Mirwold was right. We hadn't been very deep in Mirkwood at all. It was
barely an hour or so according to my watch before the trees began to slowly
taper off and thin into nothing. We were walking beside a river now.
Suddenly Mirwold paused and stopped me. "Look," he whispered, and pointed
into the distance. I looked.
"It's a lake," I said. "A really - big lake?"
Mirwold sighed. "Never mind," he muttered.
* * *
"You're going to have to wear a dress," Mirwold informed me the next day, as Esgaroth appeared at last on the horizon. "Your blue pants and sleeveless purple tunic, or whatever you call it, blend in around here like a Balrog among elves. Also, they will confuse people as to your gender. I mean, your hair is bad enough. So, the first thing we do once we get to Esgaroth is buy you some new clothes. You can put on Englas' traveling cloak on in the meantime, just remember to pull on the hood. And whatever you do, don't even think about talking!"
"Are you sure there's no other person in these parts who would go with you instead?" I whined. I was beginning to feel the full weight of traveling in Middle Earth, literally. My back was killing me.
Mirwold sighed. "Fadrininin and Englas have to stay behind to take care of the operation," he explained patiently.
"What operation?"
"Selling your stuff," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We release such goods very gradually onto the market to keep the prices sky-high."
"No, no!" I exclaimed, clutching my purse protectively. "The Tic-Tacs are mine, mine I tell you! You shall never wrest them from me, you monster. Ever!"
"We shall see about that," said Mirwold with an evil - bad - laugh and pulled a filthy-looking cloak out of the pack on my back. It was a kind of ugly grey-green, stained with dried mud and reeking of a hundred sweaty campfires. "It's not called a 'traveling' cloak for nothing, you know," he informed me when he saw my face.
"And you're not called Bob the Bad for nothing, either," I muttered under what I thought was my breath. How was I supposed to know that good hearing was a common Maia trait?
* * *
It was sunset when I finally limped into Esgaroth. I was strangely thankful to be around civilization again, even one as notoriously boring as Lake-town. For one, Mirwold was forced to quit the incessant screeching that he had been hurling in my direction all day.
"Where's the old city?" I whispered, surveying the horizon in vain. I hadn't seen it anywhere so far.
"Old city?" Mirwold asked, confused. "What old city?"
"You know, old Esgaroth? The one that Smaug burned down?"
"Smaug? What's that?"
"The dragon," I prompted him, "The dragon who burned down Esgaroth."
"Oh, I don't think you have to worry about dragons. There haven't been any dragons around here in ages," Mirwold assured me. "The occasional old geezer insists that one still exists in that hill over there, but everyone knows they're just getting a bit senile and all." A chilling thought occurred to me: maybe Esgaroth really hadn't been destroyed yet. But if Esgaroth hadn't been destroyed yet, not only had I come far too early to ever even hope to be alive when the Fellowship was formed, much less to become one of its founding members (just another one of those unforeseen drawbacks to random Middle Earth entry using badly-documented, non-canon Rings of Power), Smaug the evil maiden-eating dragon wasn't dead yet. He was still lurking somewhere within the mountain that rose ominously in the distance in all its orange-bathed glory. Somehow it didn't surprise me. Knowing my luck, I had probably landed somewhere towards the end of The Hobbit and would probably have my bed burned from beneath me as I slept.
Suddenly Mirwold started laughing uncontrollably. "The look on your face!" he sniggered. "You can't see the old city because it's too dark. There's nothing to see any more, really. Practically everything above the water was either burned or crushed by falling Smaug. I don't know why they don't destroy the mess completely. An eyesore and a safety hazard is what I call it."
There were a couple of men guarding the bridge that led to Lake-town, an eyesore and a safety hazard of a town itself. They waved at Mirwold when they saw him approach. Apparently, he was well known around these parts. They didn't even bother to question my presence, if they noticed it at all.
"Now, remember," hissed Mirwold, "speak and I kill you."
"Aslond Mirwold!" exclaimed one of the men, running towards Mirwold, arms outstretched. They exchanged a manly hug of friendship.
