Chapter 16,

Elena stirred beneath the folds of her cloak, the early light of morning slipping through the wooden slats of the hall in warm, slanted beams. Dust motes danced lazily in the air, and somewhere outside, birdsong welcomed the dawn. She shifted slightly, and the soft rustle of hay beneath her brought a groan to her lips as her stiff muscles protested. Her spine cracked in two places as she sat up, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

Every bone ached—but oddly enough, she felt better than she had in days. Her body might've been sore, but her mind was clearer, her limbs steadier. Sleep had come easier in Beorn's hall than on any trail and with good reason.

Next to her, the chestnut horse raised its head from its feed, its soft, curious eyes watching her stir. It let out a low breath before stepping closer and gently brushing its velvety nose against her cheek. Elena smiled and reached up to stroke its muzzle with fond familiarity.

"Well, good morning to you too," she murmured, her voice low and affectionate. "You're just as sweet as I remember."

The horse nickered softly, seeming to recognize her touch. She gave it a final pat before stretching and rising to her feet, brushing hay from her cloak. Her joints protested, but she welcomed the ache—it meant she was healing.

Across the room, murmurs caught her attention. The dwarves were all awake and clustered near a small rectangular window. Their expressions were a mix of wariness and confusion as they peeked through the wooden shutters. None had drawn weapons, but the tension in the air was unmistakable.

As Elena approached, Bilbo turned and gave her a small wave, gesturing her over. "There's someone outside," he said, his voice pitched low.

She frowned slightly and wove through the group until she could see. Outside, standing at the edge of the clearing, was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a powerful presence. Even though he wore no weapons and made no move toward the house, his stance was commanding—calm but unmistakably wild.

Elena's expression softened instantly. "That's Beorn," she said, almost fondly.

"You know him?" Thorin asked, his tone edged with surprise.

She nodded. "Yes. We're old friends." Her gaze stayed on the figure outside. "He can seem intimidating, especially like this. But he's kind. Protective. And he doesn't take well to strangers trampling through his lands without cause—but he won't hurt us."

Fili raised a brow. "You're sure about that?"

A small smile touched her lips. "He's not just a friend. He's someone I trust with my life. He pulled me out of a snow-covered gorge when I couldn't stand." Her eyes narrowed slightly as she glanced toward the group. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't be respectful. He doesn't like loud voices or unnecessary chatter."

Dwalin grunted. "So… don't poke the bear."

Elena gave a dry chuckle. "Exactly."

There was a pause as the dwarves adjusted to the information, some still clearly uneasy, others quietly relieved. Thorin studied her for a long moment before giving a curt nod. He didn't like surprises—but he liked Elena. That was enough.

Bilbo stepped aside so she could see more clearly. Beorn hadn't moved. He was watching, calm and steady, as the sun continued to rise behind him. Elena rested a hand lightly on the hilt of one of her blades—not out of need, but habit—and exhaled a slow, steady breath.

"He's waiting for me to come out first," she said. "He'll want to hear from someone he knows before he even thinks about opening his door to dwarves."

Gandalf stepped back from the window, the faint light glinting off the silver trim of his staff. He tapped it once against the floorboards, the sound sharp and deliberate, calling the company's attention. The low murmur of dwarf voices died off, all eyes turning toward the wizard. His face was calm, but there was a weight in his gaze—a quiet reminder that their next steps had to be taken with care.

"We're guests here," he said, voice even but firm. "And Beorn is not someone to be overwhelmed—certainly not with thirteen dwarves rushing out of his house all at once."

Several dwarves shifted uneasily. Bombur scratched at his beard, glancing toward the door with concern. Ori tugged slightly at the sleeve of his tunic, whispering something to Dori while Kili muttered under his breath, though not loud enough to be understood. Even Thorin looked less than pleased, his arms folded across his chest, gaze heavy with skepticism.

"We'll do this slowly," Gandalf continued. "Elena, Bilbo, and I will step out first. We'll speak with him. Once he's been properly greeted and has had a moment to see familiar faces, I'll signal the rest of you to join us—one or two at a time."

