Exams and sickness over and done!
Thank you for the reviews to the previous chapters, please do keep it up as it is highly motivational. My theory is the time between updates often is inversely proportional with the amount of reviews, though merely a theory so far. We should test it! The music for this chapter has in some part been with inspiration from "Warcraft" by Ramin Djawadi and "Iron Poetry" by Ivan Torrent.
I usually don't add chapter warnings, mostly since I don't write things that leads to such uses, not to mention I feel it spoils the story more than anything, but uh ... Warning: poorly written violence and assault. (It's my first ever attempt at anything remotely resembling combat so hopefully I shall not blind my poor readers or bore them into a coma, but if so I apologize beforehand! Also, let me know if you would even consider it something in the need of a warning because I'm quite uncertain if it does.)
And please review, I'm dead excited (and incredibly nerve-wrecking scared) about what you all think of my "action" scenes, where half was deleted halfway through writing. Because feck my life. Right? Right! And this chapter grew longer and longer because I had promised Fíli in this chapter ... Can't say I don't keep promises even though we hit more than 9000 words!
So you all better enjoy!
When Ravens Fly
Chapter V: Blades Clashing
Her entire being froze at the snapped branch, back and shoulders rigid as her breath hitched in her throat. Something – someone – was behind her. And it was not one of the Dwarves, for she would certainly have heard them. With ears strained for any sound, an alertness seeping into every muscle of her body and with undivided, rapt attention on her surroundings, Ranel slowly, inconspicuously pulled her fingers from her damp tresses.
Heart hammering rapidly in her chest, she knew well her first real indication of movement would urge the watcher into responsive measures. Time felt as if stilled, the world holding its breath in waiting. Straightening to her full height, slowly, carefully, her right hand flexed and hovered closer to the small knife at her belt. Her mind was in turmoil, an internal conflict raging between fight or flight.
Could she run?
Would she even make it if she tried?
But before she could come to a decision it was made for her. With footfalls heavy against the grass piercing through the quiet, Ranel made a grab for the blade and spun to face her attacker, feelings her fingers come so close – scraping against the rough hilt, almost able to grasp it fully – when a body collided with her own. Fear surged through her. The massive bulk pulled her out of balance and sent her flying to the ground; her head met with the sharp side of a stone, protruding from the grass, and a white-blinding wave of pain carved through her body.
Her ears rang, piercingly loud ripples breaking off any coherent thought.
Ranel would have screamed if not for the fist simultaneously connecting with her stomach, knocking the air from her lungs. She let out a garbled moan of agony, curling in on herself but with fingers still trembling, fumbling, to grab hold of her small weapon. The attacker – a man, her mind registered feebly – sat with a leg on either side of her body, straddling her down on the rain-soaked ground. Her vision swam, attempting to regain focus in between ragged breaths.
A sharp blade hovered inches from her widening eyes, close enough to carve the thin skin beneath if she dared move.
Her searching fingers stilled.
"Told 'em I saw one ... Yes ..." The man muttered, more to himself than anything before his dark beady eyes readjusted to her face. His free hand stroked tangles of hair from her face, brushing his fingers over her cheek and further down her neck in a strange, sickening display of care that spoke about entirely different motives; yellowy teeth bared with his smirk, tongue running across his lower lip. "Pretty lil' lass, yes, yes." Ranel could do nothing but wordlessly stare at the wild man, terror-stricken and disoriented, but not without a familiar sense of survival's fury boiling deep within. Her nostrils flared.
His hair and beard untamed, feral like the rest of his large frame, and together they hid most of his features; but the eyes shone through, filled with unrestrained emotion, all of which Ranel preferred not to understand any more than she already did. She knew well how an encounter such as this would end. Both his face and tattered clothes were dirty with grime and dark patches, looking more than anything like dried blood.
From his hands he held the long, thin dagger poised barely an inch from her eye; blotches of brownish-red rust coated its edge. The shine held her gaze transfixed.
Ranel's breathing had stilled, evened, but with the honed blade too close she dared not make a move.
"You know," the bandit spoke suddenly to her, voice a gruff hoarseness, and she forcefully pried her attention from the weapon onto him. "I saw a girl make off from the camp. They didn't believe me yet here you are, aren't you? All to myself," he cooed. Her brow knotted together, in confusion and pain, but her heart sank at his words. He is not alone, she thought, hollow dread welling up inside. There would be no help to come from Dwarven axes. While his companions had only seen the quiet camp, this man had spotted her in the early rays of light and followed.
"I–I don't have much," Ranel pleaded. "Some coins, but that's it."
He leered at her words, adding further pressure down on her bruising body. "If I wanted valuables don't you think I would've stuck with your little Dwarf friends?" Rough, calloused fingers cupped her chin forcefully. She flinched, attempting to shy away from the touch and knew well the meaning behind his words. "You obviously don't have a penny to your name, lassy."
"Please, can't you just let me go?" She asked, though sure her call would fall on deaf ears. Her hand slipped, inched, further down the side of her muddied shirt. The man's own blade was still balanced just above her face, the tip denting the skin, but if he planned to carry his actions through he would eventually have to move it. "I promise not to tell–"
He cut her words short when he smashed his free hand into her face, sending another spike of pain through her head. "Shut your mouth," he hissed. Head once more meeting stone, a warmth spread beneath her, oozing into her hair. The taste of metal filled her mouth, trickling down from her spit lip. Vision but a blur until finally everything settled into darkness, Ranel went limp under the bandit and felt his taut muscles slacken; the weight on her lessening as he shifted. But even though her battered body pulled her into unconsciousness, her mind – her fear, her anger – willed her awake. She kept her eyes close, heart pounding against her ribcage but regained a quiet breathing.
