Thank you all so much for the nice response to the last two chapters; in particular thank you for the reviews, and I hope I managed to respond to you all personally (and if not, I am truly sorry – I'll do better at responding already when I get the email notification or I might not get around to you all, too much going on in my head so I get easily distracted). I have read them all and thank you, thank you, thank you!

Also, sorry for my slow updates. Real life and all that, though this was a longer chapter since I wanted to speed up the journey. Fili should appear either in chapter 4 or (more likely) 5.

But for now, please enjoy chapter 3 and the approach to Erebor!

When Ravens Fly

Chapter III: Stories in the Dark

Eyes adjusting to the dimness inside, Ranel scrambled into the wagon with her belongings rattling at her belt. While she could fit inside several times over, there was only a narrow space between large crates, stacks of woven cloths and baskets of food, neatly stacked and piled; but she managed to sink down into a spot on the wooden boards, close to where she had entered, and watched the dwarrowdam – Nola, she reminded herself– likewise taking a seat with a little more grace than she had.

"Once more, you have my deepest thanks," Ranel spoke, shifting and adjusting her weight while her fingers eased both lute and satchel off of her shoulders. "It was very generous of you to allow a stranger to travel with you."

The gesture of kindness had come as a surprise, especially when dealing with Dwarves. She had expected to spend her journey trailing behind, out of sight from the group but close enough to seek comfort and security from their presence to ease her own trek across the wilderness. Usually highwaymen and bandits stayed clear of such trouble – trouble that would often leave them with rewards worth less than the struggle, if not bruises and broken bones.

"There is safety in numbers," the dwarrowdam responded with an understanding smile, gaze lingering briefly on the small knife fastened at Ranel's waist. They both knew it offered little protection, if any. Then the dwarrowdam's attention flickered to the side and fell upon a small bundle of blankets. "And you don't seem to have a bone of evil in you, lass, so how could I let you go on your own? Now–" Gently brushing aside the fabrics, a mop of curly, wild dark hair emerged, and a small unsatisfied whimper followed as the child was picked up. "–Allow me to introduce you to the fourth member of the group. Lóna," she said, brushing her forehead against the little girl's before settling the small Dwarfling in her lap. "Give our guest a proper greeting."

Small, chubby fingers curled around her mother's dress, the child turned her gaze to Ranel. "Hello," Lóna mumbled shyly, before quickly burying her face in fabrics. A smile tugged at Ranel's lips as she leaned slightly forward.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lóna – my name is Ranel," she offered as greeting. With no response she rested her back against the wooden boards of the wagon, pulling her legs close to her chest. Dwarven children were a rare sight, small treasures valued higher than any precious stones or gems and were protected as fiercely – the fact the group was travelling with one so small spoke lengths of their eagerness to return to the Lonely Mountain. Erebor really had been reclaimed. "How old is she, if I may ask?"

Nola pressed a kiss to her daughter's temple, then responded with a soft smile. "Barely turned six."

Voices from outside reached her ears and interrupted their conversation, the older Dwarf speaking gruffly in Khuzdul before the wagon creaked into motion; slowly at first, rustling and swaying against the path, until it picked up speed and the two harnessed ponies fell into a comfortable pace with hooves a regular clip-clop throughout the otherwise quiet grasslands. A sense of unquenchable anticipation washed over her and her fingers, in an attempt to still her nerves, fumbled and danced across the hem of her skirt, smoothening folds and wrinkles.

She dreaded the moment she would once more stand on the lakeshore, but Ranel had to know – had to say goodbye.

Family was, after all, family.

Through half-lidded eyes she kept her head down, transfixed by her own shadow in quiet contemplation. Silence settled, and the dwarrowdam appeared in no need to break it; in stead she shuffled about the small space, once more settling her daughter in between the woolen blankets with soft murmurs. The white cloth, extended above them, appeared almost golden beneath the morning sun, and the Spring weather made the air inside warm and dry; Ranel relaxed slightly and shook off her glum bearings, knowing well she was being rude towards her hostess' kindness.

