The Saga of Vaenomar- Chapter 36 (at last!!)~ Calm Before the Storm

Chapter 36

~Calm Before the Storm~

Pregnant white blooms cascaded gently from the impenetrable mass of sky, covering the foothills in a blanketing blizzard. Now and again a breath of wind would tilt the path of the thick falling snow and glass-like shards of frozen air would prick and nip any skin left to the elements.

Barely visible through the heavy snow and cloud cover, the jagged, towering wall of the Grey Mountains dominated the landscape with an overpowering presence.
Had the road not come in such nearness to it, the trails of wood-fire smoke and snow-covered roof tops of Old Estenna, dwarfed to nothing by the shadow of the mountains, may easily have been missed.

The Northern-most town of men, Old Estenna had supplied their secretive Dwarven neighbours and protectors with much of their daily bread for the last several years. Or their daily meat, for that matter.
The town lay just off the road and a few of its outlying homes dwelt among the border trees of Greenwood the Great. A branch of the Forest river wound through the center of the town, allowing for boat travel and trade in the warmer months. Its people were mostly the hardy hunter-folk who had inhabited the North for countless winters, a few descendants of Dale-refugees scattered among them.

A steadily prosperous town, if somewhat sleepy- especially for a young mind full of adventurous dreams.

But Rúan’s plans were not Thorin’s plans.
With a will as rock-hard as the mountain’s flesh, the Dwarf leader had made it very clear that curious outsiders were unwelcome, no matter their good intent. Unwelcome- or not allowed.
Nonetheless, the Northman sensed that a foul wind of trouble dogged their steps.
The missing bird, the false alarm, and the disturbing tales from the Dwarves- nothing quite added up.

“You said your sister is soon to give birth, eh?” Gormna queried pleasantly as their extra companion’s destination grew nearer.

“Her second, yes. I just hope it’s not <i>another</i> girl.” The fair Northman smiled, “We’ve got quite a handful already.”

Scratching the thinning hair atop his wide pate, sending tiny ice shards scattering about, the Dwarf counselor mused thoughtfully, “Indeed. I wish I could say the same.”

Around a hilly bend they walked and immediately the beaten, frozen road to the town rolled out before them.

“So…are there…Dwarf women?” Rúan asked after a few moments of contemplation.

Gormna laughed heartily, in spite of the few cocked eyebrows and sour expressions of the others. “Well, where else d’you think we come from? Rocks? Holes in the ground?”

The tall man chuckled sheepishly, “You never see them…”

“What about the dame with Dáin’s crowd? She shared words with your sister.”

Rúan’s frost-nibbled cheeks turned even redder and he glanced around in exaggerated embarrassment, “<i>Araw’s Hoary Hound</i>! No one heard that, right?”

The older Dwarf continued, unoffended, “Granted, Lâkhi was a little on the…brusque and burly side. Ah…but a fine, fine specimen would be the Flamebraid. Sharper than a two-edged axe, strong as an aurochs, and wields a brace of any weapon fiercer than a wildfire!”

Rúan smirked, “Doesn’t really <i>describe</i> her much…”

With a huff, Gormna shrugged and pondered, “Ah…well- <i>Mahal</i>! Hmmm…yes, yes! She has hair like molten copper- eh, a bit like yours, lad- and thighs…thighs to-“

“That’s enough, Gormna,” a gruff rumble cut off the conversation and Thorin abruptly halted the march. “We’re here, Master Rúan. Safe travels.”

From under bristling eyebrows, two cold, stormy eyes glared at him, and the waiting looks from the rest of the company pushed him along. The young Northman nodded a polite bow to Thorin, avoiding his gaze. “Thank you for letting me accompany you.” He acknowledged Gormna and Gorlath with a quick look, “Safe travels and I hope all your…business turns out for the best.”

Before he even finished his words- which held more meaning than they seemed- the Dwarf leader turned and motioned for his people to follow on their way.

