I'm standing on the edge of a cliff, overlooking Dale and the Misty Mountain, a feeling of dread making me clench and unclench my fists. A whiff from behind and a small growl make me turn to the side slightly. A huge white beast comes to stand next to me, his eyes trained on the horizon. Noticing the way his ears stand straight on his head, a deep frown graces my features.
"I am dreaming, am I not?" my thoughts waver like whispers carried by the wind.
"Yes. We need to talk." the deep husky voice of Fenrir resonates around us, as if bouncing off invisible walls.
"Something's off. I can feel it in my bones."
Another whiff of air, cold and cutting, pushes past us. In a blink of an eye the scenery changes; the land is darkened by creatures of all kinds. The battle horns and the muffled yells reach us from what seems like a different world. My eyes widen as I take in the ferocity of the battle.
"What's the meaning of this!?" my voice is barely a whisper as my eyes stay glued the horrific bloodshed ahead.
The gravel silence that follows sends cold shivers running up and down my spine, the feeling of anxiousness making me gulp nervously.
"Battle is in the air, Isis. You must summon the remains of your strength and prepare." Fenrir' rather sad demeanour makes me steal a glance his way.
"How come you summoned me here, Fenrir? You do not have that power."
"I had favours to collect."
"Will you come and fight with me?" the abruptly spoken question makes the great Dire wolf tense up, his tail waving slowly behind him.
"We shall see what comes out of this." his smug reply is sucked in by a sudden whiff of the wind that seems to push my conscious self over the edge.
The sun's soft rays shine through the blanket of fluffy clouds, shedding their dazzling hue over the piles of snow and chasing away the veil of sleep. Still dizzy after the weird dream, I can't recall when I stand up, wash and kindle the fire in order to warm some water for the tea. In the middle of pouring the hot liquid in small cups, Bard's soft groan fills the still silent room. Stealing a glance over my shoulder, I give him a shy smile and a nod, before resuming my activity of carefully filling the suspiciously looking wooden mug, which may, or may not have been a residence of a huge colony of bacteria before I boiled it a few minutes ago. Using my ice to cool it down, my ears keenly follow each and every step the bargeman takes.
When he finally comes to sit next to me, I hand him a cup of steaming tea and some bread, trying not to meet his gaze. 'Last night I placed such a burden on his shoulders that he must have lost his trust in me.' Yet it proves too hard to resist the temptation, so I glance his way. He seems to be lost in his own thoughts, yet obviously senses my gaze. When his green eyes meet mine, I fight the instinct to look away and proceed pretending last night didn't happen. Instead of that, I walk straight against my nature and face Bard, indicating him that I'd like to speak with him.
"What worries you, Isis?" his voice is calm and soft, hinting nothing of his thoughts.
"I wanted to talk to you about-" I'm interrupted by the loud yawn that leaves Tilda's small mouth.
Both of us look over our shoulders, bewildered looks on our faces due to the bear-like sound that erupted from the usually quiet and shy girl. Obviously not having heard us talking and probably thinking she was the first up, her eyes widen with horror upon spotting our mutual amazement. My laughter, deep and cheerful, fills the silence as I barely manage to stop the small tears that are threating to appear in my eyes. Soon Bard joins me and Tilda's left with nothing else but to pout before also adding her childlike giggle. It's no wonder Bain's groan of protest and Sigrid's irritated 'hmph' follow seconds later, as we seem to have woken them up.
"Raise and shine, doves." I manage to say before another fit of laugher takes over, which I desperately try to conceal, only for it to end up in a quite unladylike snort.
It takes all of us some time to put off the laughter as more funny noises come from Tilda, who soon challenged her brother to a game of who can make the weirdest animal personification. It was thanks to Sigrid who eventually scolded them half-heartedly while fighting her own laughter that we finally sat down and ate, a small chortle of laughter erupting from someone every once in a while. When ready, myself and Bard leave as I have more patients that need treating and he has to check the night's watch. Walking side by side in a comfortable silence, I try to push away the pestering worry from last night's conversation, as a small voice in the back of my head keeps on repeating how stupid and utterly irresponsible it was of me to share such information with someone who I barely know. Alfrid's sudden appearance snaps me out of my moody thoughts and I watch the exchange between the two males only in favour of keeping my brain occupied.
"Morning, Alfrid." Bard greets without even stopping next to the man who not so subtly rubs the sleep off of his face, indicating that his night's watch has been nothing more than a nap under the stars. "What news from the night watch?"
Scurrying right next to Bard, and bowing his head in a submissive manner, Alfrid ignores me completely in favour of sucking up to his new Master, who by the way never voiced his agreement to take that title. Either way, this gives me the chance to look from aside how he interacts with the Bowman; Alfid's small and black, mouse-like eyes are at the verge of penetrating holes in the other man's face, as his gaze stays glued to him, the sick desire to serve lingering like oil over water. Supressing a shudder at the comparison that ironically comes in use after sneaking a glance at the hair of the servant of the ex-Master of Laketown, which is so matted and greasy, that the original mouse-brown colour now looks like silt, makes my gag reflex suddenly reaper after a rather long departure.