Her fingers slid around the knife handle.
Then, finally, the press against her cheek lessened and the blade was pulled from its threatening position.
Her eyes shot open.
The wild man barely had time to let out an inaudible yelp before Ranel plunged her knife into his chest with a sickening thud. She felt the small blade slip beneath, grated against bones until his flesh met the shaft and settled. He stared at her, wide-eyed, but the minstrel had eyes for nothing else except the blooming flower of crimson, spreading from around her curled fingers. "I told you – I asked you to let me go," she spoke, voice but a whisper. "Why couldn't you?"
His own dagger dropped from his grip, clanking against the stones hidden beneath green patches of grass. Ranel raised her gaze as she retracted the bloodied weapon; his lips moved, trembled with unspoken words until, eventually, he stilled and life slipped from his eyes. Surprise marred his features even in death. The body fell, yet she remained frozen where she knelt, hands clutched around the knife and with shoulders shaking.
It took Ranel several moments with nothing but her jagged breathing carving through the deadly silence of the Eastemnet before she finally willed her trembling to cease. First she carefully touched her injuries to scope out the severity, wincing when the flat of her hand met matted, bloodied hair and the small gash beneath. By good fortune the cut did not run deep and the bleeding had already stilled significantly. It still stung her like an orc's whip and Ranel removed her hand swiftly.
Her split lip would likewise heal – the bruises would fade with time.
Ranel staggered back onto her feet, head spinning, and she swallowed quickly to suppress the bitter bile in the back of her throat. Her weaponless hand patted down the lute that, despite the encounter, had remained strapped to her back through it all. Besides her head, it was the instrument that had taken the blunt of her fall and a great worry filled her.
Fingers running across the wood in an attempt to find any possible damages, she released a sigh of relief and tears sprung to her eye. "Thank the Valar," she whispered. "You are unscathed." Closing her eyes briefly, battling back sobs of frustration, Ranel then turned towards the dead bandit with newfound calm. With ears and flickering gaze strained for the man's companions, she fastened the knife to her belt once more; her hand was smeared red and she wiped it frantically against the skirt until only a few paling smudges remained.
He had fallen head first into the tall grass, shielding her from seeing his lifeless – dead – eyes. She lowered herself to one knee and rather unceremoniously dug through his belongings. Ranel worked swiftly, having no plans to still be around when his accomplishes surely would come looking for their missing member, but neither would she leave without something to make up for her lost possessions still back at the camp. Her satchel had been left within the wagon during the night's downpour.
But as long as she had her lute nothing else truly mattered.
When finished, Ranel had managed to fish out a few items, mostly without value that she would leave yet also some coins of silver and gold, as well as a small box containing flint and steel. With one last, long look at the body she stood. Ahead, into the valley below the outcrop, the long stretch of grassland would give no shelter or places to hide if the bandits would make chase. It was a long shot, but well worth trying to reach the trees; first light scatterings that soon grew denser around the banks of the Anduin.
Ranel stepped to the edge of the slope, glancing to search for secure footings in her climb downwards.
Her body ached in pain, head throbbing and more than anything she wished to curl up and not move for days, but she also knew the men would not take kindly to their dead companion. The tall grass and stones were slippery beneath her feet and fingers, making her descent agonizingly slow, but long before the exhaustion and her injures overcame her it was an entirely different thought that made the minstrel pause with hesitation. She glanced back to where she had first come from, to the outcropping walls of grey stone, standing tall and dark against the clouded sky and the early light of morning.
Ranel tenderly bit her bottom lip, attentively avoiding the fresh wound, and frowned. She should run, she had planned to – she always had when confronted with dangers. Even if there was still a chance the Dwarves were alive; even if they had shown hospitality and kindness far exceeding anything she had expected or was worthy of; provided her with food, company and shelter.
What could she do anyways?
With one last look out over the plains, Ranel, against all her self-taught wisdom and life lessons, against common sense, moved quietly back towards the camp. Her feet fell heavy, like lead strapped to her legs to pull her down, but she forcefully pushed forward; with no clear plan forming in her mind, she decided to first get a clear grasp of the Dwarves' situation, for running straight into the fray would undoubtedly lead to nothing good. She paused at the first outcrop, pressing her frame into the shadows and shrugged off her lute. Ranel would not take any further chances with her prized possession, and instead slipped it into a narrow opening between two steep, razor-sharp edges.
Her hand lingered briefly over the Lebethron wood, so dark it fell into one with the shadow, and it would be out of sight for anyone who would not know where to look. "I will be back," she promised softly and, once more, gripped the knife. Though this time with resolution not stemming from sheer will to survive nor fear, but foolhardy boldness. Ranel swallowed.