She took in her surroundings with interest, sweeping over several crates filled with tools; tongs and hammers of different sizes, some bigger than her hands, perhaps even her head; bellows hanging from hooks, swinging back and forth with the wagon's movements and clacking against each other in a melodious rhythm. "By any chance," she spoke, turning her face back on to the Dwarf. "Is your craft blacksmithing?" Nola caught her eye and gave a hum in response, her daughter's head resting comfortably in her lap. It would not be long before the Dwarfling would be lulled to sleep, eyelids fluttering shut already. "And you plan to set up shop in Erebor?"

"Aye, it will require many hands, and many different crafts, to rebuild. Although our reason to return is not so much the prospects of work." Nola's shoulders squared, eyes alight as her voice brimmed with pride and joy at her next words. "Erebor is home, a home that was taken from our people and, with the loss, forced suffering and misfortune upon us for two centuries. No Dwarf in Middle-Earth would pass up on the opportunity to see its greatness restored. To pay homage to our returned King under the Mountain."

Ranel was left speechless, astounded, but she could not help a smile cross her features.

Even if she was a wanderer without a place to call home, she could understand the notion – to have a place to return to; something the Dwarves had been without for years, as the dragon's attack had forced them to seek work in the world of Men. Dark and grim-faced, she had often seen them hunched over, huddled together in small groups as the Dwarves moved from town to town, offering their great skills in return for payment far less than deserved. In was an unsatisfying way of living for such a proud, and stubborn, people.

The depths of their eyes had never been without yearning and memories of past glory.

The prideful race had been bent under the flames but never truly broken. Her fingers stilled against her skirt. "I have heard tales of the magnificent halls beneath the Lonely Mountain, of ores of gold running deep, and wealth flowing from the mouth of the city–," she smiled. "–I hope that it will all return to Erebor." She truly did, even though she knew the Dwarves' joyous occasion had not come without great sacrifice; not only from the returned residents within the mountain or the people of Lake-town, but her ...

Nola bowed her head in gratitude at the words.

"Then we have a shared wish."

Once more, a quietude filled the space between them; unstrained, comfortable in a way that made Ranel feel at ease. Her fingers gently ran across the smooth surface of her lute so familiar in her hands. She never touched the strings, though, in a worry she might wake the now sleeping child; long, dark eyelashes rested against smooth, rosy cheeks with dark curls falling over a round face. It was a very fair child, she noted. An effortless smile played on her lips at the sight.

Ranel leaned her head back and stared up onto the golden-white cloth, feeling hair tickle the back of her neck.

"How long have you been playing?" Nola asked.

"Always. Or at least it feels that way," she responded with a soft laugh. "It has been a steadfast companion in all my travels."

The lute had been with her through every strenuous and arduous path she had crossed; through the deep snow of the High Pass, through a treacherous blanket of white and the hidden, jagged edges and falls; at the banks of Belegaer, with waves of light blue foam smashing against the rocks in thunderous trembles, deafening all voices and thought. It had been there whenever she lost herself to the beauty of the world, when nothing else could keep her company. When sorrow and loss pressed down upon her.

She could feel the indentations and dips across the surface as she followed the carvings that ran from the neck of the lute to its very base. Wildflowers in full bloom, some smaller than a fingertip, in an intricate pattern of vines and leaves slightly faded with the many years of use. "Will you play us a song?" The question dragged her back into the present, hands curling with tender care over the Lebethron wood.

"I do not wish to wake the little one," she said, tilting her head to the Dwarfling.

"Lóna is more than used to anvils and hammers, and that has never bothered her." The dwarrowdam waved off her concern. "She can sleep through a hurricane." Ranel bowed her head in agreement, brown tresses rolling down her shoulder as she leaned over the instrument in her hands. Her fingers, moving with practiced ease, strummed the lute before she placed it to her chest. Her gaze returned to the dwarrowdam.