Elena was already brushing stray hay from her cloak, her expression composed. Her gaze flicked to the door, then back to the window where she could still see Beorn waiting, unmoving and quiet as the rising sun painted his figure in gold. Her voice, though soft, carried clearly. "I'll take the lead. He knows me best."

Gandalf nodded once, clearly approving. "Yes. Let him hear a voice he trusts."

Bilbo fidgeted beside the door, Sting still sheathed at his side, his eyes wide as he looked between the wizard and the towering figure in the distance. "Do you think he'll… welcome us?" he asked uncertainly.

"He'll welcome me," Elena said gently, offering Bilbo a small smile. "And that'll be enough for now."

Dwalin crossed his arms and gave a small grunt. "Let's hope your friend's as reasonable as you say, lass."

She smirked at him with a touch of playfulness. "He is. Don't make too much noise; whatever you do, don't touch anything without asking."

Thorin's gaze was unreadable as she met his eyes. He didn't speak, but the look he gave her was not doubtful—it was one of measured trust. He gave a slight nod, just enough to say, I'll follow your lead. It was quiet encouragement, and she returned it with a chin dip.

Gandalf moved to the door, unbarring it slowly. The thick wooden latch creaked open, and a breath of crisp morning air swept into the room, carrying the scent of pine, fresh earth, and distant bees. The forest beyond was quiet save for the distant calls of birds and the steady hum of sunlight pressing through the branches.

Elena stepped outside first, the soles of her boots crunching lightly over the path. Her cloak stirred behind her in the breeze, the green-grey fabric blending effortlessly with the forest tones. Bilbo followed close, his movements light but tense. He clutched his hands together to keep them from fidgeting. Gandalf was the last to exit, walking with his usual steady stride, his staff tapping rhythmically as he moved.

As they stepped into the open clearing, the rhythmic sound of chopping wood met their ears—heavy, deliberate strikes echoed through the trees like a steady drumbeat. Beorn stood near the tree line, his back turned toward them, massive and unmoving between swings. Each strike of his axe cleaved cleanly through thick logs, the blade biting deep, sending fragments of bark and splinters tumbling to the dewy grass. His robust frame moved with controlled ease, the muscles of his bare arms flexing under the strain, his long dark hair swinging lightly with the motion.

Elena slowed her steps, a quiet smile forming on her lips. The familiar scent of pine and wood smoke hung in the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of blooming flowers from Beorn's garden, hidden just behind the tall hedge. Even after all these years, this place had not changed—and neither had he.

Without a word from her, Beorn paused mid-swing. The axe came down one final time, its head embedding into a thick round of wood with a heavy thunk. He didn't look over his shoulder immediately, but Elena saw the subtle shift in his posture. He was listening. Watching. When he finally turned, the moment stretched—his dark eyes settling on her first, ignoring the wizard and the hobbit flanking her.

A rare smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Elena," he rumbled, deep and gravelly, touched with quiet warmth. He leaned one hand against the haft of his axe, leaving the blade buried in the stump, and straightened to his full towering height. "I was beginning to think the forest finally got the better of you."

"Not this time," Elena replied, returning the smirk with one of her own. "Though it gave it a good try."

Beorn's low chuckle echoed like distant thunder in his chest. His sharp eyes flicked briefly to Gandalf, then to Bilbo—who shifted awkwardly under the scrutiny—and finally toward the house, where the dwarves peeked from behind the open doorway. Their nerves were evident even from this distance.

"You've brought company," Beorn said dryly, crossing his arms. "A whole parade of it, by the looks of things."

"They're good people," Elena said calmly, her voice steady but familiar. "Trouble seems to follow them, but they mean no harm."

His brow rose slightly, though amusement glimmered behind his eyes. "I can tell. Half the warg packs this side of the river have been howling for days. I shouldn't be surprised to find you in the middle."

Elena tilted her head, only slightly sheepish. "We may have run into a few of them."

With a quiet grunt, Beorn stepped forward, casting his shadow over the neatly stacked firewood beside him. His gaze returned to the house. "They're hiding like rabbits in a hollow," he remarked, his tone between curiosity and mischief. "Are you planning to keep them tucked away, or will you introduce me?"

Gandalf cleared his throat politely. "With your permission, we'll bring them out gradually. They're not accustomed to your... scale."

