Part Three: The Free World
The River Running babbled beside me, sounding loud, strong, clear, and beautiful to my ears. The sun beat down on me and warmed my skin, though I did not feel the chill of the early winter. I breathed in the fresh air and marveled at its taste. Never before had air smelt so wonderful to me – even if the air was full of the smell of bodies and blood and death the closer Balin led us toward the tents, it was still fresh. It hadn't dropped deep into the mountain's halls, coming out stale and old and reeking of dragon. This was new air, and it was wonderful.
Balin brought me towards Thorin's tent while Gandalf went away into another, and Bard, Dain, and the Elvenking seemed to vanish. "Hail! Thorin," Balin said.
The dwarf pulled the flap back and motioned me inside, and I hesitantly walked forward. The flaps closed behind me and I was left alone with Thorin, King under the Mountain – the King who would soon be dead. I wet my suddenly dry lips as Thorin looked at me, seemingly for the first time. The dragon-sickness was entirely gone, and not a speck of that mad greed sat in his eyes. I was looking at the dwarf as he should have been – as he would have been, had we met in different circumstances.
Though I suppose apology wouldn't be written so clearly on his face if we had met in another time and place.
"It is few who have heard such words from Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror," he began, "but I would not part this world with you having known but a mad King driven by gold-lust. Thus I speak the words that few have heard: I apologize, and I wish to ask forgiveness for my treatment of you within the Halls of my forefathers.
"Though your freedom is not in question, I would have it known that you are not part of the dragon's hoard to be taken or given at will. Were Fili alive, he would have wished the same. He argued long with me that you could not be counted as part of the gold, but in my madness I saw only a treasure the dragon Smaug had long coveted. That is not so, for you are an elf and you are free.
"I can do nothing to remove the memory of your entrapment within Erebor, yet I bid you keep the tokens you wear and to remember my Halls with kindness."
"There's nothing to forgive," I told him. "I was aware that you suffered from dragon-sickness, and I knew that your actions were not those you would take had you been in good health. But if my forgiveness is what you seek before you depart the circles of this world, then you have it. I give it freely and gladly."
He smiled a smile full of relief and bitter sweetness. "I thank you, Princess Carmen, for your kind words, but most especially for your forgiveness. Farewell!"
"Farewell," I echoed.
Then I looked upon the King under the Mountain one last time and gave him a final smile before I quietly left his tent.
When I came out, I nearly ran right into the Elvenking, Balin, and Dain. I blinked at them and then schooled my face to hide the annoyance I felt at their having eavesdropped on the entire conversation. "Yes?" I prodded when none of them spoke.
"The elf says he has space enough to house you until he returns to his wood," Balin told me, looking at me, for once, kindly.
The Elvenking looked annoyed at Balin's bland speech, but he made to ignore it (except for the brief twitch of his right eyebrow, which gave away his annoyance) and said graciously, "I have heard it said that the dragon laid waste to your home long ago; therefore, I open mine to you for howsoever long you choose to dwell therein."
Descriptions of Mirkwood flew through my head. I recalled Tolkien's words and Bilbo's speech, and the talk of the dwarves who spoke to me. Mirkwood was not a pleasant place, and while the Elvenking's halls and lands were safe, it would really be trading one prison for another. I wouldn't be able to walk around the forest at my leisure – I'd need to bring a guard with me, if I did not learn the art of war myself – and, the thing that really convinced me not to accept the Elvenking's offer, Mirkwood was dark. The sun did not shine through the trees like it openly lit up the hidden valley of Rivendell. I'd be living in another cave, and though this one would let in more natural light, it would still not be open to the sky.
Bilbo was not back yet, however, and I worried that he might not come back at all. If he didn't, then I had no one to journey with to Rivendell because there was no one I knew that would be heading in that direction. Hence I told the Elvenking, "I will consider it, and I thank you for the generous offer."
He nodded and made an effort not to appear disappointed, which bothered me. Why should he feel disappointed? It wasn't as though he knew me. He barely knew my name, let alone anything else! He thought I was some princess, when really I was just a normal person – well, as normal as one could be when one had been imprisoned by a dragon for decades.