"All quiet, Sire. Not much to report. Nothing gets past me." his perky attitude makes me snort and roll my eyes, as the words 'nobody's insane enough' trip on the edge of my tongue.
Throwing me a nasty look behind Bard's back, I narrow my eyes in return, my purple irises making him cross himself in a strange way and mutter something in the lines of a 'devil's servant' and 'brain-washing witch'.
Waving away his petty attitude, I catch up with Bard, who suddenly comes to an abrupt halt. Stepping to the side in time to prevent a collision with his back, I fight another snort at the sight in front of me, and thankfully manage to keep my face calculatedly neutral.
"Except an army of Elves, it would seem." the male mutters and glances my way before taking the few steps down and coming to stand before the rows of tall soldiers, one the same as the other in their appearance and battle armour.
Once close enough, they move simultaneously to the side, splitting so that he could walk past and go wherever he must be. Watching as the path behind him closes, the Elves' tall build creating an impenetrable wall of gold and silver, I can't help but suddenly think of my dream. 'Is there really danger lurking close by? Or is it the gold in that Mountain that Thranduil's after?' deciding against meddling in something that's not my business at this point, I resume my walk towards the infirmary, where, as predicted, many are already waiting for some medical attention.
Hours later I feel a tug in the back of my head, prominent, familiar, yet at the same time irritatingly distant. Frowning as I wipe my hands off my pants and put back on the leather gloves, the sensation of a déjà vu is heavy in the air around me. It's futile to even look around, as the humongous space in which I spend the better part of the day is deadly silent, save for the occasional maid scurrying around, handing food and water to those who aren't able to move at this point. Cold whiffs of wind chase one another until they collide with me, a barely noticeable whisper reaching my ears and almost making me jolt.
"Isis!" the voice, despite small and worryingly tired, is familiar enough to get me to exit in hurry the medical centre and run down the streets, passing by and ignoring many villagers who give me weird looks.
The pull of the flute navigates me around the campus until I stop in the middle of an empty street. Pulling my hood off and allowing the chilly night's air to toss around the auburn locks that managed to escape the braid, I know I'm at the right place, yet there's no one in sigh. Frowning and giving the road a once over, I glimpse as a sudden movement in the shadows before a familiar figure peeks from over an old barrel.
"Master Baggings!" I hush and rush to him, pulling him in a hug. "I'm so happy to see you safe and sound! But what are you doing here?"
"I know it's probably not right to ask you for such a favour, but I must speak with Gandalf and the King of the Elves." his worried voice quickly pushes away the usual pleasantries and I straighten up my shoulder before nodding.
There's no need to ask him what's wrong – I have a vague concept of what exactly drove the Hobbit away from the dwarves' fortress. The rumble that followed after the fall of the statues in front of the entrance and successfully blocked it was enough to make me leave the wounded in the care of the other girls earlier today and find a high spot from which to observe. By some luck, I also noticed the luxurious marquee that had been erected earlier today and that most probably housed no other but the Elven king himself.
"Brief me in while we get there." I urge and head down the dark streets, following a path that'll save us the worry of at least some of the guards crossing our way.
"Well… Thorin's not himself ever since he entered Erebor. It's like a whole new person that looks like him but it's not him. He's greedy, mistrustful, suspicious of everyone and is in a current foul-mood mode. I… I just couldn't allow him to wage a war he cannot win." despite Bilbo's considerately low voice, I tense up at the mentioning of war.
"Battle? What do you mean?" sneaking a brief glance at him and then behind us, making sure we are not followed by someone ill-minded fella, I continue squeezing my way through the ruins and narrow streets.
"He doesn't want to part with the gold. Not even a coin. And not to mention that the Arkenstone is still not within his grasp…" I catch something off in his voice and stop in my track, raising an eyebrow his way.
Blushing and fumbling with his cloak, I notice the unease with which Bilbo, the anxious, yet mostly calm Hobbit, now seems as if a huge secret weights upon his shoulders. It takes nothing more than a tug at the connection I have with the flute to know what exactly bothers him. My eyes widen for a split second before a small mischievous smile stretches my lips.
"You are keeping it out of his reach on purpose." it's a statement rather than a question, yet the Hobbit nods, obviously feeling ashamed of what he's done.
"What you did is probably for the best, Bilbo. That gold is cursed. It's no wonder Thorin's lost his rightful mind due to it, but not even for a second do you lose faith in him!"
