Chapter 17,
The wind stirred through the clearing again, brushing past them like a whisper. The collar pulsed once against her throat, and Elena winced, but this time, she let Beorn steady her. She didn't lean, not fully, but she allowed herself to rest, just for a moment, in the presence of someone who knew what it meant to carry pain in silence.
"You don't have to be strong every second," he said. "Not with me."
"I know," she said quietly. "But strength is all I've had for a long time."
He didn't argue. He didn't need to. His presence said enough.
Elena and Beorn approached the house together, the silence between them companionable but weighted. Though her posture remained upright, there was a stiffness in her gait, a quiet tightness in every movement that hadn't been there weeks ago. She masked it well, but the lingering throb at the base of her skull and the ever-present burn of the collar against her throat reminded her with each step that she was not the same as before. Still, the calm around Beorn's home eased something in her—his land was sacred, untouched by the chaos of kingdoms and thrones.
Inside the great wooden hall, warmth enveloped her. Firelight flickered in the hearth, painting soft amber light across carved beams and woven furs. The dwarves were gathered around a long table crafted from a single split tree trunk, their voices low and contented as they shared a humble breakfast. Clay pitchers of milk, honeyed oats, fruit, and thick slabs of bread were passed between them, a rare moment of peace etched across weary faces. Even Bilbo looked rested, seated between Ori and Balin, cradling a steaming mug in both hands like it was the greatest treasure in Middle-earth.
Beorn entered behind her, silent but commanding. He moved to the sideboard without a word and began pouring milk into thick wooden cups with a craftsman's care, his large hands steady despite their size. Elena reached a seat near the hearth, lowering herself slowly, carefully. The fire soothed her bones, but she could feel the collar press against the base of her neck with every breath, as though it resented the warmth.
Without asking, Beorn brought her a smaller cup, filled not with milk but with dark, fragrant tea. Before offering it, he pinched a small blend of crushed herbs from a leather pouch at his side and sprinkled it in; the delicate scent of peppermint, willow bark, and lavender rose with the steam. Elena caught the sharpness immediately, inhaling slowly as the aroma washed over her senses. It was a blend he'd given her once before—an herbal remedy to dull pain and restore clarity.
Her eyes met his as she accepted the cup. She said nothing but dipped her head in quiet gratitude; their look speaks volumes. Beorn returned to the table without comment, casually handing out the last milk. His silence, as always, was never empty.
Then, he turned his attention to the head of the table.
"You are the one they call Oakenshield," Beorn said, his voice rolling across the room like distant thunder. "Tell me—why is Azog the Defiler hunting you?"
The words snapped through the gentle hum of conversation like a crack of lightning. Thorin, seated at the far end with a half-eaten wedge of cheese before him, froze mid-motion. He lowered the blade he'd been using, setting it gently beside his plate, and looked up slowly to meet Beorn's gaze. His expression was guarded but not defensive—this was not an unfamiliar question, but it was rarely asked so directly.
"You know of Azog?" Thorin asked, eyes narrowing slightly. "How?"
Beorn crossed his arms, standing tall even among warriors. "The wargs howl his name through the hills. I've seen their packs move unnaturally, driven by something cruel and singular. They followed your trail for weeks. That kind of devotion is earned only through hatred… or command."
The table had gone silent. Bombur paused with bread halfway to his mouth, and Dwalin's hand drifted to the hilt of his blade without thinking. Even Gandalf shifted slightly, his brows drawn tight above thoughtful eyes.
Thorin stood slowly, every inch of him bristling with controlled energy. "He hunts me because I shamed him," he said, voice low but clear. "He murdered my grandfather at Azanulbizar. I stood over his body when the battle was done, and I buried my sword in the pale corpse of his kin. I thought him dead—but he crawled out of the dark to hunt me still."
Beorn's expression didn't change, but his gaze lingered. "Then it is not just chance that brings him to your heels," he said. "He hunts you as a symbol. He wants you broken."
Thorin didn't flinch. "He won't have me."
Across the table, Elena watched in silence, the herbal tea warm in her hands. The pain in her throat eased slightly—just enough for her to sit straighter. She knew what Beorn was doing. This wasn't just a conversation. This was the weighing of character—a test. Beorn didn't offer his protection freely. He gave it to those whose causes were worthy and whose hearts remained unbroken in darkness.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth as a heavy silence settled over the table, the weight of Beorn's words anchoring the room. The comfort of breakfast dimmed beneath the reality of what lay ahead. Mugs were lowered, forks forgotten mid-bite. Even Bombur, whose plate was still piled high, paused with a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. Beorn's hall's warm, earthy stillness now felt like the last breath before a storm.