I wondered why people actually believed me to be a princess. The Elvenking especially ought to know that there were no other elf-kingdoms in Middle-earth – and Gandalf should certainly know so! The Dwarves and Men I could understand, since elves were pretty secluded from my understanding of it, but the Elvenking himself should have no such lack of knowledge. And I wasn't even sure when or how I should break the news to them. How, exactly, does one go about telling people one's not really royalty?
Bilbo was found soon after, right as Gandalf stepped out of his tent and began to make his way toward me with a peculiar expression on his face. His attention turned to Bilbo, and he greeted the hobbit joyfully before he ushered him over to Thorin's tent ere I could even say hello. I thought about eavesdropping for a second, but Gandalf appeared at my side and requested an audience the moment the tent flap went down. He led me into the tent he'd recently exited and motioned for me to have a seat while he poured two goblets of what looked like wine.
"I don't drink," I protested.
He raised surprised brows and repeated, "You don't drink?"
"Not alcohol," I elaborated. "I don't like the taste – not wine or beer or ale, or what have you."
"An Elf that doesn't drink wine," he murmured to himself.
He sat down across from me and drank from his cup, eyeing me and then the goblet of wine he'd poured for me. I didn't want to drink it – I'd had enough water already that day to last me a good long while – but at the same time I wanted Gandalf to stop giving me that expectant look. Hesitantly, I reached out for the cup and lightly grasped it. It was well-made, a fine craft of carven silver, clearly belonging to some elf or other by the picture depicted on it: a beautiful woodland glade was fashioned on the sides, and the silver was so bright and smooth that the colours of the materials inside the tent were reflected in it. It almost made the scene look like a painting.
I slowly lifted it, bringing it closer to my mouth while the wizard watched on, until the rim touched my lips. I took in a small mouthful, noting the sweetness of the fruity wine, but also the bitterness of the alcohol. It was a heady mix, and tasted quite strong. My face betrayed no expression of distaste, despite my not liking the drink. I'd eaten charred meat, and the well water had sometimes tasted of mud or stones or fish. Something would have to be really wretched for me to grimace or do a spit-take.
The cup was placed back on the table in front of me, missing no more than the negligible amount that I'd sipped. "I do not like wine," I reiterated.
He nodded as if I'd just confirmed something, and then he bent forward, over and across the table, to peer closely at my face – at my nose. His eyes narrowed as he examined it, and I realized that he wasn't staring at my nose, but rather at what pierced it. He hummed a bit in thought, and the grip he held on his staff changed slightly as he pointed it more toward me than the ceiling.
I felt a strange sort of current wash over me, something a bit like static electricity but what must have been magic of some sort. Smaug had oftentimes made my hair stand on end, so I was familiar with the feeling of magic, but wizard-magic is different than dragon-magic, and Gandalf's felt much more soothing, like a summer breeze.
"There is a faint trace of magic in the mithril on your nose – a curious adornment, I must say," Gandalf said.
"What kind of magic?" I wondered.
Was it summoning magic, or travelling magic? Was it elvish or draconic? Maybe it was some sort of key that had once opened the door to my world – and could do so again. If I had any hopes of returning, it laid with Gandalf.
"I could not clearly say," he admitted. "It is very faint, at least several decades old."
"A century," I corrected. "And now, I suppose, would be an excellent time for me to tell you that I am not originally of this world. I came here a little over a century ago, though that's by Smaug's reckoning of the years, not my own. I don't know how it happened, or why, but there you have it."
"Hmm," he mused.
He raised a hand and brought a single finger forward to poke at the stud in my nose. Crack! A spark lit up beneath his finger, and Gandalf swiftly pulled his hand away, waving it slightly with a chagrined look on his face. He frowned at it, and then nodded as though that flash had told him something.
"What is it?" I asked. "Some kind of doorway between worlds? Could you open it and send me through? Only, I don't think I'd want to return if a hundred years has passed on Earth, too, because none of my friends or family would be alive."
"I cannot say how much swifter or slower time passes in your world, as you call it," he told me, slowly. "I can only say this: that none here in Middle-earth have the power to open such a gateway. Smaug was in the Lonely Mountain for over seventy years when you arrived, if you have indeed been here for a century, and that is no small amount of magical residue any device could absorb."
