I hope this chapter makes sense…

Liar, Liar

The morning air was cool and crisp. Steams of mist coiled in the valley and hollows, twisting between the pinnacles of the hills. The sun was still rising slowly in the east, glinting off the dew-laden grass and cobwebs, casting long shadows over the land. All around us the forest was awakening, first sounds nibbling at the edge of stillness.

"Hold your arm out for me to see."

High above our heads loomed the Carrock. That, according to Gandalf, was the name of the great stone platform on which we'd landed. A well-worn path with many stairs snaked around the massive landmark, leading into the forest below. The hike down had been a slow and shuffling march. We had just reached the foot of the rock and were about to venture farther into the trees when our trusty healer had noticed the first casualties.

"It's nothing, Oin – a mere scratch. We should not tarry in these parts."

Oin clicked his tongue. "You are bleeding, Thorin," he said. "A warg's bite is a dangerous thing. The wound could be infected –"

Thorin silenced him with a gesture of his hand. "Enough. It would be unwise to linger here." His eyes roamed over the surrounding trees. They were very tall and scarcely spaced, limiting our view of the land ahead. "If the warg pack falls across our scent again –"

Gandalf readjusted his hold on my waist and cleared his throat, causing Thorin to pause mid-sentence. There was a half-beat of strained silence before the dwarf king continued, slightly louder than before.

"Perchance the eagles bought us time but we would be fools to think Azog so easily defeated." He pressed a hand to the sleeve of his left arm, where the fabric was roughly torn and dripping red. The gash was deep. "There will be time later," he concluded.

"I disagree."

Thorin stiffened. Reluctantly, he turned to acknowledge the wizard. "And what would you have us do?" he inquired through gritted teeth, "Remain here and tend to the wounded whilst orcs scour the valley for our trail?" He glanced once more towards the mountain chain, hidden from sight by a wall of towering trees. "The howls we heard were close – too close for my liking."

"That may be," Gandalf said, "But we must not act rashly. We have no food, no baggage, and very little knowledge of our current location. We are some miles north of the path which we should have been following – that much I can affirm – but the land which lies between the Misty Mountains and Mirkwood is wild and harsh. We need rest, and help, if we are to reach the forest at all."

The dwarf king addressed Gandalf's left shoulder. "And I take it you know where to acquire such help?"

Gandalf nodded, acting as though he were oblivious to the tension radiating from Thorin's every word. "Very few people live in these parts, but there is somebody I know of out there who might answer our plight." He paused. "He is a solitary fellow – prefers the company of animals to men."

Gloin shifted, impatience getting the better of him. "Another acquaintance of yours? I trust you will present us with all the details this time round." He gave me a pointed look, and I pretended not to notice the hostility in his tone. "I am still awaiting an explanation on the last associate you brought into our midst."

"Hear, hear," Nori muttered. A few others grumbled in agreement.

Gandalf glared. "Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves! Your questions will be answered in time, Master Gloin." He turned to Thorin, and his voice took on a note of urgency. "We must still face a five-day journey on foot before reaching Mirkwood. Five days of walking in open land, without food or water. How long do you hope to stay ahead of pursuit in your condition?" He paused, letting his words sink in. "We will gain nothing by running straight to the forest's borders without supplies. If Azog is hunting our party – as I suspect that he is – then we must proceed with caution." His eyes flitted first to me before darting down to rest on the dwarf king's forearm. "And that means tending to our injured companions when the opportunity arises. We have all witnessed first-hand how an open wound can attract unwanted attention."

I flushed at the reminder.

There was a very long pause. Finally, Thorin said, "Are we far from your… acquaintance's home?"

"I believe not. It has been some time since I was last down this way, but I remember where to find it."

Thorin seemed to consider the old man's words. His gaze travelled over the company, taking note of our dishevelled state. No one was complaining, but several of the dwarves were nursing cuts and hiding limps. Ori's temple was still bleeding from our scrape with the goblins. As for me, well… I could barely stand without the wizard's assistance.