Nodding in agreement, and obviously relaxing at having shared with someone what bothers him, he continues telling me of how he escaped and what he plans on doing now. As I listen and watch for any potential threat, my earlier dream once again resurfaces, its ugly face almost mocking me with its hidden message from the back of my mind. Frowning when another connection tugs, I successfully push it to the side, knowing that calling forward what my ice soldiers collected from today's scouting will currently be nothing more than an obstacle which will cost us precious time. So hurrying ahead after leaving the Hobbit in the shadows, I see where the huge golden tent is positioned and manage to pick at three different male voices. 'Bard, Thranduil and Gandalf. If that doesn't spell trouble, I don't know what would.' retreating back to the safety of the shadows I kneel down and crack my neck.
"It's heavily guarded. But I know how we can enter. It will cause same havoc, but by the time they realise what's happening, we will be in the tent."
"You have done more than enough, Isis. I don't want you to get in trouble now as well. I can-" Bilbo obviously has something else in mind, and the image of the movement in the shadows, how one second there was nothing there and in the next he appears flashes in the back of my head, yet I'm determined to not be exiled of the action, and therefore help Bilbo get in.
"I'd rather enjoy throwing those elves in frenzy. Their apparent sophistication rubs me in the wrong way anyway. They may have brought supplies and medication, but their noses are held a hitch higher than acceptable according to me." giving a small mischievous smile, I offer my hand to the Hobbit who reluctantly takes it, obviously knowing it's pointless to try and talk me out of it.
"Hug me tight and don't look down." I whisper as I pull him closer to me.
"Wh-what?" he quivers, but it's too late – we are already moving fast ahead, a few feet over the city.
A huge ice slide materialises as I move, allowing me to skate in speed that makes me almost impossible to spot. It's no wonder I move without a problem right over the heads on the soldiers and with a sharp twist and a series of spins stop in front of the entrance of the tent.
The reaction is immediate as the soldiers finally notice me and lunge forward. Dropping Bilbo in and pulling down the flapping end of the tent, I snicker like a naughty child as yells in elfish from the other end echo in the night, as despite their best attempts they can neither near nor enter the marquee.
"You do know how to make a spectacular entrance, dear." a mild voice comes from behind and I finally give the three men my attention.
While Gandalf seems pleased and relieved to see me, both Bard and Thranduil are perplexed whether to be amazed by my impudence or enraged by it. Eventually the younger male fights off a small smile, masking it with a light frown of discontent while Thranduil's eyebrows knit in a dark scold before his face clears away, as if wiped with a magical handkerchief.
"You know I enjoy messing with those prunes. No offence." I quickly flash a sugary-coated smile at the Elven King before nearing the old Wizard.
He seems as if he has been through hell and back; his clothes are worn off, he's covered in dirt and the usual air of tranquillity and balance around him is demeaned to a pitiful excuse of pride-filled exterior. Knowing that right now is not the time to ask him, as he won't answer anyway, I simply place a hand on his shoulder, a gesture of support. And that's when the feeling of darkness creeps under the skin of my arm, making the flesh, despite hidden under the clothes, change colour. Quickly stepping back and retracting my hand, I can't help the widening of my eyes and the gritting sound of my teeth.
"What-" I begin, my voice sounding harsh and at the same time scarred, but he stops me.
"Nothing worth your worry, dear, as all is well now." like usual his voice comes out soothing, reassuring, but this time I see right through this small charade.
I may have had the fortune to be born after the Necromancer was defeated, but even in the years after that, and while I grew up in the other end of the world, I could still sense the chaotic vibes that were oozing through the air whenever there was a cataclysm happening somewhere. His magic, as dark as it could possibly get, has that thick, suffocating and at the same time toxically light touch to it. Now, as I take in Gandalf's appearance for a second time I spot something off. He doesn't look like a man who had a long journey getting here. He looks like a prisoner who finally managed to escape. Allowing that to sink in, along with the thought about who, rather than what, has managed to keep the Grey Wizard captive, I take a sit, allowing my body to slump over the soft material without an ounce of grace.
"And to what do we owe the pleasure?" Thranduil's slick voice quickly snaps me out of my thoughts and I'm about to answer him, but Bilbo takes him up without any problem, his voice calm and void of its usual uncertainty.
Since the young burglar won't need my assistance with the Kings for now, I allow my eyes to close and reach out towards the connection with the ice soldiers I send to scout, having a feeling that soon I'll be grateful for the support of the chair.
Whenever I look though the ice figures' eyes, all the objects and sceneries hold that unnatural, glassy and refracted edge to them, as if I'm staring through the pieces of a huge shattered mirror, yet without the whole image being fragmented. Since they were created to fight, and not serve as an on-place see-through portals, their retinas were never polished to the point where their 'vision' would be flawless.
