Enjoy!
Kill Your Heroes
Chapter 5
"Marigold, why do you close your eyes whenever I brush your hair?" Belba asked one day. Marigold sat on a stool with Belba standing behind her. A tall wooden mirror reflected them both.
She shrugged.
"I am not hurting you, am I?"
Marigold shook her head.
Belba clicked her tongue. "Well, I'm done now, so you may open your eyes."
Marigold flew off the stool before Belba had even finished speaking. Her gaze carefully skirted the mirror.
"Oh no you don't," Belba called, catching Marigold's arm. "Stay still a moment and look at yourself." She tugged the squirming girl back in front of the mirror. Marigold clenched her teeth and resolutely kept her gaze pointed at the floor.
Belba tsked. "Marigold, enough. This behavior has gotten out of hand. What are you so afraid of?"
"I am not afraid!" That was both the truth and a lie. Marigold was not afraid. Jude was terrified.
"Then why will you not look in the mirror?"
"Because I don't want to!"
"Marigold, this is ridiculous. Look up!"
"No!" she shrieked, hitting a painful pitch that only girl's under the age of ten and cats could reach.
"You are being unreasonable!"
"What on earth is going on?" Rudigar called from the doorway, the yell drawing him out from his study.
Marigold sagged in Belba's arms. After a hard pinch to the tender skin of her inner wrist, tears began collecting in her eyes.
"Father…" she sniffled, hoping to win his sympathy. She could see his heart lurch before Belba went and opened her mouth and ruined it.
"Rudigar, she refuses to look into the mirror. I have let her antics go too far. It is a queer behavior, and she needs to learn to listen to me when I tell her something."
He turned his gaze back to Marigold. "Now, Marigold, why are you afraid of the mirror?" he asked with concern so genuine it made her stomach clench.
"I am not afraid!"
"Oh? Then why won't you look at it?"
"I just don't want to!" she cried. Her chest began heaving. She was toeing the line of outright hysterics.
Sensing what he thought was to be a tantrum, Rudigar hardened his resolve. "Marigold, you are to listen to your mother and look into the mirror."
Fat tears began rolling down her face, but she knew she had lost the battle.
"Please, no…" she pleaded.
Her mother turned her around and hugged her tight. "Marigold, I would never do anything that would harm you. Your father and I love you so, so much. There is simply nothing to be afraid of. You have to trust us, alright?"
Despite the fact that she felt as if her second breakfast might make a reappearance, Marigold dutifully nodded her head and allowed herself to be turned around.
A small, round face peered out behind a mane of wild, auburn curls. Two green eyes blurred with tears sat above red, wet cheeks. An upturned nose dusted with freckles leaked over thin lips and a dimpled chin. A hand rose up to wipe it. Arms, uncovered in the yellow lace dress, were small and pudgy. Baby fat clung to everything.
This body was the body of Marigold Bolger. It was not that of Jude Caldway.
Something in her chest cracked.
That night she whispered to the darkness.
"Jude Caldway has long, straight, blonde hair that never needs to be brushed. Even after hours in the sun, Jude's skin never gets as tan as Marigold's natural olive. Jude has dark brown eyes that she shares with her mother and brothers. Their eyes make it obvious they're related."
That morning the rain continued to fall overhead. The company cleared camp slowly, subdued.
Marigold summoned every ounce of motivation she had to pull herself onto Storm's back. She winced as she wrapped her cloak over her shoulders. It, like most of their belongings, was no longer sopping wet, but it was certainly not dry, and none of the company seemed eager to sodden everything they owned all over again.
The day passed like the one before: cold and quiet. The rain encouraged them all to retreat into their cloaks and chatter to be sparse.
Thorin and Dwalin headed their waterlogged column followed by Gandalf and Bilbo and all the others. As usual, Marigold trailed in the rear with the pack pony. Thorin set a quicker pace than the day before, perhaps in hope to outrun the weather. She found herself wishing it would work even though she knew it wouldn't.
By midday the rain had lightened and allowed for improved visibility. The forests of Bree-land gave way to the plains and hills of the Lone-Lands, as the hobbits called it. Rudigar Bolger had said a curse held the land. No one lived there anymore. The land had little life, but an abundance of ruins.
Marigold lowered her hood to get a better look. The rain misted her face. She shielded her eyes and surveyed their surroundings.