"Very well," Thorin grudgingly admitted. He turned to Balin. "How long can we spare?"

The old dwarf considered his question. "An hour, at best," he said. "It is a stroke of luck that the eagles decided to intervene in our time of need, but I doubt the task of following them to the Carrock would have revealed difficult to our foes. The baying we heard did not sound very far off – a couple miles or so – but the tall trees and uneven landscape might slow them down." Balin paused. "The scent of blood, however, will certainly alert their attention." He eyed the gash on Ori's forehead and Thorin's dripping sleeve.

"Yes," he concluded softly, "I daresay we can spare a little time."

The king grunted, his expression one of forced resignation. "Dwalin! Nori!" he suddenly barked. "Stand guard beyond the trees and inform us of any signs of approach. Oin – start attending to Ori's injury. No, no – Ori first," he said, waving away the older dwarf's protests. "Mine can wait. I told you – it is but a scratch."

Grumbling, the old healer did as he was told and gestured Ori forwards. "You heard him, lad," he muttered. "Lie down and let me take a look."

Dwalin and Nori strode away at either end of the clearing in order to stand watch while the dwarves busied themselves in preparation for the wait. No one paid me the slightest attention or even spared me a glance. In a weird way, I felt as though I'd jumped back three weeks to my first day of travel with the company – except that this time my isolation wasn't voluntary.

Any lingering hope that my use of magic had passed unnoticed was banished during our descent of the Carrock, when I'd sensed the stares burning a hole through my shoulder blades. I'd feared a confrontation would ensue, but this... absence of reaction was far more unsettling. Even Bofur, who always had something to say, had remained unusually quiet. Thorin was also getting his fare share of wary glances. It appeared none of the dwarves were eager to be the first to address the elephant in the room, and they were all holding their collective breaths as they waited for the king to pass judgment on the matter.

The only problem with that plan was that he hadn't. While we'd been on the Carrock, a howl had split through the early-morning stillness, too faint to pinpoint its exact location – but it had served as a reminder that bigger problems were heading our way. Thorin had broken away from our stare-off and marched to the side of the stone pinnacle in search of a way down. He hadn't acknowledged me since, and I was still waiting in trepidation for the axe to fall.

There was a slight tugging at my waist. "This way," Gandalf murmured, pulling me a little to the side.

I felt winded, a deep ach sparking in my chest and coiling through my limbs at every step. Gandalf, noting my discomfort, paused and placed a hand over my chest, muttering something under his breath. I didn't recognize the language he used, but his tone and cadence suggested he was casting. The effects were immediate; a lethargic feeling washed over me. I swayed, caught off guard. What the –

Gandalf steadied me. "This is but a temporary measure," he warned. "I cannot withhold your suffering eternally, but I need you to stay sharp for the moment. Now come."

He steered me to a nearby tree and I gingerly pressed my back against the trunk, realizing with some surprise that I could barely feel the rough surface through my tunic. Whatever Gandalf had done to ease the soreness had also numbed my body in the process. It was an odd sensation, and I was tempted to ask him to reverse the spell – it made me feel slow and heavy – but I didn't think I was ready to deal with the resulting pain. At least it didn't appear to be clouding my thoughts as an anaesthetic would do.

I slid to the ground, surprised once more at how distant the surface felt. My eyes closed and I took several deep breaths. Fragments of muttered conversation reached my ears. By the sound of it, Fili was wasting no time in describing the scene he'd witnessed in the goblin caves. I cracked my lids open a fraction and saw him standing a short distance away, speaking rapidly with Gloin. I couldn't make out all that was being said, but the word fire and witchcraft were definitely thrown into the mix.

Witchcraft. A shiver crept down my spine, goose bumps blossoming along my arms. I tentatively probed my mind, searching for trace of the wild magic I had drawn upon to cast the shield charm. Nothing.

