15.
"Must I carry this?" Curufin plucked the string of his Lorien longbow and wrinkled his nose in disgust. "It's cumbersome and it hurts my shoulder."
"Your shoulder is just fine, Curufinwë. I checked it myself this morning, there's hardly a scratch left," Maedhros replied. "Quit whining, I went through too much trouble to secure these bows for you to complain that you don't want one."
"Trouble? I thought your charm is so potent that all you have to do is bat your eyelashes and even that frigid bitch will melt and obey your every command."
"Curufinwë…"
Fëanor chuckled and nudged his horse a little closer. That was a conversation he wanted to hear and perhaps contribute to. Although it could be extremely troublesome at times, Curufin's loud mouth and his offensive humor never failed to amuse him. And, in all honesty, some amusement and distraction were badly needed, as day after day passed and they rode north along the eastern border of Mirkwood in utter monotony.
"Whaaaat?!" Curufin whined. "Come on, it's just us, Nelyo. You can drop the nice guy act, you don't have to convince me that you shoot rainbows out of your ass, I know you do."
"Fine, you pest!" Maedhros groaned. "But just so you know it, if you kept that filthy mouth of yours shut, I wouldn't have to try so hard. Have you any idea how much I had to smile and apologize to get that stuck-up Marchwarden to give you his bow?"
"Pfft! Haldir should feel honored that I took it," Curufin rolled his eyes.
"I'm sure he feels that you're the honored one. And it is a good bow, you have to give the Lothlorien Elves that much credit."
"Sure, sure, whatever. I'm sure they use it to catch their mates, too. And shoot them dead before they actually consummate, because no hot-blooded, self-respecting person would get anywhere near those frozen faeries."
"Elrond married one," Maedhros said.
"That's your fault, you didn't teach him well enough when he was a kid."
"I was… a little busy at the time," Maedhros gave his brother a pointed look.
"Curufinwë, don't be mean. Spare your brother at least," Fëanor rode up to his errant son and nudged him gently.
"Mmmhmm… as if any of you ever spares me," Maedhros grumbled. "Don't give me that affronted look, atar, you don't make my life any easier either."
"I'm sorry, Nelyo. It's not my fault you've inherited your mother's patience and your grandfather's gift for diplomacy," Fëanor shrugged and gave his eldest son a lopsided grin.
"Oh. Wonderful. Just my luck, that diplomacy in our family skipped a generation," Maedhros sighed. "You know… next time I have to step in and smooth over some situation or other, I promise you that I will not. Next time my services are required, I will step back and be a snot-nosed brat and I'll enjoy myself watching you pick up the pieces."
"What, you think I can't do it?" Curufin's eyebrow rose.
"Of course you can. That's what bugs me. You can be a sweet-tongued, charming, slithery little fiend but you'd rather grouch and pin it all on me," Maedhros replied, making his father wonder how much of the exchange was joking and how fed up with his part in the family dynamics Maedhros really was.
"Mercy , Nelyo, it's not that Curufinwë can't play nice... He can, but most times, he doesn't need do."
"Mmm… I have that big, blond oaf to smile prettily and spread his charms around for both of us," Curufin grinned. "He has everyone at 'hello' and then it doesn't matter how much I snip and snark, they're all dazzled by the shiny. And that happens with you too, Nelyo. You're so shiny we don't even have to hide behind you, it just blinds everyone."
"Are you jealous, little brother?"
"Gods, no!"
"Are you sure?"
"Absolutely sure. Why would I envy you when you're complaining about being saddled with this ingrate job of playing nice when you don't feel like it? No, thank you."
"I wonder…," Fëanor eyed his eldest son intently. "Was talking to Artanis really that unpleasant? Is there something you're not telling us?"
"Yes, Nelyo… what's the matter? You should have said something if her Tree-hugging Majesty gave you such grief. For all the diplomacy in the world, I'd have told her to take her bows and her provisions and shove them where the sun doesn't shine. Which could be anywhere, in her case."
Fëanor snickered quite loudly, but Maedhros didn't seem very amused.
"Next time we run into Artanis, you're welcome to do that. And don't count on me to say otherwise," he grumbled.
Fëanor nudged his horse toward his eldest son and patted Maedhros' shoulder.
"What's wrong, Nelyo? Why are you so worked up about this?" he inquired gently.
"It's just… I'm fed up, atar. I'm tired of having to explain myself and to justify what we are doing to random people everywhere we go. You say that we are answerable to no one, but we're questioned all the time and I have had enough of it," Maedhros sighed.
"Well, it's their world we are in. Unfortunately, simply landing here and taking over doesn't work this time around."