Rudigar wasn't completely wrong. By this time in the Third Age, Eriador had been abandoned. Nothing but the ruins of the kingdom of Arnor, the fallen kingdom of Men, dotted the landscape and even those had been mostly reduced to piles of stone. Perhaps the land was cursed.
Something sparkled to the north. Marigold turned in her saddle to get a better look. At first, she decided it was the rain playing tricks on her, but as she peered through the gray haze, she became surer that she was looking at water and lots of it.
The Midgewater Marshes.
She had forgotten about the swamps. She recalled how Aragorn and the hobbits would plod painfully through the unyielding reeds and biting midges and was thankful her company was able to take the East Road.
It could always be worse, she reminded herself.
She could be cold, wet, and squishing through marshes and getting eaten by flies.
Another thought struck her.
She turned her gaze north east. Squinting, she thought she could just make out a tall shadow in the distance through the curtains of rain.
Weathertop. Amon Sûl.
The highest of all the Weather Hills of Eriador. The old watch-tower of the Dúnedain of Arnor.
A chill traced up her spine. She pulled her hood back up and wiped her face.
Her eyes continued to track the darkening shadow. As it grew clearer, she became more and more certain of one thing. She wanted to see it.
They stopped just after mid-day and took a short reprieve from the rain in the shadow of some large boulders.
"Gandalf," Marigold began coming up behind him. Gandalf turned and smiled down at her. "Marigold, how are you faring this day? I don't believe we've heard much from you this morning." He seemed the only one of the party to not have withered under the less than ideal weather.
Marigold forced herself to return his smile. "Wet, like the rest of us." She took a step closer and lowered her voice. "I have not really gotten used to measuring distance and time on the ponies just yet. Do you think we will make it to Weathertop this evening?"
Gandalf had leaned in as she spoke but pulled back suddenly. "Weathertop?" His eyes glinted. "How do you know that name?"
Marigold shifted. "Is that not what they call it now? Weathertop? Or is it still Amon Sûl?"
Gandalf's brows shot up. "Now that is a name I have not heard in over a millennia," he marveled. "How could you–" he stopped himself. "You never cease to surprise me, Marigold Bolger." He didn't look particularly happy as he said it though.
She winced and pivoted the conversation back to her original question. "Do you think we will reach it today?"
Gandalf stepped away from their shelter and peered into the misty rain. "I believe we may. As the crow flies, it is only half a day's ride. We would be hard pressed to find a better location for camp this night. The rain blows from the east." He stroked his beard. "Why do you ask?" he said, turning back to her.
For a moment, she had to resist the urge to lie. "I would like to see it."
Gandalf stared at her long and hard. "Do we need to stop there?"
Marigold caught his meaning and shook her head. "No, no. I just would like to see it. I–I know it."
Gandalf frowned. "I do not think the company shall take well to a detour, but we shall see what can be done."
Marigold shoulders loosened. "Thank you."
"Of course, my dear."
He moved to join Thorin and Balin to use his wizarding magic to do what he did best: convince others his ideas were superior to theirs.
"Weathertop? Amon Sûl?" Bilbo stepped beside Marigold to stare out at the distant hilltop.
Marigold sighed. "How much of that did you hear?"
Bilbo tucked his hands into his waistcoat. "All of it, I'm afraid. What is that place?"
Marigold looked at him out of the corner of her eye. She had forgotten how much Bilbo loved maps and the history of Middle Earth. She thought carefully over what she said. Well, the past couldn't be changed. What was the harm?
"It was called Amon Sûl in Sindarin. In the Second Age, Elendil, the first High King of Arnor and Gondor built a great watchtower on its summit. One of the palantíri, the most powerful of the three in Arnor, was placed in the tower."
"What is a palantíri?"
Marigold and Bilbo turned and found Ori standing behind them with wide, curious eyes.
"I'm sorry, I was just over here and heard you speaking of a tower, and I am trying to keep a complete record of our journey so–" Ori rambled.
Marigold fought the urge to sigh. She really needed to figure out the hearing distance of dwarves. She smiled at the dwarf. "Do not worry, Ori. It's fine. Bilbo eavesdropped first."
Bilbo coughed. Marigold ignored him and continued.
"Now the palantíri, well, they are Seven Seeing-stones made by the Elves long ago. They were given to the Númenóreans, the ancestors of the Dúnedain, and kept safe through the Fall of Númenor. They returned to Middle Earth with Elendil and were placed across Arnor and Gondor."