But it hadn't been nothing – not this time. I couldn't just chalk this up to erratic emotion or dumb luck, because I'd heard – felt – a consciousness behind the power, a will separate from my own. My breathing hitched, dread welling up inside. I didn't dare give it voice, didn't dare think about the possibilities, not unless I wanted loose my grip on sanity and dive head first into a full blown panic-attack.

It took every ounce of willpower I possessed to wrench myself away from the fear and concentrate on the present. I couldn't afford to loose my bearings – not in my precarious situation.

"Now what?" I asked the wizard. My lips were numb and my words sluggish, effectively obscuring the tremor in my voice. A faint metallic taste lingered in the back of my mouth.

No answer. Glancing to the side, I saw that Gandalf was also sitting, his eyes lost in space.

"Hello?" I snapped, my desperate need for distraction shortening my temper. "Earth to Gandalf – Anybody home?"

The wizard sighed. "Miss Morgan," he said, a hint of exasperation colouring his tone, "In light of recent developments, one would expect to find you a little less impertinent."

My hands clenched into fists and I was about to respond with something snarky when we were interrupted.

"I'd be more concerned if she were struck dumb. Insolence is a sign of recovery."

Bofur had drifted nearer. By the looks of it, the dwarf had recovered some of his composure, although the tightness in his eyes betrayed his unease. He grinned in a weak attempt of cheerfulness that didn't fool me for a second. Bilbo hovered at Bofur's side, the tips of his pointed ears still flushed in result of Thorin's bro-hug. He struggled to keep a straight face, probably for my benefit, but his self-satisfaction was so obvious he might as well be waving a fluorescent flag that read 'chuffed as hell'. How I envied his security.

Ignoring Bofur's jibe, I addressed the hobbit. "You okay?" There was no point in pretending to myself that I didn't care what happened to Bilbo anymore. No longer could I dismiss our alliance as an unspoken agreement to watch each other's back against Thorin's scorn. I'd gone against my every instinct and thrown myself into harm's way for the hobbit – a feat I had only ever been willing to do once before.

Bilbo frowned at the unfamiliar word. He seemed to guess the meaning behind it however, and answered, "Right as rain. And yourself?"

I shrugged, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably. "Still breathing. Always a plus if you ask me. Nice job taking down the orc, by the way. Wouldn't have guessed you had it in you."

Bilbo flushed, running his hair back with a restless hand. "Yes, well…" He trailed off, eyes darting over to Bofur, who was hanging on to our every word. "What you did back there…" he hesitated a second time, unwilling to drag me down further. "The shield. That was… good timing. Very good timing indeed."

"Yep." I tried to shift my weight but the lack of feeling in my body turned the motion into an ungainly twitch. "What is it now, the second time I've saved your bacon? We should start keeping score; make a competition out of it. Winner gets to –"

"Wait," Bofur interjected, cutting across my ramblings. I could almost hear the clogs whirling from under his tattered hat as he turned to face Bilbo, one eyebrow raised in question. "You knew about this?"

The hobbit opened his mouth and closed it, looking remarkably like goldfish. Thankfully, Gandalf chose that moment to stir, diverting Bofur's attention and saving Bilbo from a potentially awkward situation.

"Perhaps," the old man breathed, "Perhaps such secrecy was a mistake." He stroked his beard absently, his thoughts a million miles away. "It was always my intention to tell him, when the time was right. But alas, my plans never do seem to stay on track." And with that cryptic remark, he lapsed once more into silence.

Okaaaay. Not quite the helpful counsel I'd been hoping for.

"Well, excuse me for being such an inconvenience," I snapped. "But if you actually bothered to share your plans instead of just assuming we all play along blindly, this kind of situation could be avoided!" My voice had increased in volume, annoyance getting the better of me. "When were you going to include me in your schemes, Gandalf?" Now that the danger was passed I was beginning to remember why I should be angry with the wizard.

He knew, I recalled with mounting resentment. He knew the truth before I had even begun to guess at it myself. He knew and said nothing, not a word, not even about the other witch, or the Stranger who wants me dead.