Even with every gliding step brimming with caution, making slow but quiet progress through the rocky landscape, it was not long before voices trailed up from ahead. Loud, rough. Laughter. Men – Ranel could discern at least two. The white cloth-roof of the wagon appeared, peeking up over saw-toothed rocks no taller than Ranel, the last fence between the minstrel and the bandits. She stopped to listen. Crouching behind a large boulder, back against the raised cliff wall and the rocks ahead; with her hold on the knife so tight her knuckles were white, ghostly with the skin pulled thin over bone. It had been enough against her sole adversary, but not against many ... not if the Dwarves could not aid her fight.
She leaned forward, attempting to steal a quick look, but retreated back fast when a moving shadow cast its way over the ground before her.
"Where is that bastard?" One grumbled loudly, apparently pacing back and forth with an air of impatience.
The shadow danced in step.
There was a rustle, of metal clanking loudly, before another answered. "Probably took a tumble off the outcrop. So drunk most of the time he can't even figure out what's his left and right foot," the second man said with a snigger. Intently listening to their conversation, hoping to figure out their numbers, Ranel struggled to come up with a plan. At least she needed to know for certain if the Dwarves were even alive.
"That, or he's brushing lips with a tree ..." The first retorted sourly, clearly displeased with the situation. Two, so far, Ranel thought, but remained still in the shadows. Perhaps if one came looking for their companion she could pick them off one at a time. She had her doubts it could be done as quietly as with the first. "Oi, shorty, tell me again! You sure there wasn't a girl with you?"
She stiffened.
At first the man was spared no response.
A scuffle ensued, soft moaning and then, quietly, a familiar voice. "It was only us–" Lóni! "–and why would we travel with a human in our company, anyhow? Menu shirumund!" He spat the added insult in Khuzdul, and, even though the men could not understand the language, the intention behind was crystal clear. The unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn from its scabbard reverberated throughout the rock landscape, hitching her breath; panicky eyes scanned the ground and Ranel quickly picked up a large stone, barely fitting into her hand.
She could not let them cut him down. Not without a fight.
"You're so short you probably won't notice a difference if I separate your head from your shoulders, Dwarf," the man growled. "Shall we put it to the test?"
Aiming to throw the diversion as far from her hiding place as possible, cold sweat coating her skin in a struggle against sore, aching muscles, she pulled back her arm only to be interrupted by a third voice. "Barron," it said, tone a harsh warning. "Go fetch Shepley instead."
"I'm not his damned handler! Either he finds his way back himself or he can be eaten by a warg for all I care."
"At least make yourself useful and help your brother with the wagon!" The third man barked at Barron.
A string of curses welled up, but apparently the imminent threat to Lóni had passed. For now. However, Ranel knew she could not wait indefinitely; the bandits would likely rid themselves of witnesses once they were finished with any valuables. She silently pushed off from the boulder, head kept low, and followed the low stone wall that circled the small clearing. She would not approach the opening completely, afraid one of the men would suddenly come bolting out to find their missing member – ... Shepley, she thought – and run directly into her.
The wagon was close now.
She could hear the rustling, the scrambles of crates and blacksmithing tools, from within. Three, she counted, two preoccupied with the wagon, but where's the last? Attempting to imagine the third bandit's likely position, despite her jumbled mind from her previous beatings, she inched closer to the edge for a proper look. If she was close to the wagon then the Dwarves, if they had not moved much from their huddled sleeping place from the night, would be directly between the wagon and the cliff wall opposite her.
Surely they were, Ranel assured herself encouragingly. The bandits had likely taken them by surprise before the group had fully roused from sleep, and used the dimness to their advantage to avoid a fight. At least if they had any sense in them they would have aimed to avoid a clash with Dwarves. And if so, then the third man was likely watching that position – but facing the wagon or the cliff? With a deep breath, she decided to take the risk.
She twisted the knife shaft in her palm, settling it well in her grip, and then she slowly stretched to peer out over the rock.
The Valar had not then decided to forsake her. Shielded partly by the wagon, Ranel had a clear view of the small clearing and, with that, the people; the third bandit was, leisurely resting a short sword in his lap and perched on a crate, guarding the Dwarves with his back to his own companions. Frár looked a little worse for wear, a gash across his forehead dripping blood into his beard and another across his shoulder, but he was conscious and protecting both Lóna and Nola with his large frame. Neither mother nor daughter appeared harmed, though the young Dwarfling was crying softly into the Dwarrowdam's dress.
Lóni looked like he had received a beating similar to Ranel's, his head bowed with his chin resting against his chest. The Dwarf was crouched a few yards from the rest of his family, most likely the only one fully awake when they had attacked. For a moment Ranel hoped he would look up to see her, but then she scanned the surrounding ground for the Dwarves' axes.
Ranel spotted the first, thrown aside and out of reach, laying in the grass near the restless ponies trotting back and forth. A screech erupted from the wagon, forcing her to duck down quickly when the third man glanced back, and before she could locate the second axe. She cursed silently. "Get that thing out of my face," Barron drawled lowly, though they shortly after returned to work. Her heart hammered so loudly in her chest she feared they would hear her. If she could get close, swiftly, to the unaccompanied man – render him harmless before the others became aware of her presence, then surely Frár and Lóni could handle the remaining two.
It was as good a plan as any.
She snuck closer to the opening, deciding the simplest approach most effective. Although outright sprinting at an armed man, twice her size no less, bordered on stupidity, her battered mind could not think of any other method. Just maybe Ranel would catch him off guard. Just maybe. The ground at the gap, where they had pulled the wagon in through the evening before, consisted of uprooted earth and downtrodden grass, soaked to mud from the heavy rainfall and gave way to the green grasslands beyond. She could still turn around. There was still time.