Bilbo's brow furrowed. "But what did they do?"
Marigold scratched the back of her neck. "Now I don't truly know how they work, but they allow for communication between each other. They can also allow the user to see great distances: leagues and leagues."
Ori's mouth dropped in awe. "Truly? How is that possible?"
Marigold shrugged. "All I know is that only those who were meant to use them, who had a right to, could truly wield them. The kings and maybe those they had appointed. It took enormous will and wisdom to use them."
"What happened to them?"
"Well, the one in Amon Súl was lost, as were many others." Marigold caught sight of Gandalf watching her with interest from across the company. She had no idea how good his hearing was either, but she was beginning to suspect excellent. She turned back to the hilltop. "I don't know where the rest are presently. They belonged to the Men of Arnor and Gondor. We won't encounter one on our quest."
Ori sighed in disappointment.
"So, the tower was abandoned?" Bilbo asked.
Marigold shook her head. "No, it was occupied for a long time. It was on that hilltop that Elendil and Gil-galad, the last High King of the Noldor in Middle-Earth, joined their armies when the Last Alliance of Elves and Men formed."
Bilbo sucked in a breath and stared out in wonder. Marigold had forgotten his love of Elves as well. He had devoured everything the Shire knew of their histories. Granted, it wasn't much, but it was considerably more than most.
"And then?"
"The Witch-king of Angmar attacked. The tower was destroyed during the war over a thousand years ago. The king was slain in its defense."
"And the palantír? It was destroyed?"
"No, the Dúnedain were able to save it, thankfully. It would have been a dangerous tool to fall into the hands of the enemy." Marigold thought she could feel Gandalf's stare burn into the back of her head. "It and another were lost later by the last King of Arnor in the Icebays in the North."
Bilbo frowned. "What a shame."
Marigold wasn't sure she agreed. They were better lost than in the wrong hands. Saruman would prove that.
"Will you tell it again?" Marigold turned and found Ori ringing his hands.
"Pardon?"
"When I can write it all down? Will you tell me again?" Ori urged.
"If you'd like," she said, skeptical that a dwarf would care to hear the history of Men.
"Tonight then?" Ori asked.
"Um, of course?" she replied, uncomfortable at the eagerness in Ori's eyes.
"Thank you!" he said with a bow before hurrying over to his brothers who had watched the interaction carefully.
"Well, I dare say you have made one dwarf very happy this day," Bilbo teased. "You may have even made a friend."
Marigold frowned.
She tracked their approach to Weathertop obsessively throughout the day. The hill drew her gaze like a beacon. She couldn't tell if they were going to reach it by nightfall or if they'd pass it and camp further down the Old Road. Her perception of distance was skewed by the misty rain. At least that's what she told herself. If she were being honest, she had never been a good judge of distance. As Marigold or Jude.
Her anxiety ebbed and flowed all day. For reasons she couldn't really name, she wanted desperately to camp at the hill.
So it was with great relief that as the afternoon waned, the company found themselves near its foot, and Thorin announced that they would stay in its shadow that night. Marigold slumped in her saddle, relaxed for what felt like the first time that day.
Gandalf led them then. He directed them to the western flank of Weathertop, where they found a sheltered hollow, at the bottom of which there was a bowl-shaped dell with grassy sides. The area was damp, but not as waterlogged as the rest of the land. The wind blew from the east, leaving the hollow protected from the worst of the rain.
The company settled in with a familiar rhythm. Ponies were unburdened, packs were undone, and dinner begun.
Bofur had built a large fire that hissed when the stray drop drifted into the dell. Marigold watched it from her bedroll at the edge of camp. How he managed to build one with everything so wet was a mystery to her. She supposed it could be another dwarvish secret. Or simply just something travelers learned to survive.
"Missus Bolger," Ori interrupted her musings. Marigold turned to the dwarf. "May I join you?" he asked.
Marigold raised an eyebrow and glanced skeptically around her. There wasn't anything but dirt to join, but she supposed Ori was just trying to be polite.
"Of course, and you can call me Marigold, Ori," she added.
Ori nodded reluctantly but settled next to her, nonetheless. He opened the satchel he carried with him and carefully removed a large tome and a bundle of folded cloth. He delicately unraveled the bundle to reveal a collection of glass ink pots and feathered quills.