"Pity," Beorn muttered, though not unkindly. "But I'd prefer they not trample my garden—or wake the bees."

"They'll behave," Elena said with a quiet laugh, glancing over her shoulder. "Or they'll answer to me."

That earned a real smile from Beorn, brief but genuine. "Still trying to keep them all in line, are you?"

"Someone has to," she replied, folding her arms across her chest. Her voice softened slightly. "It's good to see you again, bear-man."

Beorn gave a short nod, his expression warming in return. "And you, wolf-girl."

Gandalf stepped forward, raising his staff lightly. "Shall I signal them?"

Beorn didn't move, but his silence was permission enough. "Let them come slowly."

Elena stepped aside, her posture easy but alert, watching Gandalf return to the house. The breeze rustled through the grass, carrying with it the distant chirp of birds and the low buzz of bees in the hedges. The moment held a sense of balance—an unspoken understanding between two old friends standing at the threshold of calm and chaos. Whatever came next, she knew Beorn's house would offer at least a brief reprieve.

Gandalf lifted his staff, fingers poised to give the careful signal he had planned, the kind that would ease Beorn into accepting his unexpected guests. But the moment never came. The house's front door groaned behind them, and before a word could be uttered, two dwarves stepped boldly into the morning light as if the clearing were their courtyard.

"Lovely morning!" Fili called, his golden hair tousled and his expression far too casual. Kili strolled beside him, squinting at the rising sun and nodding at the pile of freshly chopped wood. "Smells like pine. That's some fine lumber work!" he added with a grin.

Elena's heart sank, and her head turned sharply toward the door, eyes wide. "Divines preserve us," she muttered, already seeing where this was going. Beside her, Bilbo winced, shrinking half a step back as if trying to disappear. Gandalf let out a slow, almost resigned sigh, his hand lowering along with his hopes for a smooth introduction.

Beorn didn't move at first. He stood with one hand resting on the haft of his axe, his chest rising and falling in a long, deliberate breath. His eyes, however, followed the dwarves with unmistakable irritation. The warmth he'd shown moments ago to Elena had vanished, replaced by a growing exasperation that etched itself across his face with every new set of boots that crossed the threshold.

The flood continued. One after another, dwarves poured out of the house like startled hens. Dori tried to guide Ori, who tripped down the step. Bofur emerged whistling with his hat slightly askew. Balin gave a slow, tired blink of disapproval that no one seemed to heed, and Bombur, true to form, waddled into the open with half a biscuit in his mouth and the other half clutched in his hand.

Thorin appeared last, his face a mask of restrained frustration. His eyes swept over the chaotic scene in front of him—thirteen dwarves standing awkwardly in a cluster, weapons still on their backs, voices overlapping in confused greetings—and for a moment, he looked like he might turn around and pretend he didn't know them.

Beorn's expression was unreadable, but the tightening of his jaw said more than words. His gaze roamed slowly across the entire company, then returned to Gandalf, who stood as still and composed as a statue beside Elena. The barman's arms remained crossed over his chest, but tension had settled across his shoulders like armor.

Gandalf cleared his throat, though the sound lacked its usual confidence. "I had… intended to introduce you one at a time."

Beorn slowly turned his head toward Elena, eyes narrowed. The faintest twitch of his lips gave him away—part smirk, part glare, wholly unimpressed. "So," he rumbled, like rolling stone, "this is your quiet company."

Elena offered a helpless half-smile, shoulders rising in a sheepish shrug. "They're better behaved when they haven't been chased by orcs for three days straight," she said. "Usually."

Beorn didn't laugh, but he did grunt—low and deep, a sound of grudging tolerance rather than humor. His gaze shifted to Thorin as the dwarf took a few careful steps forward, posture straight and controlled despite the embarrassment shadowing his face.

"We meant no offense," Thorin said respectfully, inclining his head slightly. "The fault is mine. I should have kept them in line."

Beorn's dark eyes lingered on him a moment longer before he turned, striding back to his chopping block with his usual thunderous grace. His large hand gripped the handle of his axe, pulling it free from the split log. "You'll find breakfast inside," he muttered over his shoulder. "I don't like chaos before tea."

