A bright, cloudless dawn rouses me from the narrow bed in the Green Dragon's pokey attic room the next morning. The sun warms my back through the little circular window as I dress and triple check my bags before heading down the creaky stairs. Camellia waves me off with a cheery smile and a "See you soon!" The goodbye sticks in my throat, so I just smile and wave back.
Shadowmere's already waiting for me outside. The unholy glow of his eyes is almost unnoticeable in the daylight. He greets me with a nicker, snuffling at my pockets. He may not be an actual horse, but he's gotten very good at pretending.
My new travelling companions are slow to rise and even slower to load and mount their ponies. As I wait astride Shadowmere, my fingers drumming on the pommel, the conversation between Gandalf and Bilbo echoes around my head.
The Hobbit's desire for a quiet life, far away from fear and danger and disappointment, was something I too had desired once, a long time ago. It was a life I'd never be able to find in Tamriel, and one which Bilbo might never be able to let go of. But I'd seen the spark in those wide green eyes, seen something of the youngster who went off searching for Elves and returned after dark with muddy feet and fireflies in his hair.
I desperately hope Bilbo Baggins won't make the same mistake I did.
Shadowmere nudges my shin with his nose. The Dwarves have left without me, and are already disappearing around a bend in the track. Gandalf casts a furrowed glance over his shoulder, face half-hidden by the brim of his hat, and Shadowmere breaks into a trot to catch up. The Wizard doesn't say a word as I draw level with him, but his eyebrows make it clear I've already annoyed him and we haven't even made it out of Bywater.
I spent an hour last night studying my map of Middle-earth, trying to get a feel for exactly where it is we're going. The journey will not be short. I'll have to put in extra effort to remain on Gandalf's good side and stay out of Thorin's way entirely.
Guess I'll have to try harder.
"Wait!"
The ponies snort in protest, tossing their heads as the procession grinds to a halt. Thorin twists around in the saddle, his glare finding me for a moment before I turn to face the direction of the shout.
Bilbo flies along the track, bare feet smeared with dirt and curly hair in complete disarray. A length of parchment streams behind him like a banner. He waves the contract in triumph as he reaches us. The spark that lit his eyes last night has become a fierce blaze.
"I signed it!" He hands the contract up to Balin, who pulls out a monocle to peer at the neat signatures.
Beside me, Gandalf practically beams. I have to wonder at his motives for bringing Bilbo along on this quest. I don't buy the whole burglar story for a second.
"Welcome, Master Baggins," Balin declares, "to the company of Thorin Oakenshield."
Bilbo is less than thrilled with the offer of a pony, but Thorin's nephews cut his protests short, grabbing an arm each and depositing him in the saddle. I hide a snigger behind my hand at his disgruntled expression, nudging Shadowmere closer to his pony. Despite his foolish decision, some small part of me is relieved to have him along, at the very least because he might not take the first opportunity to turn on me.
We've barely been walking for ten minutes before Bilbo brings the entire company to a halt again, fretting about a forgotten handkerchief. I rub my hand across my forehead to ward off the brewing headache. At this rate, the dragon will die of old age before we can get to it.
"You'll have to manage without pocket handkerchiefs, and a good many other things, Bilbo Baggins, before we reach our journey's end," Gandalf announces as we move off. "You were born to the rolling hills and little rivers of the Shire, but home is now behind you. The world is ahead."
Very poetic, Gandalf, but dramatic speeches won't make him any less flammable.
The first two weeks pass with little incident. I tuck myself in between Bilbo and Gandalf as we ride; Bilbo's pony takes a couple of days to get used to Shadowmere's presence, and I notice the Dwarves shooting him curious and alarmed glances. I learn all their names without really meaning to, and on the days when their rowdiness doesn't grate on my nerves, I listen to their conversations and tuck away snippets of information for later. It's a skill I learned as an assassin, and a very difficult habit to break, as it turns out.
Thorin seems content to ignore me entirely, save the occasional glare across the fire.
Considering the rocky start to the journey, I'm intrigued to see how Bilbo copes with being on the road, away from the comforts of his cozy little house. He manages better than I expected, though I catch him screwing his nose up as he wriggles in the saddle, and for the first couple of nights I'm sure I can hear muffled sniffling coming from his bedroll. But he never complains, and I find myself glad of his chatter as we plod along. Once or twice, he tries to steer the conversation around to me, but it only takes a couple of rebuttals for him to take the hint.