Marigold's brow rose, impressed. "You came prepared."
Ori sniffed. "Of course. My duty is to record everything that happens on our quest," he declared, chest puffing out.
Marigold smiled. "And so, you want to learn about Weathertop because…?" she teased.
Ori deflated and blushed. "Well, I supposed that is just for me," he admitted. "I would like to learn more about Middle Earth. We have few records in the Blue Mountains," he explained, head down. "And what we have is limited in memory. Not much exists that tells tales of before the Third Age that are not more legend than history."
Her brow furrowed. "But dwarves live so long."
His hands had been busily righting bottles and straightening the quills in neat little lines, but they stilled at her comment. Ori met her eyes then. "Much of what we had was lost with the mountain."
Marigold nearly facepalmed at her own idiocy. Of course, no one stopped to grab books on the way out of Erebor in the midst of a dragon attack.
She averted her eyes and cleared her throat. "Well then, I can tell you again what I know. It's not much, but I'm happy to share it."
Ori lifted the book onto his lap and opened to a fresh page. He carefully unscrewed an ink pot and dipped a brown and gold speckled feather into the ink.
He looked up, expectant. "Please," he urged.
Marigold had the sudden impression of a teacher before a student. "Well, as I said this place was known as Amon Sûl, or Weathertop. The High King of Arnor and Gondor built a watchtower at its summit. Its ruins are likely still above us." She squinted up into the dark. "The armies of King Elendil and the last High King of the Noldor, Gil-galad, joined here in the Last Alliance of Elves and Men."
Ori's quill did not pause once in its scratching. Marigold watched it for a moment as it looped across the pages, black ink flowing in its wake.
"What for?"
Marigold turned to the campfire to see a good many of the dwarves peering back. She had failed to notice that conversation had lulled, and that the attention of the company had shifted to her and Ori.
Kili leaned forward. "The Last Alliance of Elves and Men. What was the Alliance for?"
Marigold stared at him blankly for a moment. She shook her head. "I'm sorry, you don't know about the Last Alliance?"
Kili shook his head.
"Elendil? Gil-galad?"
Kili crossed his arms then, beginning to feel insulted.
Fili interjected before Marigold could prod him again. "We know the history of our kin."
Marigold looked around at the other faces of the dwarves. "Truly?"
Gandalf cleared his throat. "Marigold, you speak of events that occurred over three millennia ago," he reminded her.
Marigold leaned back into her seat. She never thought about it that way. This history was about to become so critical, so crucial to the survival of Middle Earth, but just then–it truly didn't matter. The story was just as relevant as any other random bit of past from thousands of years ago. Nothing but a legend. Nothing but an interesting campfire story.
If only it were to stay that way.
Marigold forced a smile. "Then I think I have a story you will all enjoy," she began. "And though named the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, most of the free people of Middle Earth joined together." Marigold found Thorin in the back of the company. He was half turned away from her, but she caught his eye and nodded at him.
"Your ancestor fought with them: Durin the Fourth."
Thorin's countenance did not change, but he shifted in response, tilting his head in her direction.
"They banded together to oppose the attack of Sauron, the Dark Lord."
The shadows seemed to deepen with the name. Across the campfire, Gandalf's expression darkened. Marigold resisted the urge to shiver.
"Sauron attacked Arnor and Gondor. Ultimately, he sought the dominion of all Middle Earth. The Elves and Men formed an alliance. The Noldor, the Men of Arnor and Gondor, the Elves from Lothlorien, and the Silvan Elves of the Greatwood amassed the largest force Middle Earth has yet seen. Durin the Fourth and the Dwarves of Moria joined them."
Marigold paused. "Though I suppose it wasn't Moria then. It was Kha-" she cut herself off and eyed the dwarves. "I don't suppose you would care for me saying its dwarvish name."
Brows rose amongst the company. Balin spoke first. "You know it?"
She nodded a bit sheepishly. "I do, though I am not sure how to say it."
Fili leaned forward with a twinkle in his eye. "Try it." The company's attention sharpened.
Marigold shifted. "Um–" For the first time she sought Thorin's eyes for something like permission, though she'd deny it to her last breath. When he made no move to stop her, she tried to give voice to the words in her head.
"Khazad-dûm."
There was a beat of silence before sound erupted from the dwarves. Marigold winced, expecting anger but quickly named the sound laughter.