In that moment, I wanted to lash out, to beat the old man senseless for betraying my trust. Details from our first encounter were beginning to emerge from the depths of my memory – The way he'd casually invited me for dinner without knowing a thing about me, the look he'd given me when I'd said I was lost… Such obvious signs, but I'd been too shaken to notice. Too gullible. Suddenly, I was angry at myself.

Gandalf slowly turned his gaze on me, pinning me with a grim look, and I knew he guessed my line of thought as plainly as though the accusation was emblazoned on my face.

"I sense your resentment, Miss Morgan," he said. "Mayhaps it is justified, but answer me this: What would you have done if I'd revealed myself to you that night, on the outskirts of Hobbiton? Would you have willingly given up the information I needed to obtain from you?" He sighed, eyes softening, and he suddenly looked very old. "Your distrust was so plain, Cassiopeia – I knew I had to tread carefully. Please try to understand."

Cassiopeia. The casual use of my full name, the very proof of Galadriel's assault on my mind, was enough to send my pulse racing. Of course she had told him of what her legilimency skills had uncovered.

"I wonder," I said, my voice low and unforgiving, "What would you have done, if I'd declined your invitation that night?"

Gandalf said nothing for a long while, then, just when I was beginning to think he wouldn't grace me with an answer at all, he murmured, "Let us be grateful it never came to that."

Silence fell, heavy and oppressing. I closed my eyes, silently cursing my naivety. What on earth had I been expecting? The White Counsel meeting I'd spied upon had indeed made one thing very clear: Gandalf was duty-bound to protect Middle-Earth. It would always be his priority.

He doesn't think I'm a threat, but what will happen when he discovers the truth about my magic? Will he take my side against the Stranger's then? The thought had cropped up uninvited, but all of a sudden, it was all I could think of. Will he still believe I can be trusted?

Bilbo cleared his throat, making me jump. I'd forgotten he was there.

"So, I was right?" he asked me, nodding in the wizard's direction. "He did have another reason for bringing you along?" I had no idea why he sounded so pleased with himself.

Gandalf look surprised. "You spoke of our affairs to Mister Baggins?"

"What, you too?" Bofur exclaimed. "Mahal above, did everyone know?"

I scowled and was about to tell all three of them to bugger off, when we were interrupted yet again – this time by a sharp voice. "Cassie!"

My eyes darted to the cluster of dwarves. Oin was gazing at me expectantly. "Well don't just sit there gawking!" he said when I did not immediately respond. "There's work to be done."

For a second I couldn't figure out what he was referring to. Then I noticed the old healer was still crouching over Ori.

Oh. Right. Apparently, flushing all my energy away in one super-charged shield charm which had left me as weak as kitten was not considered a good enough excuse to slack off on my Medic duties. I briefly contemplated the wisdom of ignoring Oin's request, then realized that I should be working to appease the dwarves – Not antagonizing them further. Besides, if I stayed next to Gandalf a second longer, I felt I might try to strangle the old man.

I pushed against the trunk and carefully rose. The sudden motion threw me off balance and the ground wobbled in result. Gandalf shifted in my peripheral vision, ready to catch me should I fall, but I shot him a venomous look and wilfully stood my ground. Then, before Oin could scold me further, I started forwards at a slow pace, awkward as a babe taking its first steps.

The old healer grunted as I reached his side, his attention focused on the task at hand. "Here," he said without looking up, handing me a small piece of cloth. "I need you to apply pressure to Ori's cut while I convince Thorin to let me take a look at his arm. The stubborn fool is bound to get it infected."

I accepted the cloth and examined it. It was surprisingly dirt-free. "Where were you keeping this?" I wondered out loud.

Considering the dwarves' reluctance to interact with me, I wasn't really expecting an answer, but Oin surprised me by producing a small leather pouch from inside the folds of his gray coat. "Damned goblins thought they'd searched every nook and cranny, but a healer is always cautious." Inside the pouch were the bare necessities for quickly cleaning up an injury – a few scraps of clean cloth, string and needle, and something that resembled dried yarrow stalks. "How clean are your hands?" Oin asked.