"Any requests?"

Their journey continued throughout the day with no rest or stops, not even when the sun passed its highest point in the sky. The ponies had kept the set pace, allowing them to traverse across the featureless, flat grasslands of Anórien and put quite the distance between themselves and Minas Tirith. Ranel imagined it would be three, perhaps only two, days before they were at the crossings, where the Mering Stream marked the borders between Gondor and the Rohirric province of Eastfold.

She had enjoyed the warm company provided by Nora – and Lóna, once the smaller Dwarf woke some time later. At first the girl had been rather skittish and nervous over Ranel's presence, but the shyness had quickly given way to unreserved, open enthusiasm that only a child could display. They had proved a delightful audience to her songs. Enthralled, even, much to the minstrel's enjoyment.

They were, in particular and perhaps not a surprise to Ranel, interested in tales of their kin.

And while the Dwarves kept to themselves, protective of their culture and history, she was still able to weave together a tale of the Seven Fathers of the Dwarves, which they took great pleasure in. How the Vala Aulë had grown impatient, not wishing to wait for the arising of the Children of Ilúvatar, and then created the first of their race; the eldest, resting alone beneath the mountains until he woke, Durin I.

King of Khazad-dûm.

The small dwarfling had clambered into her lap at one point, keen eyes following her every move as fingers played a soft tune and the small mob of hair barely reached past the middle of her stomach. Ranel, resting her chin gently on top of the soft curls below, patiently showed the different sounds and how to create them, allowing the little one to mirror her actions. Lóna was all awe and giggles, and her mother observed the scene with an affectionate smile. "Like this. First here–" Ranel pulled a string, then quickly moved her hand upwards. "–Here, and ... here."

Brow creased in concentration, the young girl repeated the movements yet with some struggles. The small, chubby fingers could not keep up with Ranel's slender, practiced hands, but she still whispered words of praise. It was rare to have such interest shown in her craft and she found amusement in attempting to teach others, and comfort in the presence of another. She had never taken apprentices, knowing well she could not take them along on her journeys.

She smiled at the thought. Not to mention no one had ever asked her.

When she finally needed a rest, Nola had swiftly prepared a late lunch; a variety of dried meats, nuts and dried berries from small jars, bread rolls, and a large, closed-off pot were placed in the small, empty space between them. The smell rolled over Ranel, making her stomach rumble lowly in response. The dwarrowdam moved to take Lóna, but Ranel immediately, reassuringly, said it was of no inconvenience to her. "I quite like my current company," she said with a smile.

"Me too," the Dwarfling added, patting Ranel's cheek with an outstretched hand. "Amad, can I keep her?"

Nose cringling in mirth, Nola laughed heartily and shook her head. Lóna pouted, giving the minstrel an apologetic shrug. "She is not a pet, my dear."

The wagon swayed, but it seemed not to affect the older Dwarf in the slightest; she pulled the cork with a plop from the jar pot, then proceeded to pour a milk-white drink into small cups. The first was passed to the youngest of the group, who immediately gulped down the contents and loudly smacked her lips. Ranel accepted an offered cup, waited for Nola to pour herself one, then held it up slightly to mirror the dwarrowdam's gesture and pressed it to her lips; it smelled spicy sweet, and as the milk rolled over her tongue she could taste the distinct flavor of nutmeg and other spices that she could not distinguish.

Bitter, but she enjoyed it nonetheless.

She took another sip. "You have so many stories to tell," Nola spoke, while she collected food into a small wooden bowl. Then the dwarrowdam passed it to her daughter. "And you tell them with such vivid detail ... I cannot help but think you have actually seen the places you speak of." Once more pressing the cup to her lips, mulling over her response, Ranel quietly watched the dwarrowdam.