Fili and Kili did little to hold back their deep guffaws. Kili exaggeratedly held his stomach and leaned against his brother for support, while Fili threw his head back and laughed up into the sky. Bofur fell off the log he had been seated on. Ori at least tried to smother his giggles behind a hand. Balin and Gandalf openly chuckled at her expense. Dwalin snorted. The rest fell somewhere between the two extreme levels of mirth.
Bilbo was the only one who looked completely lost.
Marigold's cheeks lit up.
"I don't know how to speak dwarvish." She huffed and crossed her arms. Her indignation seemed to add to their amusement. She thought she might have caught a tear leaking out of Kili's eye.
"Khazad-dûm," a deep voice pronounced. The laughter faded. Marigold found Thorin's gaze. "Khazad-dûm" he repeated. The constants fell like hammer upon stone.
Marigold's attempt had been truly laughable. "Khazad-dûm" she tried again. A closer match, but she could not form the guttural drops the word required. A ghost of a smile flittered across Thorin's face. Marigold almost startled at the sight.
"What happened next?" Ori piped up. He seemed put out that his history lesson had been derailed and that he now had to share his teacher with the whole company.
Marigold welcomed the distraction. "Yes, well, the Alliance marched on Mordor." She took a breath to gather her thoughts. She may yet use this history lesson to teach some valuable lessons. Or she might make things worse.
"They met on the plains outside the Black Gate. The Silvan Elves from the Greatwood were led by their king, Oropher. They and the Elves from Lothlorien did not follow Gil-galad's orders and charged out first against the armies of Mordor. They were cut off and driven into the marshes. Over half their company perished. Oropher was killed. He was the father of the current King of the Greenwood, Thranduil, who took over command of their army when his father was slain."
The air became thick with tension, but Marigold pretended not to notice and plowed on. "The marshes are now known as the Dead Marshes. Thousands of bodies are buried there. The Alliance eventually gained the upper hand and pushed Sauron's forces back all the way into Mordor.
"They laid siege to Sauron's last stronghold, the Dark Tower. The siege lasted seven years until Sauron himself came down from the tower and joined the battle. He met the two kings, Gil-galad and Elendil, on the slopes of Mount Doom, the great volcano in Mordor. Gil-galad was struck down first. Elendil was next. His sword, Narsil, broke in two beneath him as he fell. But Sauron had been wounded in the fight, and in that moment, Isildur, Elendil's eldest son, took up the broken hilt of his father's sword and cut off Sauron's finger, on which lay the source of his power: the One Ring.
"Sauron had poured his power and soul into this ring, and when it was lost, so was he."
The company seemed to release a breath they had been holding as one.
Marigold almost smiled. Regardless of race, all males seemed to love a good war story.
Bilbo spoke up first. "Gandalf," he called out. The wizard looked surprised to be addressed. "Is it true?" the hobbit asked.
Marigold fought the urge to huff. Did Bilbo think she was making the whole thing up?
Gandalf puffed his pipe. "I cannot say for certain, Bilbo. These events took place even before I arrived in Middle Earth." He locked eyes with Marigold, and she felt as if he stared directly into her soul. "However, there are still those in Middle Earth who were there that day. Their account is much the same as what you just heard, however improbable it may seem."
Maybe storytelling had been a bad idea.
The atmosphere shifted, and the warmth of the moment chilled. Gandalf had reminded them that she knew things that she had no business knowing.
Gandalf clapped his hands. "I do believe that is enough tales for this night." His suggestion was as much an admonition to her than not.
Marigold got the hint.
The dwarves began moving around settling in to their bedrolls, and she stood to slink off to her own bed at the edge of camp.
"Thank you," Ori said in a hushed voice. Ori had begun packing up his writing materials carefully, but he rushed out the thanks before she moved too far. "I enjoyed it." He was painfully genuine in his sentiments.
Marigold smiled softly at him in return.
"Anytime, Ori," she whispered back. Not being able to help herself, she sent him a wink and watched him duck his head, embarrassed. The interaction cheered her some.
Balin stoked the ashes of the fire to keep it burning.
He had drawn the middle watch of the night. Arguably the worst shift of watch, but Balin found he did not mind. In fact, he preferred it. He did not have the strength or the speed he used to in a fight, but this was something he could do to lessen the burden of the others. As he got older, he found he did not need so much sleep as he did when he was a younger dwarf.