"Smaug said it was a jewel wrought by elves of Elder Days, in the Age of the Two Trees," I said. "Do you think someone might have something similar? Then I could go somewhere with a high concentration of magic and let the gem absorb it for however long it takes, and we might use that power to send me back."
Gandalf shook his head and disagreed, "No, relics of the Age of the Two Trees are scarce and highly treasured. Should you find one, it is likely that the owner would not allow you to use and, consequently, destroy the object. Furthermore, the more time that passes here, the less likely it would be for you to return to the time of your leaving. Without knowing for certain how much time has passed, it would be foolish indeed to return you from whence you came."
"Oh," I sounded, slightly disappointed but not at all surprised.
It was as I'd suspected. Middle-earth was, well, home now. My friends and family were beyond me; I had no one but myself – and maybe Bilbo, the dear. He was kind, and I quite liked him. He was my first friend in Middle-earth, if he'd let me call him such.
"Thranduil has offered to let you stay in Mirkwood," Gandalf reminded me. "You could easily make a new home there."
"No," I countered. "It was awfully nice of him to offer, but I don't think I'd like to be beneath those trees. Bilbo has told me a bit about Rivendell and it sounds – open. To the sky, I mean. I think I'd like that better."
A mischievous smile flitted across the old wizard's face, as he commented, "Thranduil will be disappointed."
"I'm sure," I voiced suspiciously. "Tell me: what is the true reason he wishes for me to return with him? I am certain there is more to it than simple generosity."
"His youngest sons have not yet married and seem to hold no affection for the maidens of their kingdom," Gandalf shared. "I believe the Elvenking was rather hoping one of them might be interested in a foreign princess."
"Gandalf," I laughed, "I'm afraid they'd be very disappointed: I'm not a princess at all! Smaug just liked to call me that. He thought it was amusing to pretend the old fairy-stories were true."
"Perhaps you are not the daughter of a King, but you were named Princess by Smaug."
"I don't understand," I admitted, no longer laughing. "I could call you an Elf or a Hobbit, but that wouldn't make it so."
"You are not a dragon," Gandalf pointed out. "Smaug named you Princess, and Princess you have become. A dragon's voice holds powerful magic, as you are no doubt aware, and his words wind spells about those who listen. You have listened long, Carmen. When Bilbo called you Princess, you did not deny it. When the dwarves or the Elvenking called you Princess, you replied."
"I'm used to it, that's all," I protested. "Call someone something long enough and they'll answer to it."
"Did you not wonder why Thranduil did not object to your status when he has never before heard of an elven princess by the name of Carmen?"
I had. I'd thought it strange that everyone had accepted the whole 'princess' business without any proof (except for Thorin). Bilbo had heard Smaug call me Princess, and he had told the dwarves and Gandalf that the dragon had kidnapped a princess, like in folktales. And whilst the dwarves had been slightly disbelieving, the fact that neither Gandalf nor the other elves had questioned me meant, in their minds, that it must be true.
"If it's a spell," I began haltingly, "could you break it?"
"I cannot," he claimed.
"Well," I announced suddenly, "just because Smaug called me Princess and everybody seems to think I am one doesn't mean I have to live or act like one. Bilbo's offered to bring me along with him when he heads home, and I'll accompany him until Rivendell. Then I think I might ask Lord Elrond if I could work there. Something low-key, I think, maybe a gardener."
"A gardener?" Gandalf sputtered.
I rolled my eyes and huffed, "Yes, a gardener. I'd like it, since I'd be outside a lot."
"A princess cannot be a gardener," he rejected. "Perhaps Lord Elrond will let you maintain the order of the gardens."
"I'd rather dig in dirt," I argued. "I haven't buried my hands in it in forever! It'd be nice to be around growing things instead of rocks."
Gandalf gave me an irritated glance, as though I'd thrown his advice away in favour of something lesser or stupid, but I ignored him and kept thinking about how nice it would be to be a gardener. I'd blurted out the first idea that came to mind, but it wasn't a half-bad one now that I thought about it. I could plant flowers and prune bushes, water plants and watch them grow. It would be awfully nice.