"I have indeed, at least to some extend. Though, of course, I have steered clear of both the dark lands to the East as well as certain parts of Middle-Earth, where I know not to expect a warm welcome." The other nodded slowly, considering her words, yet she did not speak. "I have wandered these realms for as long as I can remember, gathering stories and information. Songs and tales. Sometimes I linger in places longer than others; I have spent some years now in Minas Tirith although I could sense it was time to move on."

"Have you never travelled with others?"

"Merchant convoys and the like, if they were headed in the same direction as I. It is rare, for they take different paths." Ranel glanced away, fingers fumbling with the cup between her hands. "But I am used to the road. I do not shy away from, nor fear, solitude in my travels. Walking alone makes me the mistress of my own path and I am comfortable with the way things are." Unlike this topic, she thought, gaze wavering; she had once wished to travel Middle-Earth with someone else, but that was a long time ago.

Nola, clearly sensing her current discomfort and distress, allowed the conversation to drop.

The smaller Dwarf shuffled, catching Ranel's attention; a pair of green orbs caught her glance and she smiled encouragingly. "Have you seen the Lonely Mountain?" Lóna asked, voice filled with curiosity for without a doubt the small child had heard the stories, but never actually seen the Dwarven kingdom with her own two eyes. Like most young Dwarves, to her Erebor was nothing but a faraway tale, a dream that – until recently – was unachievable.

"I've," Ranel said, paused, and took the small, outstretched hand in her own and felt the Dwarf's skin hot beneath hers. For a brief moment she marveled at how quickly the girl had warmed up to her; the trust that had been placed on her, even if she had done nothing to earn it. "Only from a distance, however. I am not so brave to approach a mountain wherein a dragon slumbers. But I have seen the solitary peak, golden below the sun; it is truly a majestic sight."

"Is it the most beautiful you have ever seen?" The Dwarfling inquired further.

Ranel considered her answer, contemplative and responded tentatively. "I have seen many beautiful places, but perhaps it really is."

"I think it is," Lóna said with unquestionable conviction.

A gust of wind, strong – sweeping across the grasslands down from Ered Nimrais – rolled against the wagon and made the cloths flutter loudly, the hinges moaning in soft complaints; but the wagon rattled along, swaying slightly against the road. Inside Ranel could not see the passing landscape and knew not how great the travelled distance was, and she almost missed the never-ending stretches of blue sky above; the breeze against her face and the smell of grass and dust beneath her feet. But, she shifted in her seat, some sacrifices were had to be made if she wished to reach the mountain with swiftness.

She sighed below her breath, once more pressing the edge of the cup to her lips.

As the day grew on to dark, the light turning from glowing yellow to deep orange, the ponies' pace lessened from the demanding work of the day. Lóna had curled up, never straying from Ranel's side, in a woven blanket of intricate patterns, pulled tightly up around her ears even against the mild evening weather. After the light meal, a pleasant quietude settled in the narrow space between crates and baskets. But Ranel was pulled from thought as the wagon bumped and stilled.

They had pulled over.

When the white fabric was pulled aside, revealing a tousled beard beneath a deep red hood, Lóni greeted his mother in a few, quick words of Khuzdul before turning his gaze to Ranel. "Miss Ranel, we are setting camp for tonight," he explained with a bow, then sidestepped to allow them passage out of the wagon. She hurriedly scrambled to gather her belongings, swinging both satchel and lute over her shoulder. She mumbled a flustered thanks when the Dwarf, offering a muscular arm, helped her down the small step and onto the crunchy ground below.

Her back ached, every part of her body stiff from the many hours of travel, and she rolled her shoulders in a long stretch. Her eyes scanned the area, attempting to pinpoint their location; the spot was at good as any other to set up camp, she decided. Far in the distance, faint between a cover of clouds, she could vaguely make out the contours of the mountain ridge; a thin line of white against the darkening horizon. Across a deep blue sky flecked with golden veins, it would not be long before the last rays of sunlight would be swallowed in the darkness of night.