"You'll need to reach the mountain before the end of autumn," Beorn said, his deep voice reverberating through the wooden beams like the low growl of distant thunder. His gaze fixed on Thorin, sharp and unwavering. "If Erebor is your destination, then time is no longer your ally."
Gandalf inclined his head slightly, resting both hands atop the crook of his staff. "Before Durin's Day," he added solemnly, and the gravity in his voice seemed to draw the firelight dimmer for a breath. "When the last light of the sun and moon share the sky. It's the only chance you'll have. Miss it, and the door will remain sealed for another age."
Around the table, unease rippled through the company. Balin furrowed his brow, muttering softly under his breath. Dori exchanged a glance with Nori. Ori paled. Even Fili and Kili looked less assured than usual, the weight of their lineage pressing heavier on their shoulders. Across from them, Thorin rose to his feet slowly, as though burdened by more than just the crown of his heritage.
Beorn watched the dwarves with narrowed eyes, his expression unreadable beneath the heavy shadows of his brow. "Then you're already behind," he said flatly. "And you'll not catch up if you follow the old paths."
Elena remained quiet near the hearth, nursing the last warmth from her tea. Though the herbs dulled the pain slightly, the collar around her throat never truly let her forget it. It pulsed steadily beneath her skin, a cruel reminder of the countdown she was living by. Her fingers clenched around the clay cup as she dared to hope—if they could make it to Mirkwood quickly enough, if Thranduil were still close to the borders, maybe, just maybe, he could remove this cursed thing before it consumed her entirely.
Gandalf's eyes briefly flicked in her direction. She felt it—his unspoken concern. He knew. Maybe not the full depth of it, but he understood enough. His gaze lingered briefly before he turned back to the others.
"That's why we're taking the path through Mirkwood," he announced, his tone leaving no room for argument.
A heavy silence followed. No one cheered. No one even sighed. The very mention of the forest seemed to smother the breath from the room.
Beorn snorted, folding his arms across his massive chest. "A quicker path, yes," he muttered, "but you'd be better off walking through fire. That forest is sick and twisted. The light doesn't reach the roots anymore. It devours the unprepared."
"I'm aware," Gandalf replied calmly. "But we have no time for caution."
Elena set down her cup, jaw clenched, her body aching in too many places. The thought of entering Mirkwood while still bound by the collar was daunting, but the alternative—delaying and growing weaker—was far worse. She couldn't afford to slow them down. Not now. Not when they were already racing the sun.
Beorn's gaze swept the company again, lingering this time on Thorin. His tone dropped, lower and colder, though not unkind. "As much as I hate dwarves," he said bluntly, "with their greedy hearts and blind pride… I hate orcs more."
Thorin met his gaze without flinching, his stance firm despite the insult. There was no apology in Beorn's voice—only brutal honesty forged from years of solitude and war.
"So," Beorn continued, the firelight casting a wild shimmer across the scar trailing down his face. "Tell me, Oakenshield—what do you need?"
The dwarves looked toward Thorin, and even Gandalf paused, giving the king-in-exile space to speak. For a moment, Thorin said nothing, his eyes dark with the weight of what was to come. Elena could see it in his face—he was not just asking for supplies. He was asking for passage, silence, protection along the edge of a path that might kill them all.
Thorin stood tall, though the weariness behind his eyes was unmistakable. The burden of kingship hung heavy on his shoulders—no crown rested there yet, but the weight of his people's hopes was a far heavier. He glanced around the table at his companions, seeing the hunger in their eyes not just for food, but for purpose, for forward motion. Then his gaze shifted back to Beorn, and he gave a respectful incline of his head, his voice calm but resolute.
"We could use food and supplies," Thorin said, each word chosen carefully. "Enough to carry us to the forest's edge. And ponies, if you have them to spare. We won't be able to move quickly on foot, not with what lies ahead."
Beorn studied him for a long moment, his silence the kind that said he was measuring more than just the request. But then, with a slight nod, he turned away. "You'll have them," he replied. No ceremony. No pause to weigh the cost. Just the promise of aid, given with the weight of a man who kept his word once it was spoken.
He strode toward a side door near the stables, the floorboards groaning faintly beneath his boots. His massive frame disappeared into the dim corridor, and soon after, the muffled sounds of movement echoed through the walls—rattling harnesses, the rustle of feed sacks, and the low, calming tone of Beorn speaking to his animals in the old way.
Around the table, the dwarves stirred from their silence. Relief eased into their shoulders like a sigh passing through the room. Balin murmured something quietly to Dwalin, and Bofur cracked a weak smile, already reaching for another slice of bread. Bombur, reassured by the news of ponies and provisions, took it as permission to continue eating in earnest.