The company slept soundly around him. Bombur's snores miraculously tapered off around midnight, leaving only the crackle of the fire to disturb the sounds of night in the wild.
For a short while, that is.
The rustling of cloth broke the dim quiet. A body thrashed on its bedroll. Whimpers evolved into cries.
Thorin jerked awake behind him.
Balin raised a hand to stay him, watching Thorin reach for his sword.
"It is her again."
Thorin relaxed.
Balin caught Dwalin rolling over out of the corner of his eye. He must have awoken too.
Thorin stood up and moved to join Balin by the fire, falling heavily on the log next to him.
"You should try to get some more rest," Balin said, hushed to keep from waking the others.
Thorin shook his head. "I will not be able to rest with…" He trailed off, and Balin followed his gaze. They watched Marigold's body twitch and flinch in her bedroll.
"It does not bode well for our seer to have such terrible nightmares," Balin said.
"Aye, it does not," Thorin agreed solemnly.
Balin hesitated before giving voice to his next question. "Have you changed your mind on the girl?" Thorin raised an eyebrow. "Do you regret allowing her to come?" Balin clarified.
Thorin frowned and watched Marigold through the flames. "Only time will tell if I shall regret my decision, but she has–"
A gasp interrupted him.
Marigold shot up from her bedroll, chest heaving. Sweat coated her face, which she wiped at with the back of her hand. Moments passed before she appeared to try to slow her breaths.
She did not notice Thorin and Balin eyeing her wearily on the other side of the fire. She did not even glance in their direction.
Unease curled in Balin's stomach.
Just as suddenly she shot to her feet. She grabbed her swords, strapped them to her waist, and walked past the edge of camp out of sight.
Thorin made to stand, but Balin stopped him. "She needs a moment of privacy, lad." Whatever had shaken her had been deep. Thorin's presence, regardless of the reason, only seemed to antagonize the girl.
Thorin narrowed his eyes. "This land is not safe," he argued. Balin folded his hands. "It is safe enough for the moment. I will watch for her return. You should try to get some more sleep," he urged. He got little enough as it was, Balin thought, but wisely did not add. The lad put too much weight on his shoulders.
Thorin ran a hand over his face and nodded. Balin watched him settle back into his bedroll. He eyed him out of the corner of his eyes, watching Thorin stare at the fire or perhaps it was the empty blankets beyond it. Balin let out a breath of relief when he caught his eyes drifting close.
That was one problem solved at least. He turned back to watch the clearing's edge. Just one more left.
Thorin jolted awake at a firm shake.
"Thorin," Balin whispered. Without a conscious thought, Thorin reached for his sword and scanned the surroundings for danger. Balin quickly added, "she has not returned. It has been over an hour."
Thorin growled. "Stupid girl."
He had sworn it had been but a moment since his eye's had slipped close. Balin had let him sleep too long.
Thorin dragged himself from his bedroll and moved to strap on his sword.
Balin held up a hand. "I did not wake you to find her. Keep watch while I search for the girl."
"No." Thorin shook his head. "You keep watch. I will find the hobbit."
"Thorin, she did not seem…in good spirits when she left." Balin countered delicately, "I am not sure you would be the best to bring her back."
Thorin scoffed but could not find fault in Balin's words. "Fine," he relented. His eyes scanned the company. "I will take the wizard," he conceded.
Balin crossed his arms but stepped aside. "Be careful, lad." Thorin inclined his head in response.
Thorin stalked across camp to the tall figure slumped against the stone wall, pointy hat pulled low over his face.
"Gandalf," he said in a harsh whisper. Two blue eyes peered up from behind the large gray brim without a hint of grogginess in them. Thorin wondered if he had been awake this whole time.
"Yes, Thorin. What is the matter?"
Thorin huffed. "Your seer has gotten herself lost. She left camp over an hour ago and has not returned. Balin woke me." Gandalf's brow furrowed.
"But where–" Something dawned on the wizard in that moment. Something he did not seem inclined to share yet with Thorin.
Gandalf got to his feet at a far slower pace than Thorin felt the situation called for. The wizard reached for his staff but left his sword.
"I do believe I know where she has gone," Gandalf said finally, adjusting his great hat. He looked up at the hilltop. Thorin followed his gaze. Irritation burned in his chest.
She left camp hoping to clear her head, but her feet had other plans, finding the path before her mind registered their path.
She climbed to the top of Weathertop.