Now, as I allow my mind to drift hundreds of miles away, I know whatever I'll be shown won't be to my liking. The whole day, despite the work, I had a bad feeling in my gut after the disturbing dream Fenrir offered me; that's the main reason why I send three of my soldiers to check what's happening not far away from here. It was a pointless hope to cling to that it will all be fine, that it was just a misinterpretation on my part. Yet now, as my spiritual power adjusts into this new vessel, I know nothing pleasant will meet my eye. Gandalf's capture only proves that the Necromancer is if not returned completely, then at the very borders of this realm, ready to breech though the walls that have been erected to keep him out.
The scenery is misshaped to the point where I feel disorientated, but having done this more than a dozen times, despite being unpleasant to the highest degree, I command my limbs, now made of ice, to move until I have full control over this body. Refocusing my sight is a matter of concentration and practise, but once perfected, it takes seconds. The picture clears enough so that I manage to see to an acceptable level. All three of my warriors are hiding behind rocks, their tall and easy to spot bodies now standing out like a sore thumb in this wilderness. Commanding the vessel to move, I climb up the rocks slowly, testing each and every surface until eventually I reach the top. Peeking over the edge, I bless all the Valars that this body cannot emit sounds like squeaks, groans, shouts or yells as at the scenery that unfolds before me I'd have the very least gasped quite prominently or even worse, shrieked. There are hordes and hordes of Orcs as far as the eye can see. The ground, despite being rather colourless even without them, now seems black and acquires the illusion of quick sands – shifting constantly and highly dangerous. Carefully scanning as far as I can, I spot Wargs as huge as horses perched on strategically high places, so that if someone nears, they'll be able to sniff him out. Thankfully, ice, even the magical one the soldiers are made off, has no scent or taste so at least I'm in no direct danger. Further back amongst the troops of Orcs, chained and forcibly made to lie down, are also some of those weird mammoth-like creatures with attached war machines to them. The same machines that breach walls, make stone turn into dust and leave nothing but ruin in their wake. Yet even they don't manage to frighten me as much as the unbelievable amount of Orcs that's gathered in this valley. Once again I send a silent prayer of gratitude that the warriors weren't created with the basic human senses – apart from being deprived of normal vocal response, they also lack the wonders of hearing and sense of smell, for both of which I'm happy. The sheer sight of all those rotting corpses, drenched in blood, mud and whatnot makes me wanna gag, and the ability to be able to actually smell them would have knocked me straight out. Giving another criticising scan, I notice they are extremely heavily armed, with weapons that vary from an interpretation of a sword to a sick mishap of a machete and a mace. Not being able to hear their foul speech, the blood-freezing clatter of their blades, or the way they tear the meat straight out of their still living victims, even if it's one of their own kin, is a defect I never thought I'd be grateful for. Deciding I have had enough, I slowly crawl back down the steep slope and return to my other warriors, who never stopped looking around and making sure nothing would jump out and attack. Once safely grounded between them, I allow my consciousness to tremble slightly, before it returns back to my real body.
Usually when I possess one of my figures for a short amount of time, it comes with minor aftermaths – slight headache, stiff muscles, dizziness and sometimes sleepiness. Now, as I allow my mind to take its previous place, a migraine finds its way into the back of my skull, bringing a dull pulsating and overbearingly irritating pain along with it and nesting it somewhere were it'll bug me throughout the rest of the day. With a low groan I raise a hand and pinch the bridge of my nose. Carefully sitting back up and allowing my head to rest against the back of the chair, my ears catch the end of Thranduil's what could have only been one rather long monologue.
"… These Orc armies you speak of, Mithrandir. Where are they?" the smugness in his soft tone makes me want to growl.
Instead of bringing forward one pretty nasty side of mine, I try to open my eyes and tell them what I saw, until a hand on my shoulder stops me. Looking up, I see Gandalf's stormy eyes now slightly narrowed at the King, who obviously has way too high opinion of himself.
"Unfortunately they are closer than you think." to my utter amazement, my voice comes out as a hoarse whisper, my dry throat making me cough.
Rubbing at my neck I'm about to speak, when the tent's flipping end that was supposed to be impossible to open is sliced through and a bunch of Elves enter, their weapons trained on me. The room falls into an eerie silence as my still rather sluggish brain tries to process what's happening. As reality slips past my fingers, the dread of knowing what will happen and, even worse, not being able to warn them of the danger, I begin to claw at the blanket of darkness that's quickly circling me. But all is in vain – having spent too much energy in maintaining a strong enough bond to see clearly while in another vessel, now my powers have yet once again reached a critical minimum. As the sound around me fades away and my body goes numb, I can only hope that Gandalf will manage to talk them out of attacking Erebor and rather combine their powers and prepare for war. One last thought that manages to sneak between the cracks of the darkness is how ridiculous it is that what takes for two proud Kings to reach an agreement will be a common enemy that will threaten to wipe them all out.