Elena remained near the hearth, her fingers curled around the empty mug of tea Beorn had given her earlier. Though her body ached and the collar at her throat continued its steady burn, the quiet warmth of the fire and the peaceful creak of the house around her offered a temporary balm. She watched the door Beorn had vanished through, her thoughts turning inward. It was easier to carry pain in silence than to let others shoulder it for her. But Beorn had noticed, and so had Gandalf—and she knew their silence now was not ignorance, but trust.
The wizard approached quietly, his boots making little sound on the wooden floor. He didn't speak right away. Instead, he settled onto the bench beside her, the weight of his presence like the calming pressure of a hand on a wound. Together, they sat in companionable quiet as the fire popped and shifted before them.
"He's always been one to keep his word," Gandalf said at last, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Even when it's difficult. Even when it costs him."
Elena's gaze stayed fixed on the dancing flames. "He's saved me more than once," she said softly. "Even when I didn't ask him to."
Gandalf turned slightly, eyes narrowing as they traced the subtle grimace in her jaw, the faint sheen of fatigue behind her steady gaze. "The collar's worse than I thought," he murmured, more to himself than to her.
She didn't deny it. "It doesn't stop," she whispered. "Not for a second. And if it keeps draining me like this… I won't be much use by the time we reach Erebor."
Gandalf said nothing, only lightly touching her in a silent reassurance. She felt the warmth in his fingers—not magical, just human. Just kind. It reminded her she wasn't as alone in this as she sometimes felt.
From outside, the stable doors creaked open. Hooves thudded against the packed dirt as Beorn led a pair of ponies loaded with modest saddlebags. He moved with quiet efficiency, securing feed and water-skins, tying down bundles of dried meat and hard bread. His hands, massive and calloused, handled the reins with surprising gentleness, speaking to the animals under his breath as they flicked their ears and snorted softly.
Sunlight poured into the house through the open doorway, casting golden warmth across the floorboards. Morning had taken complete hold of the sky, and with it came the knowledge that their time at Beorn's sanctuary was nearly done. The forest waited. The mountain loomed.
Elena rose slowly, muscles stiff and protesting, but she forced herself upright with the ease of someone used to walking through pain. She stepped into the light, following the others as they gathered their things.
The company stepped out into the crisp morning air, the warmth of Beorn's hall fading behind them as golden sunlight spread across the clearing. Dew clung to the tall grasses, glittering like diamonds on every blade. A cool breeze swept through the field, stirring loose strands of Elena's dark hair as she paused in the doorway, blinking against the brightness. For a moment, there was stillness—a fragile, fleeting peace before the weight of the road returned.
The dwarves murmured in quiet surprise at the sight before them. Standing at the pasture's edge were a group of ponies—sturdy and well-fed, their coats gleaming under the rising sun. Two were striking: one as black as the shadowed forest behind them, and the other a snowy white with a gray-dusted muzzle. Both had been saddled and packed with care—simple gear made well, fastened with strong cords and firm buckles. The remaining ponies, mottled in shades of brown and gray, shifted restlessly but not fearfully, their ears twitching as the dwarves approached.
And beyond them stood two full-sized horses.
One was a tall, sleek black stallion—its mane thick and slightly windblown, its movements regal and fluid. It stamped once against the ground, tossing its head as Gandalf approached with the slow familiarity of someone who'd met the creature before. The wizard placed a calming hand on its neck, murmuring something low in a language none of the others spoke, and the horse stilled at once.
The second was a chestnut mare with a pale blaze down her nose and gentle amber eyes. Elena stopped in her tracks when she saw her. Recognition flared immediately in her chest—this was the horse from last night. The one who had leaned down and nuzzled her as she lay in the hay. The one whose breath had been warm on her cheek when she'd thought the world's weight might finally crack her bones.
The mare stood patiently near the gate, saddled and calm, watching her with a quiet intelligence. There was no mistaking how her ears perked the moment Elena stepped forward, or the soft huff she released, as though greeting an old friend.
Elena crossed the clearing in a few quiet strides, her aches dulled by the moment of peace. She reached out a hand, and the mare stepped forward without hesitation, pressing her warm muzzle into Elena's palm. The gesture was simple, but it made her chest tighten.
"Looks like someone claimed you for the road," Gandalf said, appearing beside her with his black mount in tow. His eyes twinkled with knowing.
"She found me last night," Elena murmured. "I guess she's decided to keep me."
"She's a wise one," Beorn's voice rumbled from the stable entrance. He approached with his arms crossed, watching them all with his usual unreadable calm. "She was half-wild when I took her in. Never let anyone near her—until now."