Left in a swirl of tinkling white dust, a lanky, lone figure stood, with heavy shoulders, and watched his chance of a lifetime march stoically away. Breath puffed away from him like the many stone-stacked chimneys down the road, and his hawk-like eyes darted uncertainly back and forth.
Just as the dark lumbering shapes melted with the grey roots of the mountains, the last dull gleam on the Dwarven axes fading away, the Northman pulled his furred coat higher on his shoulders and pinched his numb ear tips and nose. With a lung-full of biting air, he set off at a diagonal to the Northwest, away from Old Estenna.


Like a dark, creeping chain the somber company moved over the crunching mounds of snow. Any tracks left were soon blown over by gusts of mountain wind that were growing ever more frequent.
From above, through the thick blanket of clouds, the land’s balding head looked to be splotched with a soft white mold, the contrasting bare ground and sprays of hardy tussock grass sporadically breaking up the snow-drifts.

The foothills swelled and became jagged with great wounds left in their sides, belling out towards their base in massive, spearhead-shaped gullies. Leaning pines with spindly tops caressing heaven’s chin sparsely climbed the rugged shale and only the hardiest persisted in growing without air.
Settling in the many cracks, highlighting even the dullest grey stone with its purity, the snow flakes whisked playfully across the face of the mountain.
The black, craggy caves that dotted its face were like many watchful eyes. The chasm below- a lulling mask of clouds hiding the sheer incredible depth- a yawning mouth, ready to swallow and keep. On the brow sat a finely-hewn crown crafted from the bones of the earth by the hands of her children. Their magnificence waned in her shadow, but faithfully guarded her glory and power to all ends. Just as her stone-crafted children guarded treasure of all sorts.

Doubt had chewed away at him, like rust on a bloody sword. Every minute of every hour since she left, it was on his mind.
In the darkest caverns of his heart, he knew she would come back, but ever reason stood persistent at his door: ‘You don’t know that. What if there is far more to this picture than you are seeing? Like…the man…’
She would come back, he told himself.
And the moment he set foot inside the bulwark, he knew she had.

But the weights of worry pulling on his shoulders lightened only little. He felt her- like never before. No one else seemed aware of it, but something was not right. His mind was shut and barred, as if by a thick dark fog. Imaginary blinders seemed to block his peripheral view, leading him onwards like a dazed beast.
“Where is she…” he muttered.

Heaving a creaking basket of waxed cheeses and leeks high above her head and onto a shelf, then marking the last tally on her vellum scroll, Bridi dusted her hands and stepped out of the spacious pantry. She let the iron-lined oak door thump closed behind her, the lock clicking in place on its own. Before clopping off to find another task to fill her restless hours, she paused.
Voices echoed through the Great Chambers; a couple- one rattling on and on…Gormna.


Short springy steps carried her swiftly up a flight of stairs and just as she passed a doorway to the kitchen she saw a flash of steel and heard a deep purr.

She skidded to a stop and whirled around, breathlessly, “You’re back!”

He stepped out and approached her, a tumultuous sea of unrest in his eyes betrayed his outward calm.
“Safely?” she asked.

Thorin nodded and was followed by an odd, lengthy silence.

“Bridi,” he said at last, “Where is she?”

The Dwarf-woman took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, “She’s here, my lord.”

“I know. Where?”

“They told you, then,” she nodded. “It’s late enough- I’d suspect in her room.”

“Thank you, Bridi,” his tone grey more brisk and he clapped her on the shoulder as he took a quick leave.

A year ago, this would’ve ignited a fearsome rage of jealousy, enough to raze a city. But now, she breathed a deep sigh of relief. They would be safe with their king among them. <i>She</i> would be safe. And perhaps he could talk a little more sense into that feather-filled brain.

Like thick, pale eyelashes or tiny Elven boats curls of shaven mallorn lay scattered over the flickering stone. A long tendril of smoke rose to the depths of darkness in the tall ceiling as one of the candle-wicks met its end amidst a pool of melted tallow.