It will be fine. It will be fine. Ranel repeated, prayed, in her mind.
She glanced out one final time. No one had moved.
The back-flip of the wagon faced away from her and she moved quickly, feet sinking into and out of the mud with small, hopefully muffled, squelches. Having edged a bit closer, hunched in on herself behind one of the front wheels, there was now nothing but open space between herself and her target. She inhaled sharply. Now or never; her grip tightened.
The front flap of the cloth was pulled aside.
Ranel came face to face with one of the two men inside.
Her first reaction was to scream, but that was quickly – and, more importantly, silently – quenched by her second; she lunged at him with the blade, though from the angle of her attack and the distance between them, she only managed to graze his chin before he could recoil with a shout. She scurried backwards, which the injured bandit used to advance further, now brandishing a dagger very similar to the one she had encountered earlier in the hands of her first assailant. Though this one looked much sharper. The second man jumped out from the back of the wagon.
She held up her knife in response, a small trail of blood running down its edge.
A cry, a mixture of surprise and pain, tore through the strained tension, rippling across the rock walls and alerted Ranel to the third man's fate. Her gaze danced from the approaching pair to where the sound came from; Frár had, unarmed but with a seething vengeance, overpowered the lone bandit and was now showering him in a flurry of punches, falling repeatedly until the Dwarf's knuckles split open.
She saw Lóni bolt towards the axe just before she caught movement from the corner of an eye. Ranel barely managed to dive to the ground. The blade swished past her ear, howling, so close she could hear it carve through the air where her head had been a moment before. Mud splashed onto her face, partially blinding her and made her eyes water; she scrambled to regain a foothold when a well-placed kick made contact with her already bruising gut, knocking out all her air. She fell flat in convulsions, gasping for breath, struggling to keep her grip on her only weapon.
"Go take care of those bloody Dwarves! I'll handle this."
Spitting out blood and mud, Ranel attempted to crawl away only to be yanked forcefully up by the hair.
"And I'm goin' to enjoy it," he hissed into her ear.
"I would rather you didn't," she said honestly, coming face to face with him. "Also ..." Ranel coughed, tasting copper with a grimace. "One against two Dwarves was a very poor choice."
He deemed her unworthy of an answer except for a scowl; then he raised his dagger to strike. Ranel pressed her eyes shut, only to find the grasp on her hair loosen in company to a hollow, deep thunk. She slowly, hesitantly, looked. Dislodging the sharp side of his axe from the man's back was Frár, gaze clouded in darkened shadows until the weapon was yanked free and he could turn his attention to her. Her shoulders sagged in almost palpable relief. "You all right, lass?" He questioned while kneeling in front of her.
"I'll heal." She brushed the back of her hand across her bleeding lip, sniffling, and it came away with streaks of brown and red. "You know," Ranel added, arching a brow at the old Dwarf pointedly. "This is why I usually just run away. Much less painful." He snorted before wrapping a muscular arm around her middle and pulled her, unexpectedly gentle, to her feet. "Remind me to get my lute ... I hid it before my, well, reckless attempt at a rescue."
Leaning against the smaller, but stocky frame Ranel hobbled towards the other Dwarves; her gaze, still blurry from the blows and mud, only briefly flickered over the last two men. Both were dead. Cut down. A smile snuck onto her lips when she noticed none of her companions had sustained further injuries and she nodded her head briefly at Nola, their eyes meeting. "Miss Ranel!" Lóni hurried to her side, dragging the previously occupied crate with him, and with his father's help managed her into the seat just in time for her legs to cave in. "Thank Mahal you are safe."
"I am glad you – all of you are, as well." Pulling off a glove, revealing knotty thick fingers, Frár brushed aside the tangled, bloody mess that was her hair and examined the cut beneath. Ranel quietly let him and instead, exhaustedly nursing the smaller wounds to her face tenderly, spoke to the younger Dwarf. "How did they ...?" She stumbled for words. "Did they come while you were asleep?"
"Yes," Lóni said with a frown. "I was about to tend the ponies when they sprung me from behind. They must've crept up on us in the dark. If they hadn't gotten the upper hand through surprise we could've taken them, but not with Mother and Lóna present." He looked ashamed; it had been his guard when they attacked, and clearly he felt responsible.
"They sounded like they knew this area quite well," she said. "They have probably been preying on travelers passing through here for years."
Ranel flinched, making a face, as Frár ran a single finger down the cut. "It won't need to be stitched up, though without cleaning it thoroughly it might fester," he said slowly, nodding briskly to his son to fetch water. Lóni returned immediately after, one hand carrying a bucket of water and the other grasping white linen cloths. They worked with practiced ease and with barely a word spoken; first rinsing out the worst grime, the drying blood-flakes and mud, digging out small pebbles embedded in her skin that stung painfully, then they proceeded to bandage the wound carefully, yet tightly. "We will redo it once we cross the Anduin," Frár said, taking a step back.
She turned slightly on the crate to see him, hand flickering over the newly-bandaged injury. "Thank you."
"No," Frár interjected. She blinked, puzzled, as he bowed in gratitude at her. "Thank you for coming back to help."