One night, we set up camp on a large, rocky outcropping overlooking a steep drop onto a flat expanse of grassland. Dodging the flurry of activity, I choose a spot away from the fire and pull a whetstone out of my pack. My body settles into the familiar rhythm of cleaning and sharpening my blades, the Dwarves' noise fading into a background hum. A prickle on my neck alerts me to the eyes watching me, but I refuse to take the bait. Instead, I drag the stone along the blade with slow, deliberate movements, twisting my wrist so the edge catches the last of the sun's rays. Not quite threatening, but it sends a message.
I haven't forgotten Gandalf's warning. I have no idea how he's kept Thorin off my back so far, but I'm not about to question his methods so long as they work. Given the way Thorin bristles if I stray within ten feet of him, getting him on my side, as the Wizard suggested, is completely out of the question. But as long as Gandalf's around, there's no reason to resort to arse-kissing.
Satisfied with my work, I raise my head to soothe my protesting shoulder muscles. A pair of eyes catch mine. Fili inclines his head towards the blade in my hand, then to the pile at my feet. One eyebrow arches, and the corner of his mouth curls into an almost-smile.
A spark of pride ignites in my chest and spreads to my cheeks. I duck away from his gaze. It's been a long time since anyone looked at me with anything other than fear or contempt. The only person foolish to harbour any sort of affection for me is far away, buried beneath a meadow of wildflowers.
A steaming bowl slides into my field of vision. Bilbo's eyes widen like a startled rabbit's, and his chin wobbles as I lower the blade from his throat.
"Sorry."
"Oh, that's—quite alright." His voice catches on every other syllable, but he rallies enough to offer me a shy smile. "I brought you some food."
Tucking the Blade out of sight, I take the bowl and cradle it close. His eyes drop to my hands—they're shaking, the stew slopping gently in the bowl.
Before the concern can form on his face, I stand and retreat towards the edge of the cliff. Cold stone bites through my trousers as I curl onto a rock. The bowl sits untouched in my lap as my mind wanders across the shadowy grassland towards the miles of saltwater between me and everything I once knew.
It seems pathetic that just a simple smile from the fair-haired prince can throw me off guard enough to allow memories I've fought so hard to bury to come rushing back to the surface.
I grip the bowl tighter and glance up at the circle of firelight, aware that I'm falling to pieces in front of an audience. Thankfully, most of them have their backs to me. They sit huddled close together despite the pleasant spring evening, their laughter unusually restrained.
An instinct I've learned to rely on taps me on the shoulder.
I sit up straighter, tuning out the chatter and casting about for any sign of danger. My gaze snags on the Dwarf-shaped thorn that is Thorin Oakenshield. He glances quickly away, but something in his expression echoes my unease. Gandalf continues to puff away at his pipe, the flames dancing in his restless eyes.
A full moon rises, bathing the landscape in silver. The Dwarves settle around the fire, leaving the two princes to take the first watch. They sit close together with their knees touching. Restless rustling descends into rhythmic snoring. Only the crackling fire and the princes' murmured conversation disturbs the silence.
Movement catches my eye across the plateau. A short, curly-haired silhouette creeps around the snoring Dwarves towards the patch of grass where the Dwarves tethered their ponies. Bilbo moves silently, almost unnervingly so. Giving Shadowmere and his red eyes a wide berth, Bilbo locates his pony, Myrtle, and offers her the stolen apple pulled from his pocket. As she crunches up the gift, Bilbo shushes her with a guilty glance over his shoulder. His eyes meet mine, and his cheeks flush.
A scream pierces the stillness. The sound shoots through my body, vibrating through every nerve ending.
Bilbo skitters back to the fire as a second shriek answers the first. "What was that?"
Kili's brows knot together. "Orcs."
"Orcs?"
"Throat-cutters." Fili peers at Bilbo over his pipe. "There'll be dozens of them out there. The Lone-lands are crawling with them."
A shudder bunches the muscles in my back.