Unending stretches of green on all sides, Ranel knew the Dwarves had decided to set up camp, not because of their position, but more to spare the animals.

The air was fresh, clear, and only a soft breeze travelled across the ground, whirling up a scent of earth and grass.

The oldest Dwarf met her exploring gaze and she nodded her head in recognition; he let out a low, gruff mutter in response, then turned his attention to the two ponies that were still tied to the wagon. He meticulously ran his hands down the length of one, a white and brown spotted mare, and patted it down from sweat, dust and grime before removing the heavy leather harness. Afterwards he led it to a small tuft of grass, not far from them, and fastened the pony to a wooden stake to spend the night.

It attempted to chew his long hair, but he swatted it off good-naturedly.

A grin tugged at her lips at the sight, but, pressing a hand to her mouth, Ranel glanced away.

Lóni had assisted his mother, who had the youngest Dwarf slung across her shoulder like a sack of potatoes – a squirming, animatedly babbling, sack of potatoes. Watching the small family, Ranel flexed her fingers open and close; she quickly smoothened her skirt, noting the grime with a grimace, and stepped close to the Dwarves. "Can I be of help?" She offered, clasping her hands behind her back.

"If you could–," Nola paused to shush the wriggling girl, then, with a soft sigh, returned her attention to Ranel. "If you don't mind, my dear, could you keep an eye on this little devil while we set up camp?" She agreed immediately, glad to be of some assistance to her hospitable hosts, and allowed herself to be dragged off by the tiny Dwarfling to explore their surroundings.

At first she felt a pang of guilt for not assisting with the camp, but the Dwarves moved with such swift efficiency, she almost felt she would have rather been in the way if she tried anything. With the second pony secured, Frár began work on the fire with his son's help and, only moments later, bright flames licked across the wooden logs and lit the ground. Shadows danced to a tune of cracks and plops.

She crouched down and beckoned Lóna over. The girl latched on to her arm, leaning her cheek against the coarse fabrics of Ranel's shirt and peered up; then she grinned expectantly.

"What is it?"

"This here," she answered, picking a single flower she had spotted just before. The wild herb littered the area, peaking out from between the straws in the dim, waning light, and Ranel's practiced eyes easily spotted them in the grass. "I was hoping you could gather some of these for me?" Lóna eyed the small, light red flower with curiosity; then the Dwarf took it from her hand and turned it over between her own fingers.

"What's it for?" She inquired and breathed in its smell. She made a face, withdrawing quickly to hold the plant at arm's length. "It smells bad!"

"But it tastes good," Ranel said with a laugh. "Can you do it?" When she received a nod in answer, she ruffled the child's soft curls and stood. "Good, though only pick the red ones." She stood for a moment, watching the small figure dash away, but then she turned her eyes westward to the horizon. Other than the soft footfalls of the scrambling Dwarfling and the faint rustles from camp, there were no sounds to be heard of the silence of the night. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she allowed the gentle breeze to brush across her face, grabbing hold of the tresses of her hair.

A peace had fallen over the lands of Gondor, for many years now, and all breathed of calm and quiet.

But still, there was a heaviness to her heart; a heaviness that had crept over her ... With every hushed whisper in the darkest tavern corners; of an old shadow creeping over the lands to the east, the increasing amounts of trolls and orcs attacking settlements and villages. It was only a matter of time before the Gondorians, with their polished and spotless armors, would see battle.

War was brewing, ominous storm clouds in the horizon. The herald of evil and death.

It is only a matter of time, she thought grimly, a chill running across her skin.

"Ranel?"

Breaking out of her dark thought, she blinked repeated; a warmth travelled up her arm, dispelling the coldness, and she squeezed the hand in her own reassuringly. "Sorry, Lóna, I was just thinking." The little Dwarfling looked at her in puzzlement, then lowered her gaze to the flowers in her grasp. "Did you gather all those? Well done. Shall we go make some tea out of them?"

Hand in hand, they walked back to camp.