"Fine. But I'm still sick of it. I just want to stop lying and spinning the truth and next time someone asks me who I am, I want to say it proudly. And if anyone has anything against it, well, they can take it up with the business end of my sword."
Fëanor laughed and leaned against Maedhros, even if it made his perch atop the horse very precarious.
"Soon, Nelyo. This whole charade will be over soon and then, we can defy our detractors as much as I know we all want to."
"I suppose that also means free rein for my little brothers to be sons of a bitch at their full potential, does it?" Maedhros replied tersely. "No offense," he cleared his throat and glanced at his father from the corner of his eye.
Fëanor chuckled some more and straightened himself.
"Will you save their behinds if they become complete bastards? Um… no offense. Again," Maedhros could not help himself and his own lips quirked in a crooked grin.
"Oh, I think I will sit back and just laugh," Fëanor did precisely that, drawing the attention of both Caranthir and Maglor, who rode together some way ahead. "So long as I have all of you bastards together in one place, safe and sound, you can be the biggest sons of a bitch your little hearts desire."
"I was afraid you'd say that," Maedhros grumbled, averting his eyes and grinning sheepishly.
Feanor smiled and vaguely wondered what the exchange might have looked like to an outsider. One did not talk to one's father in such a way, especially since one's father was Fëanor, of all people. But then, if anyone from Tirion and the time of the Trees could see him, they would hardly recognize him. And after three Ages in Mandos, even someone as obtuse about his flaws as he'd always been had to admit that the changes were all for the better.
With four of his sons grinning at him and picking up the banter, all he had to do was find the other three. But long stretches of grassland and many more days of constant riding lay between them. And the more he thought about what might have happened to his sons and Thorin's company, the more Fëanor wanted to distract himself with shameless banter.
…
As they passed by the narrowest part of Mirkwood and cut across the East Bight, the Elves soon discovered that they had every reason to worry. With roughly a week of hard riding still ahead of them before reaching the ford and crossing the Running, Fëanor and his sons came across the first animal carcasses lying in the grass.
The earth was trampled northward as far as their eyes could see and even though the beaten grasses had straightened under swift summer showers, the passing of countless animals could still be easily noticed. The growing number of corpses, of course, was the clearest sign that something very strange had come to pass in those parts, perhaps no more than a week before.
At night, they camped without lighting fires and watched their horses closely, as wolves and jackals howled nearby and feasted on the remains of all manner of animals. To their astonishment, the Elves recognized even farm livestock among the fallen and trampled beasts. It made no sense at all, as they had not encountered any kind of settlement throughout their journey along the borders of Mirkwood. And yet, there the animals were, some dead but most having continued the northward stampede as though driven by some unknown force.
Fëanor began to fear that they had squandered too much time and urged his sons to push their horses as much as the beasts could bear. They had ridden at a far more sedate pace the first few days after Curufin's shoulder had been healed. All of them needed a respite and some time to heal after the brush with death in Dol Guldur and thus, they had not given chase while riding east with Gandalf still in their company.
The wizard had parted ways with them at the easternmost spur of the forest, saying that Fëanor was welcome to shoulder the responsibility of Thorin Oakenshield's quest if he so pleased. Fëanor took it to mean that the wizard would stay out of the affair, but knowing him as Gandlaf, the cunning wizard, rather than Olorin, the gentle advisor, gave the Elf reasons to believe that they would hear from Gandalf again before the adventure came to an end.
Fëanor wished he had the wizard to read him the riddle of the stampeding animals, though. In the back of his mind, he guessed that it had something to do with Sauron and the Nazgul and recent events in Dol Guldur. It was foolish to believe that Sauron would simply crawl into a hole for another age, disembodied though he was. A spirit so ancient and so potent would not flee without causing some mischief and the closer the Elves rode to where the Men-i-Naugrim issued from the forest, the greater their misgivings grew.
After they forded the Running, Caranthir found the first fire pit and guessed that Thorin's companions and his brothers had spent the night there. But it was impossible to tell how much time had passed since then and there were no tracks to be read. The stampede had trampled everything and left only an endless trail of half eaten animals to be followed.
That they did, and soon discovered more traces of camp-sites. In one of them, a spit and the antlers of a large buck had escaped intact near the pit of what must have been an impressive fire. Fëanor surmised that one of his sons had made the kill and that must have been some time before the running animals caught up with them. He dearly hoped that it was not the case and that the company had not been overcome by the stampede, but a terrible emptiness in his stomach told Fëanor that something had gone amiss.