"They strike in the wee hours of the night when everyone's asleep." Kili's hushed tone covers the sound of my footsteps as I slink to the spot on Gandalf's right. Only Balin notices me move, and has the grace not to draw attention to me. "Quick and quiet. No screams. Just lots of blood."
Bilbo sways a little on his feet. The princes exchange a glance and dissolve into sniggers.
"You think that's funny?" The grins vanish. Thorin looms over his nephews like a thunderhead. "You think a night raid by Orcs is a joke?"
"We didn't mean anything by it," Kili's mutters. Fili's shoulders curl inwards, his eyes on his boots.
"No, you didn't," Thorin growls. He turns to stride away, towards the edge of the plateau. "You know nothing of the world."
I stare after Thorin for a moment, my gaze drawn to him without my permission. The moon's ethereal glow illuminates his hunched shoulders and lowered head. Kili touches Fili's shoulder, and the blond prince barely lifts his head to smile at his brother.
"Don't mind him, laddie," Balin says to Bilbo, who looks on the verge of collapse. "Thorin has more cause than most to hate Orcs."
Oh good, I've been waiting for an explanation as to why he's such an uptight pain in the arse all the time. I shift to lean back against a rock; the Blade settles in comforting weight on my thigh.
"After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thror tried to reclaim the ancient Dwarf kingdom of Moria," Balin begins. "But our enemy had got there first. Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs, led by the most vile of all their race: Azog the Defiler. The giant Gundabad Orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin."
If Thorin's shoulders get any stiffer, they're going to shatter. The words 'giant' and 'Orc' have already set my teeth on edge.
"He began… by beheading the King."
Oh.
"Thrain, Thorin's father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing. Taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us. That is when I saw him."
Balin lifts his head to gaze at Thorin. He still has his back to us, fingers clasped behind him, a light breeze stirring his dark hair.
"A young Dwarf prince, facing down the Pale Orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armour rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield."
Oakenshield. The heroic image doesn't fit at first, but slowly shifts into place as I watch Thorin. He's the same hero who kept fighting despite losing so much, and emerged victorious. Something stirs in my chest, and I shove it down.
"Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken. Our forces rallied, and we drove the Orcs back." Beneath his bushy white brows, Balin's eyes shine with something fierce and pure. "Our enemy had been defeated. But there was no feast, nor song that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived. And I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow. There is one… I could call King."
The other Dwarves have now all woken up, and they gaze at Thorin like he's a god in Dwarf form.
Which I suppose he is. A lot of things make sense now—the brooding, the short temper, why he's so determined to see this idiotic quest through, and why twelve other idiots are all happy to follow him towards certain death. He's led them to victory against insurmountable odds before, and they believe he can do it again.
Admittedly, after what I've just heard, I kind of want him to succeed.
I clear my throat and look towards the forest, shaking off the spell. I can't afford to be distracted and pulled along by Thorin's current with the rest of them. The only thing that matters is getting my hands on that gold.
Bilbo pipes up, "And the Pale Orc? What happened to him?"
Balin opens his mouth, but it's Thorin who answers. Growls, really.
"He slunk back into the hole whence he came. That filth died of his wounds long ago."
No one but me notices the glance exchanged between Balin and Gandalf that says that statement will definitely come back to bite him in the arse.
The weather holds until the last week of May, with only the occasional shower interrupting the pleasant sunshine. Then the sky cracks open like an eggshell and the ground dissolves into a bog. The ponies slog through it with minimal complaint, though the Dwarves do enough of that for all of us.
"Mister Gandalf?" a voice pipes up. "Can't you do something about this deluge?"
The Wizard's waspish reply emanates from somewhere beneath the heap of sodden grey rags riding in front of Shadowmere and me. "It is raining, Master Dwarf. And it will continue to rain until the rain is done."
Very helpful.
Three familiar words dance in the back of my mind, almost taunting me. I bite the inside of my cheek, shoving the power of the Shout right back down. A little rain was no match for the Dragonborn, but I'm not her anymore, and I will not break my vow just to deal with the weather.
"If you wish to change the weather of the world, you should find yourself another Wizard," Gandalf continues to grumble, barely audible over the waterfall tumbling from the canopy above.