I decided then and there that I'd ask Lord Elrond to be a gardener in his valley. That way I'd earn my keep and stay busy. I could also visit Bilbo some time, since the Shire sounded like a marvelous place to see. He'd probably get a kick out of the shock I'd give his relatives. The Sackville-Baggins would be very disapproving of entertaining a visiting elf friend.
I spent the night beside Bilbo, much to the elves' and Gandalf's chagrin. He was really my only friend here, the only one I knew more about than the now-deceased Smaug, and so I latched on to him. The hobbit didn't seem to mind overly-much; in fact, I suspect he was rather flattered by my deference to him. It didn't matter one little iota to me that the Elvenking had hoped I would spend more time with the Mirkwood elves – he had designs for me, and likely I would have heard an awful lot (bragged) about his youngest sons. I had only just escaped Smaug, and I wasn't looking for anything else to tie me down.
I was free, and free to me meant being unburdened by things like marriage and courting. Free to me meant I could wander around Middle-earth if I so desired it, which I did, even if only a little.
Set on travelling to Rivendell with Bilbo, none could convince me otherwise. My mind was made up, and no argument could sway me. Gandalf did not try after that first conversation, for which I was glad, but I noticed a great deal many elves in my vicinity chatting about their home – in the Common Tongue. Elves preferred their own languages, so their speaking Westron was about as obvious as a rampaging Smaug: the Elvenking thought to entice me back to his home, and his subjects were of like mind, hoping that their princes might find a wife and happiness in me.
I avoided them when I could, and when I could not, I spoke briefly and carefully as though conversing with Smaug.
On my second day beneath the sky (the beautiful sky I could not nearly get enough of), I met Beorn.
Gandalf came toward me, where I stood alone with an upturned face toward the sky. He was leading an extremely tall Man – taller even than Thranduil, who stood less than half a foot beneath seven feet – and the Man had dark hair, an extremely large beard of the same black-brown, and dark eyes. His skin was weather-worn and golden, and it only added to the imposing sight he made. Being that he was taller than any human I'd ever seen, I began to have an inkling as to who this was.
"This is Princess Carmen," Gandalf introduced. "Princess Carmen, this is Beorn."
"It's nice to meet you," I offered, finding that my presumption was correct: this was the skin-changer.
"Yes, yes," Gandalf rushed. "She will be travelling with Bilbo and me to Rivendell."
"And to the west of the forest with me, no doubt," Beorn muttered at the wizard.
"I had thought that since we were all going in the same direction..." Gandalf trailed off expectantly. Then he blithely added, "She was held prisoner by Smaug and no doubt has many tales to tell. I would like to hear some, at least, of what she did in her century in Erebor."
I recalled the sly way Gandalf had convinced the skin-changer to host thirteen Dwarves and one Hobbit, and I saw immediately that he hoped the same tactic would work twice. I was unsure if it would, because my 'adventure' was not quite the average adventure: I had had no physical journey to go on, only a mental one. A psychological thriller, no doubt, I thought sarcastically. Somehow I would have to entertain Beorn enough to get him to agree to keep my company, and it annoyed me that Gandalf had set this up without my knowledge.
Then I saw that the cunning in the wizard's eyes was not meant for the skin-changer alone, but for me as well. He, unlike Thranduil, had some qualm with my having spent so long with a dragon. Perhaps he thought that my time there had changed me, had altered my mind until I was no better than a beast myself – and with my appalling lack of Middle-earth approved manners, it might well be so. The wizard, however, knew more of my tale than I was willing to tell anyone else. I did not wish for people to know that I had come from another world (it was bad enough they all thought me to be a princess), and thus I had to either lie or hide.
I was unused to lying, however. I could spin my words so that I'd tell the truth without the listener realizing quite what it was I'd said (promising not to take a step out of the Lonely Mountain, for instance), but I had trouble outright lying. Lying had brought me nothing more than pain, and even the thought of it made me cringe in fear.
No, I wouldn't be lying any time soon.