Almost a month since he had seen his sons and Thorin Oakenshield last, Fëanor came to learn that his worst fears were not unfounded. At the very edge of Mirkwood, he came upon a sinister sight. The ground there was practically littered with animal corpses and the smell was unbearable. Flies buzzed around the bloated cadavers and carrion birds cawed indignantly when the Elves scared them off. But the greatest horror awaited them beneath the trees, where the Elves found undeniable evidence that their kinsmen had been there and they had fallen prey to a premeditated ambush. Beyond the torn undergrowth and among the rotting carcasses, they found scattered bits of Dwarvish gear: one of Bombur's pans all bent and mangled; Bofur's hat trodden into a mire of moldy leaves and spider bold; Kili's little bow trampled to splinters.
Everywhere they looked under the canopy of those sinister trees, webs hung loose and a few spiders lay dead, leaving no doubt as to what had happened. Somehow, the stampede had pushed Thorin's company into the woods and there, a swarm of spiders had lain in ambush. It had all been coordinated in some way that went beyond Fëanor's comprehension and he marveled at the power of whatever evil had been afoot. But beyond that, he was paralyzed with fear for the well-being of his sons and he sat down heavily against a tree-trunk where he had found a patch of torn Elvish cloak. Celegorm and the twins were taken, Eru knew where and how long ago, and the dead animals had kept them from defending themselves.
Fëanor felt tears of anger and frustration well in his eyes and he would have screamed like a wounded animal if not for the dismay he saw in the faces of his other sons. They could not even think of letting fear and despair take over. They had to hold themselves together and follow the trail the spiders had left behind. Celegorm, Amrod and Amras were fine. They were alive and their father would find them and any other possibility was simply unacceptable.
Fëanor tried with all his might to tear himself from such desperate thoughts, when Maglor called out from beyond the line of trees.
"Atar! Atar, come out here! There are riders approaching!"
Fëanor ran to his son and once he was out in the sun again, he saw five horsemen pelting south toward them.
"They're not Elves," Maglor said, shielding his eyes with one palm and squinting at the approaching shapes.
"Men from Lake Town, most likely. Stand ready, but don't do anything untoward."
The leading rider waved when he saw them and kicked his horse into an even faster gallop. Within moments, all five of them thundered up to the Elves and brought their horses to a halt in a flurry of neighs and snorts. At a word from the one who appeared to be their captain, Fëanor saw the others shouldering their bows and sheathing whatever weapons they had drawn in preparation for an unpleasant encounter.
The captain in question hopped out of the saddle and held up his hands in a gesture of peace. He stepped closer to the Elves and bowed in greeting. Fëanor nodded briefly, taking in the man's appearance with a small frown. Whoever he was, the man had an unkempt and weather-worn look about him that struck Fëanor as odd for someone so young. The archer - for he carried a long bow and a quiver full of arrows – approached the Elves carefully and with a rather surprised look on his face.
"Peace, my Lords," he said. "We mean you no harm."
It was then that Fëanor realized his sons had all brandished their swords and readied themselves to fight off the archers if need be.
"Stand down," he said. "Let him come to us, he may know more about what has happened here."
Fëanor motioned the man to approach, scanning him for hidden weapons and finding that he was well stocked, under his shabby hunting garb.
"Who are you?" Curufin asked him.
"My name is Bard, my Lord," the man stopped and bowed politely. "I am a guard of Esgaroth, as are my companions. We have spotted you riding north and thought it best to seek you out before you enter these perilous woods."
"Well met, Bard of Lake Town," Fëanor greeted him, beckoning the man to come closer. He liked the raspy voice and the honest look on Bard's face. Beneath his coarse scruff, the archer seemed like a good man. Grim, but not unfriendly and Fëanor instinctively knew that he was not looking at an enemy.
The Elf gave his name and those of his sons, unsurprised when they sparked no sign of recognition in the man's eyes. But when he got to the most pressing and distressing matter, Bard had precious information to share. He told the Elves about how the guards had been alerted by a dust cloud that rolled north against the wind and some of them had ridden out to see what the matter was. Roughly two weeks before, they had spotted a party of Elves and Dwarves riding north and on their heels, the dust cloud rolled much faster, threatening to overcome them.
Unfortunately, Bard and his men had arrived to that very spot too late, after the unusual stampede had passed and only the carcasses they could all see remained. Inside the forest, they had found signs of a struggle and scattered goods that the Elves recognized as belonging to Thorin's company.
"We did not know who the travelers were," Bard said. "But we could tell how many they had been by the horses and ponies that ran aimlessly and without master. Seventeen ponies and three horses still lived when we arrived, although we had to put down one of the pack animals because of its injuries."
"They are three Elves, thirteen Dwarves and one little Hobbit, though I imagine you would not recognize one of the Shire folk if you saw him."
Bard shook his head, strands of dark hair falling into his face.