I showed him and he sighed. "They'll have to do. I had a small flask of Gondorien alcohol with me – For medical purposes, of course – But it was confiscated. Confounded goblins," he cursed again. "Try to keep dirt out of the gash. Shout if you need me." And he was off, leaving me alone to tend to a very nervous looking Ori.

I heard a faint rustle on my right. Dori had edged nearer, watching me closely.

"Right," I muttered, trying to ignore the way his eyes followed my every move. I cautiously sank to my knees beside his brother, noting how my chest seemed to contract even though I couldn't feel the strain. "I'm going to press this down on your forehead for a couple of minutes, okay? Just… lay still, I guess. We'll see if it stops the bleeding."

Ori meekly obeyed and I set to work. As I'd suspected, the injury wasn't serious; head cuts often bleed heavily due to the many blood vessels close to the surface of the skin. I vaguely wondered why Oin had made such a big deal about it – The gash was hardly life-threatening. The flow should stop after a short while.

Out of the blue, a memory arose to the surface of my mind – a sandy-haired girl with a fading scar on her lower-lip. She leant over a younger boy, pressing a make-shift gauze to an imaginary wound on his temple.

"Shock is a life-threatening situation, Cass," she warned. "Watch out for it. You've got to keep 'em talking to make sure there's no damage to the brain." She nudged the boy playfully. "Is your head feeling any emptier than usual, Hugo?"

The boy snorted and shoved her back. She laughed, ruffling his matted hair and aiming a grin my way.

I shook my head and focused on the bleeding dwarf lying before me. Now was not the time to wander down memory lane.

Still, my nagging conscious urged me not dismiss the recollection, and I found myself saying, "Tell me if you feel dizzy – like you might pass out." When Ori only stared back wide-eyed, I sighed and cast about for a question that might get him talking. "Tell me about your home. Erebor. What's it like?"

He blinked and whispered something, his lips barely moving enough for the sound to pass.

I leant forwards. "What?"

"He said he's never seen it before."

Dori had settled down on the ground beside us. He kept his gaze fixed on my hands and said, "My brother was not yet born on the day of the dragon attack. He knows it only through the old tales and songs of our people."

I arched an eyebrow. How odd, I mused, to ache for a land you had never laid eyes on. But I was getting sidetracked. Focus, Cass, I reminded myself. Get him talking. "So where's home if it isn't Erebor?"

Again, Dori spoke for his brother. "He was raised in Ered Luin."

His answers were short and clipped. For a second I was tempted to snap back, but then saw the worry in his eyes and swallowed my retort. This wasn't worth the argument. Let Dori shied his younger sibling from the big bad witch if it helped ease his mind. Besides, the bleeding had stopped. I was done here.

"All good," I muttered, peeling the fabric away from Ori's forehead and thrusting it into his brother's hands with more force than was necessary. "Just make sure he's coherent."

Then I pushed up from the ground and shuffled off in search of Oin, my body lurching like a ship at sea. I could sense the eyes of every dwarf following my retreat, but no one made a move to stop me. It caused the hairs to stand up of the back of my neck, and I found myself wishing they'd get over their misgivings and confront me, if only to speed things along.

Oin had led Thorin further away than I'd expected, at the very edge of the clearing where no prying eyes could see, and had somehow convinced the dwarf king to sit still on a flat stone while he assessed the damage done to his forearm.

Thorin did not look pleased with the arrangement, staring fixedly at the ground while Oin poked and prodded his extended limb. Pride, it seemed, had prevented him from displaying weakness in front of his men, but common sense kept him from ignoring the old healer's advice altogether.

Balin, unsurprisingly, was also present, his brows knitted as he watched the proceedings. "… must have known," he murmured as I came within earshot. "It's unlikely he was oblivious to the situation – perhaps he sought to make an apprentice out of her, or –"

Oin cut in impatiently, eyes never leaving his work. "It hardly matters now. What's done is done. All this speculating will get us nowhere, Thorin. Speak with the girl, that's my advice."