"I arrived directly on top on the dragon's hoard in a shower of gold sparks..." I commenced weaving my tale, keeping certain things hidden (the nudity, the otherworldliness, the conversations on torturing and eating humanoid creatures that were not goblins) while expounding on others (witty exchanges, manipulating the dragon to allow me certain comforts like cooking my own food and drinking well-water, and especially the knowledge that the dragon could not stay forever).
"How could you know he would be slain?" Beorn asked, staring at me through a slightly narrowed gaze.
So far he'd been enjoying the story, though he admitted it was quite odd and unlike any he'd heard before, but when I let slip that I only had to wait until someone came to rouse the dragon, he (and Gandalf) became suspicious.
"I could not know for certain," I admitted honestly. "I could only hope that someone would come with designs to slay the dragon and take the hoard. If I could not trust in the courage of Man, Elf, or Dwarf, then I could trust in their greed."
"That is not a nice thing to say," Gandalf chided.
"And yet it is true," Beorn acknowledged. "They take without thought, and want more than they need."
I nodded in agreement, thankful that the skin-changer had agreed with me on this and had not gotten offended, like Gandalf appeared to be, on behalf of the races I'd insulted.
"What of hobbits?" the wizard queried.
I frowned, thinking back on my time with Bilbo and on the words I'd read about hobbits so long ago. Smaug knew nothing of them, so all I had to go on was the information in The Hobbit and my interactions with Bilbo Baggins himself. "Hobbits," I speculated, "are more interested in peace and comfort, and their only greed is for food and for home, if I understand Bilbo correctly."
"You do," Gandalf vouched. "Though I wonder how it is you have concluded such a thing when you have known Bilbo for no longer than a month."
"Do you think me daft?" I drawled. "Even had Bilbo not stolen the Arkenstone to prevent any bloodshed, and even if he had not chosen to forgo his share of the treasure for the sake of his friends, it is still obvious that he is kind in nature – and, from the way he speaks of his home, it is blatantly obvious that his fellow hobbits are of like mind."
"Of course," the wizard back-tracked, "it just surprised me that you were able to determine that in so short a time."
"Because you believe I am dull and stupid," I droned, feeling the need to draw out his discomfort.
It was amusing to see him squirm, worrying that he had greatly offended me... I had the sudden epiphany that I had not been entirely unaffected by Smaug as I'd previously thought. The dragon had taken much liking in doing this sort of teasing with me, and here I was doing the same to Gandalf. Maybe I was being nicer about it, but I was still doing it.
"I'm only joking," I interjected before he could start rambling.
Despite having teased him like Smaug had teased me, I thought, 'So what?' It hadn't been cruelly done, and it was a teasing I'd seen many people do in San Francisco. I gave Gandalf a small, mischievous smile to show that I meant nothing bad by it, and he returned it after a moment.
Beorn laughed gaily and clapped Gandalf on the back, making the wizard stumble forward a bit under the heavy weight of his hand. "Even a wizard can be fooled by the wiles of a woman," the great bear of a man chortled.
I tried not to be offended by that, because it was not entirely false. I was a woman, and I was slightly devious in my speech. The fact that Beorn used the word 'wiles' did not sit well with me, but it was not as though I'd used the typical 'womanly wiles' (i.e. my body), and it was not as though I ever planned on doing so.
When Beorn finished laughing at the disgruntled wizard, he had me continue my tale. I ended it not long after, and he declared that it was a good story, though not nearly as exciting as he'd have preferred, and that he would not mind travelling with me. I sighed in relief at this, and Gandalf seemed to do the same. He now had a much better idea of how I'd lived the past century, and it looked as though he no longer held much suspicion of me. He knew I could weave words to deceive the listener, but he also knew that I tended to not directly lie.
Thus he asked, "You do not have any ill intentions or designs concerning Lord Elrond and the inhabitants of his valley? Nor concerning Bilbo or any other hobbit?"
And I was able to honestly answer, "I mean no harm to anyone: Elf, Man, Dwarf, or Hobbit."
"And your plans?" he pressed. "What do you mean to do with your time?"
I offered him an amused half-smile and said, "I already told you: I'd like to be a gardener."