A blush flushed her features, hands tightly clasped and unclasped, and she lowered her gaze abashed. "I do not deserve your gratitude, Mister Frár. While I could not throw away your kindness and hospitality as if it meant nothing, admittedly I had considered running away. It fills me with remorse thinking of what might have then happened to you all."
"But you did not run," he said, holding firm to his belief with a stubbornness only a Dwarf could display. Chewing her lip, she inclined her head slightly in quiet response; she was not one to argue. At least not with someone that could cut down a full grown man in one swing. He clasped her shoulder, the gesture full of strength and spoke of his immense gratitude.
His previous wariness had abated completely with her last actions.
The group abandoned camp quickly after.
Ranel had, with Lóni aiding her with armed assistance next to her wobbled steps past rock crevices, retrieved her lute once more from its hiding place; cuddling it tightly, securely at her chest like a mother would a child, she dozed off into a fretful, unruly sleep in the wagon. A heavy silence fell over the Dwarven company as the ponies led them down the sloped field, wagon swaying through the mud until it bumpled back onto the dusty path through The Wold.
Lóna had not spoken a single word, but let out small sobs and whimpers ever so often that would snap Ranel awake.
With barely any sleep the night before and her aching body attempting recovery, she drifted off immediately after. Head lowered until her forehead rested against her knees, pulled close, lute rested in the small hollow between shoulder and chin. It was a dreamless rest, a darkness only broken by fleeting flashes of red streaks carving across her eyelids; Ranel tried to shut out the muffled screams beating against the insides of her head, something she was sure would be repeated in nightmares for months to come.
Ranel woke some hours later, mind a groggy mesh, noticing the previous light through the cloth cover had faded. She rubbed the flat of her palm against her eyes, feeling the prickling stings of a headache behind her brow. Grey shadows, gnarled and twisted with spots of light, flickered above.
They had reached the small forest that flanked the bends of The Great River.
The road twisted through the close standing trees, filling the air with an earthy smell and birdsong, greeting the morning light, echoed through the heavy treetops. Hills sloped, winding up and down, forcing the ponies to a slowed pace that did not fall well with the Dwarves. The scare was still nested deep within the company – with good reason – and Ranel could several times hear hushed, wary snippets of conversation from the front of the wagon. Her grip tightened around her lute, gaze flickering to the Dwarrowdam with a small smile.
Nola had remained by her daughter's side throughout the day's journey, whispering soft murmurs of reassurance in Khuzdul. The Dwarf returned her smile, briefly, then her attention was once more on the little one resting in her lap, small hands clasped to the folds of a blanket draped close. Ranel watched Lóna silently, eyes downcast in compassion.
She knew the best remedy would be time ...
At first it was nothing but a faint sound of water in the distance, but soon the chuckling turned to a steady roar that filled the air.
The road forked, bending north-west and the sloped hills and trees opened up around them onto an even stretch of land running alongside the Anduin. They had pulled the wagon over to take in the sight and to discuss their continued journey. Ranel clambered out of the wagon, every little part of her body complaining with the slightest of moves, but a suffocating oppression had taken hold of her and she wanted – needed – air. Dusting off her crumbled clothes, flicking away caked mud, she edged close to the river.
The current was rapid, turbulent, and the deep waters rolled and churned in a spray of foaming waves, crashing into the unstoppable mass that was the stream. Enclosed by rock on both sides, it carved its way through the terrain, and there was a several feet drop from where they stood to the waters below. There would be no way up again if one was to fall.
There were only few crossings that would allow safe passage across the rapid waters, Ranel knew, having made her way through the coldness several times before. A few minor ones could be traversed by foot or horseback, but it would be a foolish risk to attempt it with a heavy-packed wagon. The old bridges, from a time long forgotten when trade was flourishing between Gondor and Rohan and the northern kingdoms, had crumbled from misuse until nothing but large pillars and white blocks of rock jutted out from the deep waters.
She peered ahead, over the diamond-glittering river, and saw it open up and grow broader in the distance. With open plains on both sides, a speck of flatlands between the surrounding forests.
And so they were left to seek out the Fords of the Undeeps, pressing them further north and, as consequence, would bring them uncomfortably close to the darkness of Mirkwood forest when they would finally pass into The Brown Lands. The Dwarves hoped to reach a crossing before nightfall and to then allow the ponies rest on the other shore. Frár had hastily told her, before climbing back onto the front seat, that he would re-work her bandages then.
It did not take more than a few hours before the group came to the first wider part of the river.
Here the current was slow and the waters shallow enough for them to cross by foot.
Ranel, having left her satchel and lute inside, jumped down from the wagon. The sun had risen beyond its highest peak, yet there was still plenty of time before it would sink behind the tree-line to the west. "Miss Ranel," Lóni cleared his throat and ran a hand through his braided, dark beard as he strode to her side. "Would it not be better if you stayed within the wagon?" He inquired, brow furrowed in concern with his eyes flickering upwards to meet her gaze and injuries.
"A little water will not hurt me, and it will ease the burden on the ponies." She gave a small smile, gesturing towards her clothes flecked with dirt and grime – and blood, Ranel noted glumly – as her nose crinkled in open distaste. "Not to mention I could use a good washing-up while I am at it." He shook his head, but remained otherwise quiet and without retorts.
She fell into pace at his side.