"Olsn paolin asnd eorn asgrim i aslonee!" Mirwold cried, patting the man on the back. He was a born actor, he really was. The two began talking to each other in hushed voices; I couldn't even guess at what they were saying. Eventually, Mirwold tore himself away from his very friendly friend and made it over the bridge at last, me close in tow.
It wasn't particularly late in the evening, but there were already very few people on the streets of Lake-town, and all of them seemed to be in a hurry. I got the distinct feeling that this was not a party town by any stretch of the imagination. Mirwold led me straight to his house, which was one of the larger, more structurally sound ones around.
I had expected it to be dark inside; strangely enough, it wasn't. There was a nice, warm fire waiting for us - wasn't Esgaroth enough of a fire-hazard as it was? - and a lamp on the table. "Fadrinion and Englas," Mirwold explained, pointing to the corner of the room where they sat examining a battered-looking CD player.
The place was an absolute disaster. Crates and crates of backpacks stood in the corner, spilling pink socks and stuffed animals out onto the floor. A stack of assorted Legolas paraphernalia, ranging from the bookmark to the day-timer, sat on the table beside unwashed breakfast dishes and sparkly little diaries with fuzzy blue covers and matching pens. There were unmistakable signs of shameless fan exploitation here. It was sickening just to think of. I wondered if any of the little morons had thought to bring toothpaste. No, no! Bad thought!
"We'll be staying the night," announced Mirwold. "You can sleep in the spare bedroom, Englas will point you in the right direction, don't get comfortable and the bathroom is the second door to the left. Good-night." With that, he left the room.
My eyes lit up. "A real live bathroom!" I murmured in joy and ran to investigate. It was a bathroom, all right. There was a little round stone tub sitting in the middle of the otherwise empty room. A bath. I should have known it was too good to be true.
* * *
A/N: this is in honour of my 10th chapter (*sniff* they grow so fast), where I'd like to take the opportunity to thank all the wonderful, brilliant, not to mention truly talented people who reviewed this story, you people bring warm fuzzies to my heart. Especially Bilbo. You're the bestest hobbit ever. This chapter's for you, little buddy.
"It's a lake," I said. "A really - big lake?"
Mirwold sighed. "Never mind," he muttered.
* * *
"You're going to have to wear a dress," Mirwold informed me the next day, as Esgaroth appeared at last on the horizon. "Your blue pants and sleeveless purple tunic, or whatever you call it, blend in around here like a Balrog among elves. Also, they will confuse people as to your gender. I mean, your hair is bad enough. So, the first thing we do once we get to Esgaroth is buy you some new clothes. You can put on Englas' traveling cloak on in the meantime, just remember to pull on the hood. And whatever you do, don't even think about talking!"
"Are you sure there's no other person in these parts who would go with you instead?" I whined. I was beginning to feel the full weight of traveling in Middle Earth, literally. My back was killing me.
Mirwold sighed. "Fadrininin and Englas have to stay behind to take care of the operation," he explained patiently.
"What operation?"
"Selling your stuff," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "We release such goods very gradually onto the market to keep the prices sky-high."
"No, no!" I exclaimed, clutching my purse protectively. "The Tic-Tacs are mine, mine I tell you! You shall never wrest them from me, you monster. Ever!"
"We shall see about that," said Mirwold with an evil - bad - laugh and pulled a filthy-looking cloak out of the pack on my back. It was a kind of ugly grey-green, stained with dried mud and reeking of a hundred sweaty campfires. "It's not called a 'traveling' cloak for nothing, you know," he informed me when he saw my face.
"And you're not called Bob the Bad for nothing, either," I muttered under what I thought was my breath. How was I supposed to know that good hearing was a common Maia trait?
* * *
It was sunset when I finally limped into Esgaroth. I was strangely thankful to be around civilization again, even one as notoriously boring as Lake-town. For one, Mirwold was forced to quit the incessant screeching that he had been hurling in my direction all day.