The dwarves blinked, then exchanged glances—some relieved, others still too stunned to respond. One by one, they began shuffling back toward the house, quieter this time, their bravado dampened by the weight of Beorn's presence. Even Bofur kept his mouth shut, and Bombur clutched his half-eaten biscuit like it might shield him from judgment.

Elena lingered behind for a moment, watching Beorn's back as he returned to stacking firewood, his movements brisk but no longer hostile. She could sense the tension hadn't vanished—it had been leashed.

"I'll talk to him," she murmured to Gandalf, her voice low.

The wizard gave her a sideways glance, tired but trusting. "Please do. Before he decides breakfast might taste better with the dwarf in it."

With a quiet exhale, Elena turned and followed the others back toward the house, mentally preparing for the conversation she would need to have. Beorn had welcomed them—for now. But his tolerance was not limitless, and Elena knew better than anyone that respect, once strained, could splinter like rotten wood.

Beorn's axe cleaved through another log, the sharp crack of splitting wood echoing through the clearing. He moved with calm, deliberate purpose, his towering frame casting long shadows in the rising light. But Elena's approach didn't go unnoticed. Her steps were quiet, as they had always been, but now they carried a stiffness—each movement a little too measured, a little too careful. Her posture was wrong, too tight across the shoulders, and now and then, a flicker of discomfort twitched across her face when she thought no one was looking.

He watched her reach for a log and pause, her hand hovering mid-motion. The moment hung in the air, and then she bent to lift it—too slowly. She flinched as her fingers closed around the bark, and that was all it took.

The axe didn't fall again. Beorn stepped forward, his boots making barely a sound despite his size. The clearing, usually filled with birdsong and breeze, felt utterly still. He stopped before her and spoke low, with that quiet strength that seemed to shake the ground more than any shout.

"You're in pain."

Elena straightened, the movement stiff and followed by a shallow intake of breath. "It's nothing," she said too quickly. "Just… long days. My body's being dramatic."

Beorn didn't move aside. He leaned in slightly, voice low and heavy with meaning. "Don't insult either of us with that answer. Show me."

For a moment, she said nothing. Her eyes lowered, lips pressing into a thin line. Then, with a sigh of resignation, she reached up and drew down the edge of her cloak. Beneath it was the collar—crude, blackened metal etched with jagged runes, each humming faintly with an unnatural thrum. It didn't gleam in the light. It drank it, swallowing warmth and color like a parasite.

The breath left Beorn's lungs in a slow, quiet rush. His expression darkened—not anger at her, but at what he saw. His hands curled into fists at his sides, one flexing around the hilt of the axe still resting in the chopping block. "Who put that on you?"

Her voice was tight, controlled. "The Goblin King said it was a gift. For Azog."

Beorn didn't speak for a long moment. When he did, it was with ice in his voice. "He meant to break you."

She nodded. "It hurts," she admitted. "Constantly. It grinds against my spine and lungs. It makes every breath heavier than the last. It's not a chain—it's a warning. Every moment it stays on, it feeds on my strength. I can't take it off. Gandalf tried. The magic is older than either of us. Deeper."

Beorn's eyes stayed fixed on the collar, but his thoughts had gone elsewhere—specifically, to a certain king deep in the northern forests. "Thranduil doesn't know about this?"

"He doesn't," she murmured, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear, though her hand trembled slightly. "He hasn't seen it yet. I'm hoping he'll be able to remove it. If anyone can undo this curse, it's him."

Beorn exhaled through his nose, a heavy rumble vibrating low in his chest. "He's ancient and proud but not unfeeling. He'd burn down the world for you."

"I know," she whispered. "But he's not here."

Beorn stepped closer and gently laid a hand on her shoulder—not demanding, not prying, just present. Grounded. His hand was warm despite the morning chill, steady in a way few things were. "If he doesn't come soon, I'll go to him myself," he said. "And if he can't remove it, I'll find someone who can."

Elena blinked, then laughed softly—just once, a bitter but grateful sound. "You always did know how to make impossible things sound simple."

Beorn's mouth curled into the barest of smiles. "That's because you're the only one who thinks they're impossible."