"To what end?" Thorin's voice was flat and emotionless. "She is a proven liar. How can I trust a single word that leaves her mouth henceforth?" He clenched his hand into a fist, knuckles whitening with the strain. "I have been made a fool."

Oin scowled as the motion resulted in a fresh flow of blood.

"This isn't working," he muttered to himself. "Too deep. It needs stitches."

Thorin waved a dismissive hand. "Bind it in cloth for now. Any further treatment will have to wait until we are clear of the mountains."

The old healer gave a short, humourless laugh. "Aye, and you'll collapse of blood-loss before midday. This will only take a jiffy." He began rooting about in the small pouch for a needle.

I hesitated, unsure whether or not I should make my presence known. For a second the temptation to double back and wait for Gandalf (who would undoubtedly argue my case far more efficiently than I ever could) was quite appealing, despite bitterness I felt for him. What could I say to shield myself against Thorin's accusations – What excuse could I provide in my defence? I swallowed, a tight knot forming in my throat. Fili was waiting in the wings with whispers of witchcraft and black magic and…

… And what, exactly? Facts? Proof? No – Just second hand information. Rumours, nothing more. He'd seen me kill a goblin with fire. No, not me. Something. He'd seen something invoke a blaze and twist the flames to its will, something deep and dark and cruel. Witchcraft.

But what had Thorin seen? A monster? An enemy? No. He had seen Cassie Morgan – plain old Cassie – throw herself into the line of fire to perform an impossible feat. He'd seen her draw upon her last ounces of strength and cast a shield powerful enough to withstand a charging warg. Fili had seen me destroy – Thorin had seen me protect. Could I use this angle? I didn't know. But I had to try.

"Ah, there you are."

Oin's voice pulled me back into the moment. The old healer had glanced up from his work and noticed me hovering awkwardly by his side. Thorin straightened, features slipping back into an impassive mask. My stomach sank as his dark eyes appraised me. I waited, but the dwarf king remained silent, letting the tension slowly swell until I felt like screaming.

"How's the lad?" Oin asked abruptly, cutting through the strained silence. He'd gone back to rummaging about in his pouch.

I blinked at the empty question. Oin was a far better healer than I could ever hope to be – He knew Ori was fine. If there'd been any doubt on the matter he would have stayed behind to supervise my work, so what was the point of this little charade? I hesitated, and Oin threw me an impatient look.

"Well?" he insisted. "Is there any cause for concern?"

He was trying to convey a message with his eyes. Something clicked in my mind, and I wanted to kick myself for not catching on sooner.

"No." My voice was hoarse. I cleared my throat and tried again. "No, he's fine now. I was able to get the flow under control pretty fast. It's nothing I haven't dealt with before."

"Good, good." Oin nodded his approval. He glanced at Thorin. "It's a relief to know he's in good hands."

Thorin did not comment. He was looking at me now with that same look as before; not judging and not really studying, just… watching. Thinking. I decided to test the waters.

"How's the arm?"

My enquiry was not directed to anyone in particular, and it was Oin who answered, his face tight with real concern. The old healer wasn't laying it on thick for my benefit any longer.

"It's a bleeder." He gave the wound a nasty look, as if he could seal it up with sheer willpower. "And proving tricky to staunch. Open treatment isn't an option – too much sweat and filth around for that."

I took a slow step forwards. "May I try something?"

A plan was beginning to form in my mind. It was immediately countered by a surge of panic. Are you crazy? You can't use magic now, not before you've figured out what's going on in your noggin! What if something goes wrong? What if it overpowers you this time, what if…?

