CHAPTER FOUR
Remembering
She was so hungry, as was everyone else and they had been traveling throughout the day, so Gandalf had suggested they make camp for the night. Farren had ultimately refused to stop until she had food and Thorin had found her stubbornness angering, using several harsh words against her presence on the quest and she had fled down into the woods.
She wasn't upset, nor was she angry; she was just hungry and she turned to her wild senses when her stomach yearned for food. So she understood why Thorin became angry with her but sniffed at the words he had used, as if he had been waiting a long time to say them. He was rather pleasant when they had first met in Bree, when Gandalf had formed the Company and assigned her as his protector – oh.
Farren dropped to her knees in realisation, all thoughts of hunger gone. He was ashamed. He was strong. He had no weaknesses. And he wanted her to know that he did not need protecting. That he did not need neither her aid nor her protection; that he had other means of defense and that he did not even need to know her name.
But the Hobbit needed her protection, as did Ori and Balin, and Fili and Kili; and although they refused to accept help from a manor-less woman, they needed her to complete their quest.
She heard a twig snap not five feet away and within a split second, she turned, nocked an arrow into her bow, aimed and shot. There was a small squeal and the thud of something heavy falling to the mossy ground. Farren stood, replacing her bow on her back and carefully retrieving her arrow from the chest of her hunt. It was a young roebuck that had not been quick enough, and it had died instantly, from shock and from the arrow piercing its heart.
Farren did not feel pity, she did not know how to anymore, after so many years of being alone. She heaved the buck on to her shoulder and started back towards the glowing dot that was her and the Company's camp for the night.
Bilbo and Farren ate like clan leaders that night, the Hobbit asking for more of the fatty muscle and mint to chew on, the Wanderer oddly and politely taking the red cuts that no one wanted. She had informed Bilbo that a prize like their meal was very rare and then wondered aloud to the Company as to why is had strayed so far up from the lowland woods,
"Orcs," came the disgruntled answer and no sooner as the word had been said, a shrill scream echoed throughout the night,
"What are Orcs?" Bilbo asked and Farren cleared her throat quietly but Fili answered for her,
"Throat-cutters," he said darkly, "There'll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them," and then his brother intervened,
"They strike in the wee small hours, when everyone's asleep. Quick and quiet; no screams, just lots of blood," they turned to each other and laughed at Bilbo's frightened face. Farren glared at them,
"Why do you laugh?" she hissed, rolling the sleeve of her surcoat up to reveal a nasty purple scar that wound its way up her forearm, disfiguring her skin so it looked as though she had suffered many burns.
"Do you think a night raid by the beasts is a joke?" Thorin stood and moved towards the giggling brothers with a venomous expression,
"We didn't mean anything by it," Kili stumbled over his words under the hard gaze of the large dwarf,
"No, you didn't," he growled, watching Farren as she stood to leave, his eyes never leaving her retreating back, "You know nothing of the world,"
As she left the warmth of the fire, Farren felt as though Thorin's last statement was aimed mostly at her and she felt a flutter of the dreaded nervousness in her chest. Of course, he was right; she knew nothing about what lay beyond the Misty Mountains and when they journeyed past, she would be of no navigational help. Then she realised, horrifyingly, that she indeed did not know how big the world was and how many terrifying beasts she had yet to come across, how battles she had yet to face, how many enemies made their path intersect hers and how many people she would meet. The fluttering in her chest became angry thumping, a beat only matched by her accelerating heart. Then her breathing turned to pants, her nervousness turning to panic, an emotion she was familiar with; but not to this extent.
She couldn't defend herself, not even Abe. Why did Gandalf think she could protect fourteen dwarves and a Hobbit, and herself? She suddenly couldn't see, her eyesight fogging as if she had walked through steam. Her breathing was harsh and her throat was stinging, as though she had been screaming for hours. She couldn't understand why she wasn't crying. Was it just the extreme panic that stopped her body from moving or was it because she didn't feel the need to?
Farren fell into a hallucination. There was a shadow standing before her, holding its hands above its head and ready to strike. But she was rooted to the spot, she couldn't even blink. She couldn't help herself, she couldn't protect herself. Her bow was inches from her fingers and she tried to wiggle them, but she instead let out an anguished cry. And the shadow wailed out her name.
She cried out again, snatching up her bow and pulling the string back, ready to shoot the wailing shadow,
"Farren!" a breathless Bilbo asked her quietly, his terrified eyes wide and reflecting her own face; a face of madness.