He was unimpressed, and insisted, "What else?"
"Well," I considered, "I thought that after I'd settled down in Rivendell – should Lord Elrond allow it, that is – I might one day visit Bilbo in the Shire and see Bag End. It sounds like a lovely place, and I wish to travel a bit to see more of Middle-earth. The pleasant places, mind you. It'd be nice to understand a bit more of this world."
He nodded, accepting that answer as truth and realizing that I really had no idea what to do with myself outside of that vague plan.
On my third day outside the Mountain, the funeral for Thorin was held.
Surprisingly I received an invite, and so I descended into the Lonely Mountain once more, with Bilbo and the Elvenking at my sides. The Elvenking offered me his arm before we went in, but when I looked at it as though I had no idea what in Arda to do with it, he gently guided my arm. Our forearms were touching, mine set slightly beneath his, and my other hand rested above his wrist. We were not linked at the arms like I might have expected; indeed, my hand and arm were not looped through his at all. It was... elegant, I suppose would be the word for it, or elvish (which is practically synonymous).
We walked into the depths of the Mountain, and my hand tightened on Thranduil's wrist the further down we got. The Elvenking placed his other hand over mine and gave it a comforting squeeze and I anchored myself to the moment through his touch, a proof that Smaug was still gone and the people around me were actually there.
Thorin was laid to rest, and Bard placed the Arkenstone on the breast of the dead King. Then Thranduil pulled away from me and withdrew an elven sword from his belt. The Elvenking laid the sword, Orcrist, on Thorin's tomb. Bilbo told me, in an aside, that it was the sword Thorin had gotten in the Troll-hoard, which the Elvenking had taken from Thorin when he'd been captured by the elves of Mirkwood. I looked at it with wonder, as it was both a beautiful, well-crafted weapon and a prop in the story I had read so long ago.
Soon Thranduil returned to my side and offered me his arm once more, to which I replied by properly placing mine beneath his and laying my palm on his forearm. We left the deep cavern and went up into the hoard, where Dain told Bard he would honour the agreement made by Thorin and gave him a fourteenth share of the treasure. Many dwarves came to take it out, and I watched on as my old home had its – furniture removed. The Elvenking never strayed from my side, comforting me with his steadfastness. Being within the Mountain again was difficult, but with his strong presence and Bilbo's familiar one, I was able to withstand it.
And I was present when Bard declared that all of the emeralds of Girion would go to Thranduil. I felt the Elvenking stiffen slightly in surprise, but he gave no other outward reaction than that as he thanked Bard for his kingly gift. I also watched as Bilbo rejected being 'rewarded most richly of all'. The hobbit took two small chests (one filled with silver, the other with gold) and said that it was plenty. He was not greedy, to be sure, but even a hobbit could see that a small amount of treasure would make life more comfortable – and that it would be rude to refuse Bard when the man looked so earnest.
Bilbo said his goodbyes to the dwarves he had come to know so well on their long journey, and I offered my own when he was finished. The dwarves returned my farewell as was polite, except for Bofur and Bombur who patted me on the back (much to the Elvenking's distaste). After that we walked out of the Mountain for the last time and headed back to the elves' camp to prepare for our long journey.
Gandalf was given provisions enough for himself, Bilbo, Beorn, and me, and the Elvenking pulled me aside to outfit me with slipper-like shoes and elven travel clothes. I dressed myself in his tent and came out looking much more like a proper elf, with a long knee-length green tunic, brown leggings, a green cloak, and green shoes. The material was soft and comfortable, and the clothes and slippers fit me surprisingly well. The elves' height ranged between 5'6 and 6'4 (Thranduil and his eldest son were the exception, at 6'7 and 6'6 respectively), therefore it was easy to find clothes in my size from one of the shorter elves.
When I came out of the tent and went to return Bilbo's clothes to him, he looked at me in surprise. "You look much different in that," he exclaimed.
"Oh, how so?" I wondered curiously.
"You seem... grander, somehow," he tried to explain.
"Your trousers were rather short on me," I pointed out. "I could just seem taller now that I'm in clothes that fit."
"No, no," he protested, "I do not mean that you look bigger, I mean that you look more elf-like, or princess-like."