The last slope had been steep and rocky. Loose gravel and sharp stones dug into her hands as she had to traverse the final stretch on hand and foot. She regretted not grabbing her new gloves.
She reached the summit and had to hold back her disappointment. All that was left of the great tower was a wide ring of ancient stonework, crumbling or covered with age-long grass.
Her shoulders slumped. She didn't know what she had expected. Something that actually looked like a tower? Something that made the place feel special? There was nothing. Just a loneliness that came from a place long forgotten by time. Something ached deep in her chest.
Marigold crossed into the ring. The light of the nearly full moon cast dark finger like shadows across the flat top, allowing her to mark its features.
Rocks, dirt, and dry grass was all that was left. The shelter of the ruins, what little was left, protected the grass, and it seemed to grow longer in its shadow.
Her feet carried her to the center of the ring, the very heart of the hill. She bent over and picked at the earth.
This was where Aragorn would bring the hobbits. They would look for Gandalf and not find him, already chased off by the Nazgul. They would be attacked, and Frodo would be stabbed with a Morgul blade by the Witch-king of Angmar. He would nearly die from the injury. The wound would hurt him for the rest of his life.
She ran a hand along the cool stone.
She felt as if she were watching history in reverse, a tourist seeing things not for what they were or are, but for what they will be.
She felt so alone.
The moon moved above in the sky, but Marigold felt numb. Time felt unreal.
"Marigold?"
She did not start at the sound of his voice, nor did she turn to greet him. Her thoughts were clouded. Ice in her veins weighed down her limbs and slowed her mind.
Gandalf stepped into the ring of stone, his staff glowing with a faint light, as if he had caught a piece of the moon in its tip.
He looked down at her with pity. She couldn't even bring herself to recoil from it. "Did the tales of the past affect you so?" he murmured.
Marigold shook her head. "No, this is not the past," she replied without thought. The dirt slid between her fingers.
Gandalf looked around at the ruin. "There is not much future to be found here, my dear."
She smiled bitterly. "There is future everywhere, Gandalf."
He stared down at her, eyes pulled down in sadness. "You are chasing ghosts that are not yet here, Marigold."
Her gaze snapped to his. "All I see are ghosts, Gandalf!" she yelled. She dropped her head into her hands. The heel of her palms dug into her eyes until she saw stars. "Every night I see death," she whispered.
Gandalf approached and knelt down beside her. He put a warm hand on her shoulder.
"I am sorry, my dear, for the burden you must bear."
"I just want to go home." Her voice broke.
"I know." He rubbed circles into her back.
Marigold looked up finally and stared straight into his eyes. Her cheeks were wet. "This will work, right? If I succeed, they will send me home?"
Gandalf averted his gaze and stood. "I do not pretend to know their will."
Panic blossomed in her chest. "But surely–"
Gravel crunched, and Gandalf whipped his head around. "Ah, Thorin, you have joined us."
The wizard stood and stepped in front of her, trying to shield Marigold from the dwarf's view, but she doubted he missed her wiping harshly at the wetness on her cheeks.
"I grew tired of waiting, Gandalf. I would like to see some sleep this night," the dwarf scowled.
"I apologize. Marigold and I were just having a short discussion," Gandalf said. He turned back to the crouched hobbit. "Though I agree with Thorin. Some rest would do us all some good." He offered her a hand. "Come, Marigold, let us return to camp."
Marigold did not take his hand but stood and brushed past the wizard and Thorin. She did not spare either a glance.
The trio returned to camp quickly with the light of Gandalf's staff illuminating the path. The wizard and hobbit settled back into their places without a word. Thorin followed their example but paused to trade hushed whispers with Balin.
"Where did you find her?" Balin asked, eyes tracing Thorin's face for hints of what had transpired.
Thorin's countenance remained stony. "Up on the summit," he said simply.
Balin looked up into the dark. "What was she doing up there?"
Thorin moved his gaze to the hobbit, who had returned to her bedroll with her back to the camp.
His brow furrowed. "Chasing ghosts."
Balin raised a brow, but Thorin turned away, ending the discussion. He settled on his own bedroll and closed his eyes, willing sleep to take him quickly.
He couldn't shake the words he had heard.
Every night I see death.
His stomach tightened.
Thank you everyone for your patience waiting for this next chapter. The others should come soon. I have Chapter 6 already written and just waiting on a beta.