Ahead, Frár was wading through the waters near the riverbank, testing the footing that could otherwise be treacherous on unsuspecting pony hooves. The younger Dwarf, absently, patted the closest pony with a gloved hand and received a pleased neigh in response. She slipped around the animals, pausing opposite Lóni, planning to help the harnessed pair safely across. "Did you know the Undeeps are part of the borders of Rohan?" Ranel asked, motioning out over the ford. "Gifted to Eorl the Young. From here onwards we will travel through unclaimed territory."
"I did not," Lóni said, rubbing his beard thoughtfully and with attention trained on his father, now almost at the other shore.
Ranel leaned against the leather harness, feeling the pony's warmth seep through her sleeve as her fingers flitted through its coarse mane. "After Eorl came to the rescue of Cirion in a great battle between orcs and the Dúnedain, it was given to him and his descendants. The battle took place just north-west of here," she said and nodded to the open plains.
"When was this?"
Her face scrunched up in thought. "Some four hundred years ago."
Ranel was about to elaborate when Frár strode back to them, his sturdy frame carving through the water with ease despite his heavy armor. Droplets fell from his soaked clothes, but the Dwarf appeared unconcerned, instead pointing out towards a line of rocks poking out in between white water lilies. "We will follow the stones," he said, eyes lingering on the minstrel momentarily. He did not question her presence. "I will take up the rear."
Lóni guided the ponies out, hooves kicking up pebbles until they splashed through the shallows; ears lowered flat against their heads in nervous skittishness, steps uncertain but loyally following the Dwarf's gentle guidances across the ford. The wagon creaked behind Ranel, and she felt the stones beneath her feet slip and skid while the water level rose with each step. Her muscles were tense, grip tight on the pony's harness for support. The water reached just above her knees when they made it halfway, but the clammy wetness reached further up as it soaked through her skirt.
The ponies pushed forward, now eagerly eyeing dry land, the wheels of the wagon creaking in protest with every jagged move, yet they soon found themselves on the other river bank without incident. Heaving for breath. Dripping wet. A small puddle gathered at her feet as Ranel stretched, suppressing a wince, and allowed Lóni to pull the two animals further from the river towards the closest patch of trees for cover.
Then she followed, shoes sloshing and eyes running over their surroundings.
There was less grass, only a few plots of yellowy-dry strips bending in the breeze. The forest was scarce and was replaced with open, wide plains stretching far beyond the horizon. It was not hard to imagine how The Brown Lands came into its name. A desolate desert with arid moors. Noman-lands. Ranel passed a small tuft of long strands of dried grass and an idea sprung to mind; she stooped down, quickly pulling off a couple of handfuls before running to catch up with the wagon.
They moved the wagon in between the trees, hidden from the flatlands and possible preying eyes, that could otherwise see them from quite a distance. Ranel left the gathered grass near one of the large wheels and then assisted Lóni with the ponies, leading them some fifty yards down to a quiet bent of the river. As the animals drank hungrily, she perched herself on a stone close to the still waters and cupped her hands to pool a bit of water; quickly scrubbing off the worst grime from her face, careful not to brush over the split lip.
She could feel Lóni's gaze on her, but she remained silent and in stead moved on to the worst dirt-cakes matted into her brown hair. She scowled when her hands pulled a tangle hard. "I feared you would not survive," he said some moments later, coming to stand next to her on the bank and leaned against his large axe for support. "Not when the fourth man left to get you. What happened?"
Ranel lifted her shoulder lightly in a shrug, never prying her eyes off of the blue mirroring surface.
"I killed him," she responded, voice barely audible beyond a whisper, fingers weaving through knots.
"He would have killed you otherwise." His voice sounded much like his father's then, firm, as he reassured her of her actions being righteous. "And not before he'd do much worse to you. The world has merely been rid of nothing more than the worst type of scum; and if you had not my mother – my sister – would perhaps not have been with us now. No, the only one responsible for all of this is me ..." The Dwarf picked up a stone, turning it over in his hand before throwing it out over the river.
They both watched it vanish with a plop, sending ripples out until they stilled into nothing.
"It was too dark to see anything," Ranel said, giving him a small smile. Then she returned to her full height. She wiped her hands against her shirt unconcerned. "They knew what they were doing and took you by surprise. Come now, let's return back before the ponies drain the Anduin," she added, nudging his boot with her own foot.
He chuckled lowly.
They took a pony each, dragging them back with some struggle, but as they followed the tree line away from the river they picked up the pace. Bushes grew thick in between oak and hassel, casting shadows on their path until a fresh cool settled. Her wet clothes clung to her skin, making her hair stand on end, but Ranel shifted closer to the animal at her side to seek comfort from its large form. Branches and leaves rustled under their feet, weaving their way around trees until the camp came into view – a small, inconspicuous fire was crackling over newly gathered firewood, unpacked bedrolls and blankets and a few bowls spread out.
Nola walked to meet them, fresh bandages in her arms and a soft smile of surfacing recovery from the day's harshness playing at her lips. "Let us have a look at that cut, my dear," she said. While Lóni took the pony off her hands, leading the animals into the undergrowth for the night, Ranel fell into place next to the Dwarrowdam on the way back to the wagon.
Before being ushered into a spot near the flames, Ranel hurriedly picked up the grass and dropped it into her lap as she sat.
Nola voiced her wonder, but Ranel merely smiled. "You'll see."