…What if it worked? What if I could prove my power's worth right there and then, prove I was a asset and not a hindrance? I held Thorin's gaze, searching. What did he see when he looked at me now? A witch? A danger? Or the girl who had insulted him mere seconds after they'd been introduced, the girl who persisted in crossing him at every turn, who blurted out inappropriate things at inappropriate times, who tailed his every step no matter how hard he tried to shake her off?

Could I tip the balance in my favour before Fili had the chance to inject doubt into his uncle's mind? My gaze flickered down to the torn and dripping sleeve. The flesh looked red and swollen – a sure sign of infection. Oin saw the injury as a nuisance, a liability.

But I saw an opportunity.

Oin sighed. "I doubt there's anything you could try that I haven't already thought of, lass."

I laughed – short and humourless. A wild stab in the dark indeed, but if it worked… "Actually, yeah, I think there is."

Silence. Oin and Balin traded apprehensive looks, but it wasn't their consent that mattered. I watched the dwarf king, waiting to see what he said.

He watched me back, his eyes moving over me, searching.

After a long, long moment Thorin gave a small, sharp nod and extended his arm, signalling me closer.

I hid my relief behind a blank mask as I knelt beside him. Again, my ribcage protested, my breath hitching, and I felt a small rush of gratitude towards Gandalf's numbing spell. This operation would require my full and undivided attention. I had no room in my head for pain. My body moved on its own accord, hands extending, palms out, over Thorin's forearm. A small part of me was afraid. Afraid of what might happen if I tried to cast a spell, afraid of what I might awaken… Something stirring in the deep…. I cut off the thought; doubt was fatal. It was too late to back down now.

I timed each breath to the beat of my own heart, one for every two beats, forcing peace into my mind like I'd done in the clearing after the troll attack. That was what I had to do; find that spark of magic – and nothing else. I closed my eyes and turned my focus inwards, searching for the source of my power. Bodies shifted around me, but I forced myself to ignore them. It was just me – just me and no one else. Just me and my magic.

This had to work.

I took my time, emptying my mind of all doubt, inhaling and exhaling with slow determination, until finally, I felt something stir. A familiar tingling in my chest. Magic; weak in comparison to the destructive surge I'd invoked a few hours ago, but untainted and mine. I felt like laughing with relief. This was my magic, and mine alone.

I tentatively reached within, probing the faint pulse of power. Such a fragile thing. So easily smothered. Would it be enough for what I had in mind? Should I not dig deeper, delve further, until I found that hungry power capable of bending fire to its will? I shook myself, surprised that the thought had even occurred. No. Never again.

"Uncle, stop!"

The shout was distant and close at the same time. It echoed through my mind, shattering my concentration. Fili. I kept my eyes closed tight and shut out my surroundings. Slowly, the faint tingle of magic began to grow stronger, pulsing in beat with my heart.

"Fili." Thorin's deep rumble was a warning. "Do not intervene."

The pulsing shifted, migrating down my arms, my forearms. It took effort – more than I'd expected. A shudder coursed up my spine.

"You should listen to him, Thorin." Gloin's voice. He sounded out of breath. "The lad's seen something mighty peculiar."

Impatience sparked in the back of my mind. "Oh for Merlin's sake, be quiet, the pair of you." My voice sounded distant, detached. My hands were pulsing, magic pooling into my palms. The real world seemed very far away.

Now or never.

I sucked in breath and began to whisper.

"Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur…" Over and over I said the words, wrapping myself in their meaning like a barrier against the world. May the wounds be healed, may the wounds be healed, may the wounds be healed. I pressed my palms down onto Thorin's arm and forced my magic into the gash.

A sharp hiss reached my ears as Thorin sucked in breath. He twitched under my hands, muscles tensing, but made no move to pull away.

"…Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur…"

The power did not flow as easily as it had with the burning spell. It felt slower, thicker. Like blood pulsing from an open vein. I hunched my shoulders and redoubled my efforts, fighting against the fatigue. May the wounds be healed… Was it working? I didn't dare open my eyes. The air around me was buzzing with hushed voices, the tension mounting. My breathing was fast and shallow.