The room, barely warmed by the sparking fire that burned in the small hearth, was filled with as much sound as the heart that beat nearby was of mirth. Even the whittling knife, as it dug into the wooden flesh and left neat winding trails behind, was solemnly silent.

It would be over soon, the voices whispered, some calming, others terribly excited. Her mind was a dulled battle-axe; it cut through nothing and only weighed her down. The cloud that hung over her reeked of despair and blood. Each whispering wind a taunt or a cry of betrayal.

She would go to him. <i>”There is no other way…”</i>

Feverish and bloated were the things that played an unending game of chase around her mind, making her dizzy and sick and wishing nothing more than rest. A fast working disease spread not more quickly and ruthlessly than his infectious power took hold of her heart and turned it to ash. To ice. To stone…

That same heart leapt, like a real beating heart, at the rolling quiet thunder of that word.
Her bow clattered to the ground and she instinctively clasped her chest, wide eyes and trembling lips open.
Before she could speak or rise, Thorin strode towards her, a blue flame dancing in his eyes, and his face was overwrought with a kindness and caring she had never seen before.
Suddenly, as she was wrapped by two pillars of massive strength, Vaenomar felt the heat of life surge like a geyser through her veins, the grim film was wiped from her eyes and a sigh, more profound than a child’s first breath, threw off the deadweight.
She closed her eyes and let her cheek nestle into the fur that hung over his shoulders onto his chest.
Strong hands rustled her hair and their hard calloused tips brushed against her skin, sending a tremour through her whole body. His hot breath poured over her and he muttered, “Vaenomar…at last…”
Her own pale fingers slowly slid across the sleek bear fur and fiddled with one of his dangling, silver-black braids.
“My lord…” a soft murmur finally broke her silent fast, and two crystalline orbs of cold-blue raised to his. “I’m sorry…”

He took her cheek in one hand and placed the other on her shoulder, shaking his head calmly. “No, Vaenomar. No need for that. It is not you who should apologize, anyway.”

She cast her gaze onto the many tarnished chain links peeping from beneath his leather cuirass. “But I caused you worry, I know. And for that I am sorry.”

His kingly pride told him she was right, but another knife twist in his heart drove home the pain he knew she had felt, the betrayal of having her trustworthiness questioned, her loyalty doubted.
“My cousin sends honest and humble apologies, Vaenomar. I would have dragged him back here and made him grovel, but I did not think you much wanted to see him again…”

She gave a slight laugh of agreement and the curve of his moustache twisted upward in a warm smile. “He thought he was protecting me…the old fetcher. Thinks I never grew up.” A look in his eyes was far off.

At the word ‘protect’, however, he felt her shoulders tense. “As if I need protecting,” he added meaningly, watching her reaction with unmasked concern.
He had sensed Bridi’s unrest and it coincided disturbingly with his own. Though both women knew much and had told him most of it, there was an impenetrable blackness, deeper than an Erebor mineshaft., that dwelt in Vaenomar. And he did not understand.

She made no reply, seeming to shed her troubles by clinging to him. Those little warm hands, her velvet cheek, that firm, embracing form- never again would he let her run from him. Never let this feeling slip away. He could hear the dripping of his cold heart melting beneath her touch.

But his tongue couldn’t hold, it be damned! In a confidential tone peppered with light, fatherly scolding, he said, “You <i>did</i> reek of Elf, though…”

The warmth of her embrace tore away and he was met by an angry pout, “Reeked?”

What did he expect she would do? Laugh? Still, he took the defensive and snorted. “Of Elf. Which, were it not for its bearers, would probably be deemed a good smell. Where were you?”

She stood up and stepped away from him. All of a sudden she seemed to tower over him, her broad shoulders less feminine and thick-cuirassed body lost its slender litheness. He thought a heavy cloud swept ominously around her.