While the Dwarrowdam with gentle hands rinsed the long brown tresses for mud and blood, clearing up around the cut, the minstrel sorted through the straws. If they were either too short or broken, she would discard them on the ground, until finally satisfied with an even stash between her hands. She fiddled with a free string from her belt, pulling it out; she separated the straws in two, one large and one smaller group, then took the larger, curved them down the middle and, fingers holding tight, twisted the bent end. Ranel tied the string around, finishing off with a tight knot and two loose string-ends hanging down.
A coolness spread around her wound, numbing but not unpleasant. Apparently the Dwarrowdam had applied a dark green herbal medicine that made the air smell of thyme and nettles. "Against inflammation," Nola explained before adding another layer. New linen was pressed against the back of her head, pushing her hair flat down her back. Ranel picked up the second grass pile, nudging uneven straws into place; wrapping them around just below the knot like one would a scarf – once, twice. She fastened it with the loose string. "It's a doll?" The Dwarf asked, able to make out the contours of arms, legs and a head.
"Yes," Ranel said, pulling the string up to the first knot where she secured it once more, ending the entire thing in a bow nested at the straw-man's neck. "I thought Lóna might like it." Holding up the handmade figure for the Dwarrowdam to see, knowing well it was a cheap toy but nonetheless content, Ranel smiled slightly. "What do you think?"
"I am sure she will love it, Ranel, thank you." Nola stood. "I will see if she is awake."
The small doll made the Dwarfling smile for the first time that day, much to Ranel's pleasure, and she watched the little girl sit by the fire playing with the new toy all evening. She had even put her mother to work making a dress from old scraps of red cloth. Ranel smiled so much her bruised face nearly hurt in return. Clothes drying in the warmth that spread around the camp, a quietude fell – though the wary undertone never truly disappeared, and it was clear both Frár and Lóni would not close an eye even for a moment that night beneath the canopy of trees.
Before they settled for sleep Ranel finally finished the story of the Maiden of Flowers and the Golden Knight. She told them how the small flowers, shy of strangers, would only ever show themselves to those with a pure heart. How that was the reason the Maiden could win in the competition against the Goblin King and, by doing so, could rescue her beloved from his imprisonment within the crystal castle made of ice.
And, of course, how the pair lived happily ever after.
Their travel through The Brown Lands was uneventful, much to everyone's relief.
It took almost a week with nothing but open fields, dull brownness stretching into the horizon and with warm winds, and the ever looming presence of Mirkwood forest as a guidepost for their route. But then the narrow, dusty path met another, much larger – the Old Forest Road, Men-i-Naugrim, Dwarf-road. Less than a day's travel from the mouth of the Long Lake Ranel was sitting inside the wagon, legs curled and playing with Lóna, when voices erupted from the front. In Khuzdul.
Another group of Dwarves, likewise heading for a new home in the Lonely Mountain, had met their small company.
Their wagon pulled into a pace along the rest of the convoy and, suddenly, the previous stillness was filled with the trampling of hooves, booming voices filled with laughter and the rushing waters of the Celduin running alongside them, carrying melted snow from Ered Mithrin. Lóna had climbed out through the front, sitting with her father, and Nola was likewise leaning out; Ranel leaned back against the wagon's side, closing her eyes to listen to the unfamiliar language passed around on the other side of the cloth cover.
They really were getting close to Erebor. Closer to ...
Her heart beat loudly, a lump stuck in her throat as she swallowed.
She did not hold it against the Dwarves for eagerly seeking the company of their own people, but the quiet it left Ranel in invited unwelcome thoughts. Thoughts she had shut out throughout their long journey; but now there was no escape, nothing else to keep herself preoccupied with but the memories. The lute felt heavy in her hands. "We are back," she whispered.
The high spirits, courtesy of the Dwarves – from the Blue Mountains, Nola explained to Ranel as she popped back inside to fetch food to share – continued throughout the day. The minstrel, even from inside the wagon, knew exactly when the Lonely Mountain came into view, for a silence swept all talk and laughter into soundlessness. Closing her eyes she could imagine it. A grand, mirror-still lake of golden fire spreading out before them, and in the distance, faint beyond a misty trail covering the plains, the solitary peak would gleam in the sunlight.
With hooves clacking and wheels creaking, they continued, but now the air was filled with reverence, hints of mourning and sadness stemming from a past hard forgotten, but also of joyous pride for a kingdom restored. Every single Dwarf in the company would give their all; sweat, blood and tears to restore Erebor's greatness to what it once was before the dragon – before Smaug the Terrible.
Some hours passed, when their wagon pulled to an early stop.
Nola sank bank into a spot across from Ranel, grasping the young woman's hands with her own. "The others told us they are only letting Dwarves enter Erebor for the time being, and that other races require special permission from the nobility to be granted entrance. But, then again, I was thinking you were heading to Dale to meet your," she paused, hands squeezing slightly tighter in reassurance. "–family."
Ranel smiled, shifted in her seat. "Dale was my destination, yes, so please. Fear not for letting me off here. I am sure the road is quite safe with this many travelers streaming back to the city. I am truly grateful for everything you and your family have done for me these past weeks. I would not have been halfway through Rohan if not for you."
"You have not only brought joy and laughter to my children, but you have also saved us."
Ducking her head, she blushed.