Elena ran her hand down the mare's soft neck, feeling the solid heartbeat beneath warm muscle. "I think she understands what I am."
"More than most people do," Beorn muttered, but not unkindly.
Behind them, the dwarves had begun strapping their belongings to the ponies, checking saddlebags, adjusting stirrups. Thorin stood off to the side with Balin and Dwalin, giving quiet instruction while Gandalf helped Bilbo secure his small pack. There was no laughter this morning, only a focused silence—the kind that came before stepping into danger.
The edge of the wildwood loomed in the distance, dark and tangled, the shadow of Mirkwood creeping long across the valley.
Elena looked toward it, her hand still resting against the mare's neck. Her throat ached, the collar pulsing like a slow drumbeat beneath her skin, but for now, just now, it was quiet. She exhaled slowly and whispered, "Let's see how far we can go before it catches up."
The last packs were secured, saddle straps tightened, and bedrolls fastened as the company made final checks beneath the late morning sun. Despite their calm, a certain tension hung in the air, thin and taut, like a drawn bowstring. Even the ponies shifted more than before, their ears flicking nervously, hooves tapping restlessly against the ground as though sensing the weight of what was coming.
Beorn stepped to the center of the clearing, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow over the grass. His eyes swept over the group one last time, lingering briefly on Elena. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like thunder held behind teeth.
"Ride hard. Don't stop until you reach the edge of the forest. The Orcs are still moving but haven't caught your scent yet. If they do…" He let the warning hang unspoken, but the implication was clear. "They won't risk the forest—but they'll try to cut you down before it."
Gandalf gave a solemn nod, already astride his dark horse. "We'll make it," he said. "We have no choice."
Another howl followed, closer this time, and then a third. The wargs had caught their trail.
The ponies shifted, muscles tense beneath their saddles. Gandalf's stallion stamped once and raised its head, ears flicking toward the hills as if preparing for the charge. The dwarves turned their heads, and even Bombur stopped chewing mid-bite. Silence fell, broken only by the rapid beats of nervous hearts and the distant drum of oncoming paws.
"No more waiting," Gandalf said, his voice as sharp as steel drawn from a sheath. He raised his staff high, his cloak snapping in the wind. "Ride!"
At once, the company surged forward.
The ponies sprang into motion, hooves pounding the earth like war drums. Dwarves leaned low into their saddles, gripping the reins with both hands as they thundered across the field. Gandalf led them at the front, his dark horse cutting a straight line for the looming shadow of Mirkwood. Elena was not far behind, her mare's powerful strides swallowing the ground beneath them with relentless rhythm.
Wind tore through her hair, and the ache in her body became secondary to the adrenaline flooding her veins. Behind her, the howls grew louder, nearer—no longer distant echoes but sharp cries of bloodlust carried on the breeze. She didn't dare look back, but she felt them in the earth, in the marrow of her bones. The collar burned hot against her throat, its cruel magic flaring with each jolt and bounce in the saddle, but she clenched her teeth and pressed forward.
The forest loomed ahead, rising like a jagged wall of shadow and bark. Sunlight died where the branches met the earth, no breeze stirred and no birdsong survived. Elena's breath hitched in her chest. The air itself felt heavier near Mirkwood's edge—tainted somehow, thick with the weight of things long forgotten and better left undisturbed. But it was refuge. It was survival.
Beorn's warning echoed in her memory: The orcs won't follow you into the trees, but they'll try to cut you down before you reach them.
Gandalf shouted something over the roar of hooves, and Thorin barked a command in Khuzdul. Fili and Kili veered to the right to help shield the rear, their ponies kicking up dust and earth as they pushed harder. Bilbo clung to his saddle with grim determination, his face pale but focused, and his eyes never leaving the treeline ahead.
Elena urged her mare forward, whispering encouragement under her breath despite the pain digging like claws into her throat and spine. "Just a little farther," she murmured. "You can do this. We both can."
The edge of Mirkwood was only moments away now. The air grew colder, the trees taller. Behind them, the shrieking growls of the wargs reached a fever pitch, and she knew—if they slowed for even a breath, they wouldn't make it.
They had to run through the threshold of shadow and trust that the darkness was safer than the jaws closing in behind them.
The company slowed at the final stretch, hooves churning the grass into damp earth as the shadow of the forest fell over them like a curtain. The ponies balked, eyes wide, nostrils flared, reluctant to come any closer. Mirkwood stood before them, vast and ancient, its towering trees packed so tightly together that even the sunlight seemed afraid to enter. The air felt heavier here—still, unmoving, as if the forest itself were holding its breath.