place for his worry. A week would have passed before all returned to normal, and her adventure with the Dwarves of Erebor would have faded into history, soon to be nothing more than a wild summer dream. And with life falling back into the same old routine, she, too, would have to resume being the same old Ardhoniel. She did not know when that idea had become so aversive, but now found that somehow, at some point, it had.
'I shall take the first watch,' she announced as she leaned back against the stone outcropping, drawing her grey cloak closely around herself to ward of the chilly night air.
Aglaron nodded as he lay down next to his sister by the fire, 'Wake me up for the second.'
Silence resumed once more, and Ardhoniel was left with the realisation that the Ellon had become a lot more tolerable, if still not likable, over the course of their journey together – or perhaps she had simply learned not to provoke him. She wondered if it had anything to do with the young boy of Men, Éadig, that they had found and the bond that Aglaron had formed with him, or if it had always been there, silently waiting to be discovered. Whatever the case was, it appeared she was not the only one who had started to see the Ellon in a new light; although Bruihel and herself had only been joking at the time, Ardhoniel now believed they had not been completely wrong. Whether romantical or not, a bond had formed between the Captain and her Healer friend.
In many ways, Aglaron reminded her of Thorin – a comparison neither Elf nor Dwarf would be grateful for, she knew. Both strong, surly, and set in their ways, but with a good heart and something about them that made people naturally want to follow them. They were many of the qualities that Ardhoniel herself had often times wished to possess, but had lately have to accept she did not. She could only hope that when they would reunite at last, Thorin would find within him the same forgiveness that Aglaron had showed her.
Just then, a loud crash, like the cracking of thunder or the collapsing of a mountain filled the quiet night, and Ardhoniel sat upright. A heartbeat of silence followed, then the sound of gigantic wings as a large shadow passed over their encampment.
'What was that?' Neneth wondered sleepily, as the three resting Elves sat up on their bedrolls.
Even if she had wanted to, Ardhoniel could not answer immediately. With wide, horror-filled eyes, she gazed as Smaug, the greatest fire-breathing dragon of the Third Age, made its way to the south, its golden eyes fixed on the town on the Lake. 'Oh no.'
Tauriel and Legolas reached the entrance to the valley near Mount Gundabad at dusk, nearly three and a half weeks after first departing from Lake Town. When the Orcs had made for the entrance, the two Elves had carefully crept up the rock formation that guarded the left side of the entrance into the stronghold. By the time that they reached the ridgeline on top, the Orc pack had already vanished – to where, they did not know.
Beneath them, the barren valley, surrounded by the very northern outskirts of the Misty Mountains on one side and the western outskirts of the Grey Mountain on the other, was void of all life. In the middle stood a crudely constructed iron tower, but even in that great fortress of Gundabad, all was quiet.
'I have a bad feeling about this place, Legolas.'
The prince did not answer at first, and when Tauriel turned to him, she noticed his eyes held a far-off look. 'My mother died here,' Legolas admitted at last, 'Many, many years ago, in an age that our people still waged war on these lands. We do not speak of it; there is no grave, no memory. Nothing.'
Unsure of what to say to comfort him, the Captain touched his shoulder softly. 'Then let us vow to do better than our predecessors. Bolg did not ride here in such haste for nothing. They must believe the Dwarves will succeed in reclaiming the mountain – and be willing to wage war upon them for it. We might be the only warning the people of Esgaroth have.'
Just then, a light flickered in the great fortress, and Tauriel turned her eyes to the movement. 'There, I saw movement!'
Legolas now turned his sharp eyes to the Red Tower as well, all traces of sadness and vulnerability having disappeared behind the familiar, cold and confident mask. 'We will wait until their full army shows itself, until we know what we are up against. Then, we ride to Esgaroth with haste.'
The Elves watched as if paralysed as Smaug unleashed his full wrath upon Esgaroth. They were too far removed to ever reach the town in time – and even if they would reach it before it was reduced to ashes, Bruihel caught herself thinking, there was little they could do. Yet, they were close enough for the mighty roars of the great dragon to reach their remote campsite. Worse than the dragon's roars, however, were the screams of the town people; people that they had seen, had talked to only hours before.
She had grabbed hold of her brother's strong hand, much like she did when she was younger, when his presence would be enough to ward off any of her bad dreams or childish fears. But now even her strong and courageous brother stood powerless.
'We must return for them.'
It was Neneth, sweet, gentle Neneth, who had spoken with such conviction that none dared to question her. It was just as they started gathering their things that it happened.
The end. The attack of the dragon which seemed to have been endless, but had likely lasted no more than half an hour, had ceased. Bruihel turned just in time to follow Smaug's fall from the sky, the fire in his chest dimming even now. 'They did it,' she breathed in disbelief. 'They killed the dragon.'
That night, they slept out in the ruins of Dale, from where they had a clear view on what was left of the town on the Lake. However, in his dreams Thorin found himself back in the Gallery of Kings, where the stone beneath his feet was now covered by a thick layer of solidified, pure gold. He stared down at his own mirror image, completely transfixed by the wealth and beauty like the dragon had before him. His fingers ached to touch the precious metal, to feel its cold yet rich surface.
Another image joined his in the golden looking glass. She was dressed in the richest of blues, her blonde hair now shining like spun gold as it fell over her shoulders in soft waves. Thorin lifted his head to ask the real Elven lady why she was here, but found the words dying on his lips when his eyes connected with her grey ones. He stepped closer to her, only to have her sidestep him.
A tiny smile appeared on her lips and something flashed in her eyes too quickly for him to identify, as he noted at the same time that she was casually holding the Arkenstone in her left hand. Before he could reach out to her again, she started to circle him. 'The Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Carven Stone,' she whispered even though the titles rang through the empty hall as if she had shouted them, and the words sounded hollow and meaningless to Thorin's ears, more mocking than praise. 'The King Beneath the Mountain, shall come into his own. And the bells shall ring in gladness, at the Mountain King's return. But all shall fail in sadness,' her voice had risen to a crescendo, so loud that they echoed off the high walls. Then it dropped, the words a mere breath to his ear, 'and the Lake will shine and burn.'
When she reappeared in front of him, her lips had stretched broadly into a terrible grin, and her eyes shone golden.
Just then, the gold beneath his feet deliquesced, and Thorin felt himself falling.
~ Berennyr = Brown Lands