"And you say that you did not find any of them here?" Maedhros pointed to the trees behind him.
"No. There was nobody here when we arrived. Only dead animals and spider webs. It was fairly clear what had happened and we could all see the trail leading into the forest, but… none of my men would brave the evilness of this place or the spiders. We did not go forward, but rather, we gathered the ponies and whatever supplies and weapons we could find intact."
"Scavengers!" Caranthir growled. "Instead of giving aid, they flew here like carrion birds to pick the spot clean."
"I beg your pardon, my Lord, but that is not so. I will admit that it shames me, but we have not the skill to venture into this forest and only the bravest of our people have ever dared crossed its borders. I wish I could have done otherwise, but I was the only one willing to pursue the spiders and my companions held me back. We have not stolen anything. All the animals and the goods that we have recovered are in my care, waiting for their owners to come and retrieve them. You may do so yourselves, if you follow me back to our city," Bard said.
"We cannot come with you, although Esagroth was the planned destination both for ourselves and the company that we have lost. We will search this accursed forest and we will find them," Fëanor said. "Perhaps… There may be something you can do for us."
The archer bowed deeply in reply and Fëanor felt his intense scrutiny as they spoke.
"We have no use of our horses and much of our gear in the bowels of Mirkwood. If you would be so kind, bowman, you could take the animals with you to Lake Town and make sure they are taken care of until we arrive to reclaim them."
"I will, my Lord," Bard agreed, lowering his head in another respectful bow.
"Father! Are you just going to trust this rough stranger?!" Curufin protested.
"Yes. Yes I am," Fëanor replied, meeting the man's eyes and giving him a small smile. "It's better than to let the poor beasts roam wildly. Remember, we promised we would take good care of them."
"I will make sure that you find your animals in even better shape than you leave them. And… if you will, perhaps I can accompany you in your search?" Bard offered, solidifying the appreciation that Fëanor had instinctively felt for him.
"That is a kind offer, young man. But it will not be necessary," Fëanor smiled. Seeing to our animals will suffice. Thank you."
Bard nodded and motioned his men to dismount, in case the Elves needed any help sorting out their supplies.
"We travel light and with few supplies from here," Fëanor said. "Take only the bare necessities with you… And all your weapons."
But his sons needed no advice on the matter as each of them had fought countless times in his life and they were all anxious set off on the search as soon as possible. The trail was at least ten days old, by Bard's estimation, and gods knew what had happened to their brothers in the mean time. They could be anywhere inside the vast darkness of Mirkwood.
As he surrendered his belongings to the stern looking archer, Fëanor noticed the bow Bard carried. It had the same shape and very similar designs to the weapons Celegorm and the twins carried, although the man who bore it was not as tall and had shorter limbs to handle it.
"Your bow, Bard… Did you find it among the wreckage you encountered here?" Fëanor inquired.
"No, I have had it for years. It is a gift from a friend," Bard said, averting his eyes as though uneasy with what he had said.
"It is a good weapon. My sons wield similar ones, that is why I asked."
"I know, my Lord. We have found the shattered remains of three longbows," the man said, his voice hoarse and pained, if Fëanor's ears did not cheat him. "Are you certain that I cannot go with you?"
"Quite certain, I'm afraid. We will not stop for rest or food or anything else until we have found what we seek for. You are brave and you mean well, but you would not last long on the hunt and Mirkwood is no place for a young man to lose his life. Surely you have a wife and children waiting for you at home. Go back and we will find you there."
To Fëanor's further surprise, the man's eyes clouded over and he shook his head sadly. There was a tragic tale to uncover there, the Elf felt it, but he did not have the time to press for more information. Perhaps, when they finally reached Lake Town, he would seek Bard out and learn more about him, but Fëanor had greater worries for the time being.
The Elf started when he felt Bard's eyes studying him with disconcerting attention, while he went through his belongings.
"Is something the matter?" Fëanor turned to the man, curious but impatient at the same time.
"Forgive me, my Lord," Bard averted his eyes. "I do not mean to be rude. It's just… you remind me of someone."
"I do?"
"Well… in a way. No, not exactly. I do not know. But it matters not," Bard cast Fëanor an awkward glance, clearly regretting what he had just said.
Fëanor had the distinct feeling that it did matter, but pressed as he was by both time and gnawing worry, he said nothing past thanking the men for their aid and wishing them a safe journey back to their homes. But as he took the first steps into the unfriendly twilight of Mirkwood, Fëanor wondered who Bard was and whether he had known Celegorm while his son had spent almost half a year in Esgaroth, a decade before. Celegorm himself would just have to tell the tale as soon as they found him alive and well. Any other possibility was simply unacceptable.