"…Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera Sanentur, Vulnera San –"

Suddenly, I was pulled away. My eyes flew open. The hands clasping mine were old and wrinkled, yet surprisingly strong.

"I think that's enough, Miss Morgan," Gandalf said. He was hunched at my side, the tip of his grey beard almost touching the ground.

I started to protest, but when I caught sight of my hands the words died in my throat. They were pale as chalk and shaking, tremors extending all the way up to my shoulders. Blood vessels stood out, veins running purple down my wrists. They looked brittle as porcelain in Gandalf's gnarled hands, as if he could snap them off in one swift tug. I went too far, I realized.

"Remarkable," Oin breathed.

I followed his gaze to Thorin's forearm. The dwarf king was holding it up for closer inspection. To my disappointment, I saw that the wound had not fully healed. The steady flow of blood had staunched itself and the tissue was less swollen, but the gash was still there. Oin, however, was staring at it with an odd expression on his face.

"Quite remarkable," he muttered again. He glanced down at the needle in his hands. "No need for this, I suppose."

Thorin flexed his arm, testing the motion. The wound remained sealed. His eyes flickered over to Gandalf.

"You knew," he said. It wasn't a question.

The wizard nodded slowly.

"I suspected."

Something stirred in the corner of my eye. I was surprised to see that most of the company had drawn closer. Even Dwalin had abandoned his lookout post to investigate the source of the commotion. My eyes flickered left and right, jumping from one face to the next. A few looked impressed, others were trading apprehensive glances… and some were quite visibly angry.

"Witchcraft!" Gloin hissed. "We have all been deceived. Fili, tell your uncle of what you saw in the mountain caves."

I laughed, and the sound was thin and hollow. "I killed a goblin."

"You burned a goblin." Fili, who had remained silent for so long, was almost tripping over the words in his haste to address Thorin. "She summoned fire and watched as it burned to death – And when the deed was done, the look on her face…" He shook his head, unable to find words apt enough to describe what he'd seen. "She enjoyed it."

"Well, what was I supposed to do?" I, too, addressed the dwarf king, defending myself against Fili's accusations. "I never planned for it to happen – It was self defence; the goblin would have killed me if I hadn't done something. And I didn't enjoy it." That last part was a blatant lie. It rang false to my ears and I prayed I was alone in noticing.

All of a sudden, a howl rang out across the land, a long shuddering howl. It was answered by another, a good deal closer. I started, searching for its source. In a flurry of movement, the dwarves leapt into action, readying their weapons, the argument forgotten.

"Our hour is up," Balin stated, eyes roaming the trees. "Thorin, I strongly suggest we clear this up later."

Gandalf started pulling me to my feet, but a hand shot out and grasped me firmly by the sleeve.

Thorin's dark eyes bore into mine. "I would have the truth from you."

I met his gaze, unflinching, and said, 'You will."

He stared at me a second longer, calculating. Then he nodded curtly, releasing me and rising to his feet. "We make for the east." He turned to Gandalf. "Lead the way."

Gandalf helped me up. The motion temporally upset my balance and he steadied me. "I am sorry for this, Cassiopeia, but speed is of the essence." He placed one hand above my chest. "It was only a temporary measure," he reminded apologetically, and began to mutter an incantation.

I hissed as feeling flooded back, grasping his shoulder for support. My movements were no longer slowed by the numbing spell, and I suddenly realized just how stupid I'd been to cast in my physical condition. Without pain to inform me when I was pushing the boundaries too far, I had no way of knowing my limits. And what had I gained? I hadn't even been able to heal the damn cut.

"This way," Gandalf called over his shoulder. We started forwards at a steady march with the dwarves and Bilbo in tow. As we delved deeper into the trees another howl split through the air, and I wondered how far we'd get before the pack caught our scent again.

This chapter was a nightmare to write. It drove me crazy in every way possible, and I'm still not entirely happy with it :(

A huge thanks to KnuckleFantasy for the awesome artwork of Cassie. It's beautiful!