"Where's the old city?" I whispered, surveying the horizon in vain. I hadn't seen it anywhere so far.
"Old city?" Mirwold asked, confused. "What old city?"
"You know, old Esgaroth? The one that Smaug burned down?"
"Smaug? What's that?"
"The dragon," I prompted him, "The dragon who burned down Esgaroth."
"Oh, I don't think you have to worry about dragons. There haven't been any dragons around here in ages," Mirwold assured me. "The occasional old geezer insists that one still exists in that hill over there, but everyone knows they're just getting a bit senile and all." A chilling thought occurred to me: maybe Esgaroth really hadn't been destroyed yet. But if Esgaroth hadn't been destroyed yet, not only had I come far too early to ever even hope to be alive when the Fellowship was formed, much less to become one of its founding members (just another one of those unforeseen drawbacks to random Middle Earth entry using badly-documented, non-canon Rings of Power), Smaug the evil maiden-eating dragon wasn't dead yet. He was still lurking somewhere within the mountain that rose ominously in the distance in all its orange-bathed glory. Somehow it didn't surprise me. Knowing my luck, I had probably landed somewhere towards the end of The Hobbit and would probably have my bed burned from beneath me as I slept.
Suddenly Mirwold started laughing uncontrollably. "The look on your face!" he sniggered. "You can't see the old city because it's too dark. There's nothing to see any more, really. Practically everything above the water was either burned or crushed by falling Smaug. I don't know why they don't destroy the mess completely. An eyesore and a safety hazard is what I call it."
There were a couple of men guarding the bridge that led to Lake-town, an eyesore and a safety hazard of a town itself. They waved at Mirwold when they saw him approach. Apparently, he was well known around these parts. They didn't even bother to question my presence, if they noticed it at all.
"Now, remember," hissed Mirwold, "speak and I kill you."
"Aslond Mirwold!" exclaimed one of the men, running towards Mirwold, arms outstretched. They exchanged a manly hug of friendship.
"Olsn paolin asnd eorn asgrim i aslonee!" Mirwold cried, patting the man on the back. He was a born actor, he really was. The two began talking to each other in hushed voices; I couldn't even guess at what they were saying. Eventually, Mirwold tore himself away from his very friendly friend and made it over the bridge at last, me close in tow.
It wasn't particularly late in the evening, but there were already very few people on the streets of Lake-town, and all of them seemed to be in a hurry. I got the distinct feeling that this was not a party town by any stretch of the imagination. Mirwold led me straight to his house, which was one of the larger, more structurally sound ones around.
I had expected it to be dark inside; strangely enough, it wasn't. There was a nice, warm fire waiting for us - wasn't Esgaroth enough of a fire-hazard as it was? - and a lamp on the table. "Fadrinion and Englas," Mirwold explained, pointing to the corner of the room where they sat examining a battered-looking CD player.
The place was an absolute disaster. Crates and crates of backpacks stood in the corner, spilling pink socks and stuffed animals out onto the floor. A stack of assorted Legolas paraphernalia, ranging from the bookmark to the day-timer, sat on the table beside unwashed breakfast dishes and sparkly little diaries with fuzzy blue covers and matching pens. There were unmistakable signs of shameless fan exploitation here. It was sickening just to think of. I wondered if any of the little morons had thought to bring toothpaste. No, no! Bad thought!
"We'll be staying the night," announced Mirwold. "You can sleep in the spare bedroom, Englas will point you in the right direction, don't get comfortable and the bathroom is the second door to the left. Good-night." With that, he left the room.
My eyes lit up. "A real live bathroom!" I murmured in joy and ran to investigate. It was a bathroom, all right. There was a little round stone tub sitting in the middle of the otherwise empty room. A bath. I should have known it was too good to be true.
* * *
A/N: this is in honour of my 10th chapter (*sniff* they grow so fast), where I'd like to take the opportunity to thank all the wonderful, brilliant, not to mention truly talented people who reviewed this story, you people bring warm fuzzies to my heart. Especially Bilbo. You're the bestest hobbit ever. This chapter's for you, little buddy.