"Allow me now to invite you to visit our new home," Nola continued. "Once the mountain opens."
"It would be a pleasure, thank you. I accept."
The Dwarrowdam surprised her further, when Ranel was pulled into a crushing embrace and then Nola kissed her forehead softly, a silent farewell as a smile warmed her features. "Until next we meet, my dear child." Gathering her few belongings in her arms, the pair slipped out of the wagon and a blinding light filled Ranel's vision; she slipped the bag over her shoulder, letting it hang loosely, and fastened the lute on its usual place. She was ready to wander alone once more. Ranel made sure to keep her back to the Long Lake, afraid of what she might see out over the waters.
Her eyes fell on the remaining Dwarves, approaching her from the front.
The smallest ran ahead, doll in hand, quickly wrapping her small arms around the minstrel's legs. Ranel crouched, meeting face to face, and was swept into another hug. "Adad said you wouldn't come with us?" The little Dwarfling questioned with a sniffle. A wetness soaked into Ranel's shirt, alerting her to the tears shed by the small figure nested below her shoulders.
"I cannot," she responded, pressing a soft kiss into the child's curls. "I am not a Dwarf." She combed back the hair with her hand to see the face underneath. "But you are always welcome to visit me in Dale." Ranel looked up to Lóna's family, gently releasing the child as she returned to her feet. The small Dwarf wrapped her fingers around Ranel's skirt. "I will not stay for long, well – no more than a few years, perhaps. I just need to ... see how things are. Then I will return to the road, but I promise to inform you before my departure."
Both Frár and Lóni bowed, showing her great respect with the formal Dwarven partings. "Until next we meet, Miss Ranel," the younger said, a smile beneath his braided beard. "Until our travels cross again."
"I wish you all the best." She nodded her head in return to both. "Until then."
While she had been surprised repeatedly by the Dwarves' immeasurable shows of generosity, arguing everything she knew about the race, what the oldest Dwarf did then moved her beyond anything. He stepped close, shrugging off the dark green cloak from his back, smoothened with his large hands and draped it over her shoulders. "Tan menu selek lanun naman," he spoke, fastening the small golden clasp around her neck. "Until next we meet, we thank you."
Her fingers marveled across the woolen fabric, over the embroidered runes running along the hem and hood. "T–thank you, Mister Frár."
"The runes are prayers to Mahal for a safe journey. You will need it more than we, now that we have found home," he said.
Ranel gave Lóna a final hug before the little one was helped back into the wagon; the ponies clip-clopped away, leaving her behind at the northern banks of the lake; Erebor towering against the blue skies ahead and with Dale, standing out through the small mountain slope to the west. She raised her hand in farewell, waiting until long after the wagon was but a tiny white dot on the road. She breathed deeply, slipping the hood over her head to hide her eyes, brimming with tears threatening to fall.
Frár's last word echoed in her mind, over and over.
The Dwarves had finally been reunited with their kin.
She readjusted her satchel, rolled her shoulders. Ranel then turned to the remains of Lake-town with newfound purpose. It took a moment for her eyes to make out the city in the distance; the clear waters were shimmering below the spring sun except for a black smudge, the contours of houses, mostly broken and toppled over; a single, tall tower stood in the abandoned city's center, the bell hanging ajar as if the ropes had snapped. A pain spiked through her arm, her nails digging into her skin with such pressure they drew blood.
Cold tears trailed her cheeks.
The fishing town was in ruins, destroyed in an ancient creature's wrath only equaled by nature's own forces of destruction.
Then she saw it. Broken and defeated, protruding through Lake-town's devastation lay the once majestic beast dead. Sinew and bones. Smaug. Felled. The last great fire-breathing dragon of the Third Age. Left to decay with the buildings he had destroyed, until he would finally become one with the deep waters and nothing but stories would remain. Ranel pried her gaze away from the sight, lowering her eyes as tears fell beyond her control.
How long she stood there, alone on the road between Erebor and Dale, she did not know.
Minutes or hours? It mattered not in her moment of grief.
Hooves reached her ears, but Ranel took them as travelers or merchants and ignored them; even when one rider broke from the group, coming closer, then to a halt and could be no more than a few yards from her. "If you consider going out to fish for gems from the beast's belly, I would suggest you did not, lad." A voice spoke. Ranel snapped back to attention, flinching at the sudden sound as if only now registrering the company. "I hear his blood is like acid on any who dare touch the waters."
She quickly wiped her face from tears, squaring her shoulders and raised her voice to speak in return. "It was not my intention." Ranel turned to take in the rider before her; her eyes flashed across the Dwarf's gold-trimmed armor, the deep blue vest and cloak of fine quality and the hermelin-fur lining its edges. "–My Lord," she added, a slight tilt to her head.
He appeared taken aback, not expecting a woman, but masked his astonishment quickly as he brushed dark brown locks from his face. Watching him a moment more her look flickered to the second rider, waiting a small distance away, but dressed in similar fashion. Both were armed, and the blond one had several rabbits tied to his pony's satchel. His eyes met hers briefly, but then she glanced away and shrank beneath the hood. "Well," the noble Dwarf cleared his throat. "My apologies for the disturbance, Miss, though you should still heed my warning. No one should wish to see that dragon up close!"
He spurred his mount, falling into place next to the other.
Ranel watched the pair disappear in a cloud of dust before turning to look back over the lake.