"Hmm," I mused. "Perhaps I should put your clothes back on, then."
"I did not say it was a bad thing," Bilbo objected.
"Perhaps not, but looking like a princess is asking for trouble on a journey. I've hidden all my jewellery, but if I look like a princess, someone might assume I carry treasure with me regardless..."
"I do not think it matters," Gandalf interrupted.
"I don't want to bring any trouble," I stated. "It might be prudent for me to wear Bilbo's clothes until we are somewhere safer."
"Prudent it might be, but improper as well," the wizard asserted. "It was acceptable for you to wear Bilbo's clothes when you had no other option, but now that you have an alternative it would not be right for you to continue wearing the attire of a hobbit."
One look at Gandalf confirmed that he would be stubborn about this, so I decided not to argue with him. The elven clothes were much more comfortable, anyway. I returned the clothes to Bilbo, and then it was time to rest for the night, since we would set out in the morning. I slept a few hours, as it was all I needed, and spent the rest of the time memorizing the way the Lonely Mountain looked beneath the moonlight. This would probably be the last time I would see it, and even though my time there hadn't been the best, I didn't want to forget it.
In the morning the elves set out on their horses, and Gandalf and I rode behind the Elvenking on horses of our own while Bilbo sat upon a pony. Beorn walked beside us, and his long legs ensured he did not fall behind. The skin-changer sang loudly and merrily along the way, and Bilbo and Gandalf joined him at times, when they knew the tune or felt up to it. I remained silent for the most part, except for when someone spoke to me.
Throughout the journey Thranduil tried to convince Gandalf, Bilbo, and me to come to Mirkwood and stay a while in his palace, but Bilbo's mind was set on home, and Gandalf would not leave his friend. I, too, was set on the course the book said my three companions would take, so I declined as well. Thranduil was greatly disappointed, but he understood the reasoning Bilbo and Gandalf gave – as for me, I said I did not wish to part with Bilbo quite yet and the Elvenking seemed to accept that.
We bade farewell at the edge of the Wood, and I smothered a smile when Bilbo gave the Elvenking a token for his stay in Mirkwood – and for all the food he stole while he was slinking about beneath the cover of his magic ring. The Elvenking thought it funny, but he also appreciated the fact that Bilbo wished to make up for the wrong he did, and he named Bilbo Elf-friend. I got the impression that such a title was important, but knew not why it was so. I swore to myself that I would learn more about Elves and their ways, not in the least because I was one of them.
After our farewells Gandalf, Bilbo, Beorn, and I began our trek northward. With my hair braided tightly and wound loosely around my neck like a scarf, moving was made easier. It was also easier to protect myself when we came upon a pack of wandering, hungry wolves, and when we ran into a few hiding goblins. I did not have to do any fighting at all, thankfully, but I still tightly held the dagger given to me by Gandalf. Most of the wolves and goblins had been defeated at the Battle of Five Armies, so our path was relatively safe and our enemies few when we stumbled upon them.
By mid-winter we arrived at Beorn's home and rested there until spring, when large and beautiful flowers began to bloom. We were sad to leave the comfort of the skin-changer's home, but we were also eager to finish our journey – and especially the climb across the Misty Mountains. We found a few more goblins there, but not so many as to truly threaten us. For the most part we could simply pass them by on our horses and pony and they were none the wiser – or they saw Gandalf's and Bilbo's swords and decided that fighting us would be folly. I knew not and I cared not.
We came at last upon a path in the mountains and followed it. When we reached the very peak, the highest point on our path, we halted and turned back to view the way we had come. I saw Mirkwood spread out in the distance, fresh leaves beginning to sprout from dark trees, and beyond the eaves of the Wood-elves, I saw the Lonely Mountain. It was small and so very far away, and in my heart I felt sadness and relief.
Bilbo echoed that sentiment: "So comes snow after fire, and even dragons have their ending! I wish now only to be in my own arm-chair!"
"And I wish for a comfortable bed and a garden to tend to," I said wistfully, sounding more like a Hobbit than an Elf even to my own ears.
"You will have that and more, the both of you," Gandalf told us.