"Are there any?" Bilbo asks. The rain has plastered his hair against his head, and his waterlogged coat has gone from burgundy to almost black. "Other Wizards?"
"There are five of us. The greatest of our order is Saruman, the White. Then there are the two Blueses—do you know, I've quite forgotten their names?"
My confidence in this so-called Wizard is dwindling by the minute.
"And who is the fifth?" Bilbo presses before Gandalf can lose the thread of the conversation altogether.
"That would be Radagast. The Brown."
Who on earth willingly calls themselves 'the Brown'?
"Is he a great Wizard? Or is he… more like you?"
The arm of my shirt barely absorbs my snigger. Ahead of us, Thorin makes a choking noise that sounds a lot like a poorly disguised chuckle.
"I think he's a very great Wizard," Gandalf huffs. "In his own way. He's a gentle soul who prefers the company of animals to others. He keeps a watchful eye over the vast forestlands to the East. And a good thing too, for always evil will look to find a foothold in this world."
How he manages to be so dramatic while soaked through, I will never know.
The rain eases up around mid-afternoon. By the time sundown approaches, I'm halfway to drying out, though the same can't be said for my saddlebags. I'll be wearing wet socks for days.
Eventually, we come upon an open, grassy space bordering a dense copse of trees. Atop a small hill, a heap of broken support beams that might have once been a house casts a weary silhouette against the greying sky.
"We'll camp here for the night," Thorin declares. "Fili, Kili, look after the ponies. Make sure you stay with them."
As the Dwarves scramble to obey Thorin's orders, Gandalf wanders up the hill towards the ruined building. Barely anything remains beyond jagged shards of wall and a sagging, half-collapsed roof. It's difficult to pinpoint exactly what destroyed the house—no soot stains the wood, and despite an unpleasant odour, there are no signs of rot. The damage is recent—the air hums with the lingering impression of chaos.
A prickle starts at the back of my neck and trickles down my spine. Only a couple of events can cause such a strong, long-lasting impression on a place.
"I think it would be wiser to move on." The prickle surges into a fully fledged shiver. If Gandalf concurs with my ill feeling, there's no way I imagined the strange atmosphere. "We could make for the Hidden Valley."
Thorin stomps towards Gandalf, out of the company's earshot. He briefly glares at me as he passes, but for once, he directs his ire at someone else. "I have told you already, I will not go near that place."
"Why not? The Elves could help us."
Elves. Despite everything I've heard about them, I've still never actually encountered one in Middle-earth. Thorin never misses an opportunity to make his feelings regarding them clear, but I'm still curious. Surely they can't be as bad as he says.
Thorin as good as spits in Gandalf's face, "I do not need their advice."
"We have a map that we cannot read. Lord Elrond could help us."
"Help?" Anger pours into Thorin's voice. He steps towards Gandalf, fists rigid at his sides. "A dragon attacks Erebor. What help came from the Elves?" Another step. "Orcs plunder Moria, desecrate our sacred halls. The Elves looked on and did nothing." Toe to toe with the Wizard, Thorin glares up at him with enough ferocity to make a dragon balk. "You ask me to see out the very people who betrayed my grandfather—who betrayed my father."
I twist away, pretending to fumble inside my saddlebags. No wonder he was so against having me on this quest when he discovered I'm an Elf. My distant cousins sound like selfish bastards.
"You are neither of them." Gandalf looms over him like a ragged thundercloud, white-knuckled fingers clenched around his staff. "I did not give you that map and key for you to hold on to the past!"
"I did not know that they were yours to keep!"
I hold my breath. The two glare at each other like rival alpha wolves, neither breaking eye contact. Gandalf turns on his heel and stomps down the hill, his staff slicing into the soft, damp ground. Heads lift to watch him as he storms through the centre of camp.
"Gandalf? Where are you going?" Bilbo trots after him, but the Wizard's furious strides swiftly leave him behind.
"To seek the company of the only one around here who's got any sense," Gandalf growls.
"And who's that?"
"Myself, Mister Baggins!"
Like a retreating storm, Gandalf leaves a blanket of eerie silence in his wake. Bilbo looks thoroughly alarmed, wide-eyed and pale.
Thorin's gruff voice breaks the silence. "Come on Bombur, we're hungry."