A Dwarf is not accustomed to feeling small or weak or powerless. They simply refuse such petty states refuge in their stalwart beings.
Thorin folded his arms across his chest and glowered.
<i>She had changed.</i>

“In the forest- scouting, keeping watch…<i>for you</i>!” she snapped and instantly seemed to regret her tone, for she shook her head, confusedly, and plopped back down onto the bed.

<i>Or had she?</i>
Letting out a steady exhale, the Dwarf lord relaxed and dropped his arms to his sides. “Vaen…” he sighed again. “I’m- sorry.” The word was unnatural to him.

Tiny diamonds glimmered in the creases of her eyes and her flared nostrils quivered.
“No,” she breathed, “I am…”

He gulped down the warmth that sought to choke him, but instead of wrapping her in his love again, as his entire person begged to, he let his jealousy flare and mask weakness.

“Why? Was it a man? How old- no, that makes no difference. Where was he?”

A bright morning’s pink flushed across her cheeks and down her neck, and the delicate fringe of her eyelashes whisked away the moisture. The graceful arch of her brows lowered drastically and she began to reply but was interrupted.

“And what was he doing so close to our fortress? Or were you in their lands? What did you tell-“

“Thorin!” a clear voice like a flute shot through him. “My lord,” she added more calmly. “I was injured in a fall. He aided me- no questions. I was at the border of our surroundings as he was his. And no, he did not recognize me.”
She thought it best to make no mention of the fact that he carried a piece of Branbur’s handiwork. Or of the kiss that left her guilt-racked for an entire week. Or that he knew well her long-lost best friend. There was no telling where a jealous mind might go.

Each word she spoke grew more strained and wavering, hot tears hovered in her eyes just waiting to make the plunge. Thorin was silent for a long moment. Downcast eyes surveying his own thoughts carefully, he let the feeling of chastisement- another foreign state of being- soak into his hardened skin. She did not deserve this.
He trusted her- Elves or no Elves.

His lips moved without his order, his voice was a quiet tender growl, “Was he handsome?”
She gazed at her fingers kneading in her lap and shook her head, but he sensed the lie and smiled. “And yet here you are…”

As a child looks uncertainly to a parent for forgiveness after a just scolding, so the young foundling turned to her lord. “I love you, my lord. Only you.”

He took her hands in his and drew rough thumbs across her small chapped knuckles. “I know, Vaenomar,” his tone was a soft rain, cool and dark, “And you will never leave me again.”

His last words, so tenderly spoken, were like one hundred lashes. She blinked and swallowed, a hesitant biting of her lips leaving them redder and even more tempting.
Scarcely audible, she said, “I must…”

His aura of calm shattered and he jerked, muscles tensing, and sucked in a breath through his nose. His ears were playing evil tricks on him.
“What?” Shock flickered across his face, “What did you say?”

Vaenomar steeled herself. The looks of wounded pride and longing faded from her placid face and her eyes met his again, but now full of stubborn resolve. The same look she’d given him when first, as such an innocent thing, she had pleaded to fight along side him.
“He killed Branbur,” she said as though numbing herself, “Perhaps Darzûn as well. He will kill you all until he gets to me. I will not let that happen…”

In a horrified snarl, Thorin planted his legs apart, “He?! Who killed them? The Elf?!”

Vaenomar shook her head wearily, her forehead creased as she searched for the answer.
“No. No… The <i>Draegk</i>.”

She seemed unmoved by the effect her strange transformation was having on him. Why was she so damned peaceful?! So…unafraid?
Branbur had acted the same way the night he died…

“The <i>Draegk</i>? A blood-sucker? How?!” he raged, the thunder of his voice like a mountain storm. “What power does he wield that the mighty sons of Durin fall like flies to him? Folly! Let the accursed bat bring its claws here and I will rip them from its body and carve out its festering heart!”

His anger seethed volcanically and furiously he stomped an armoured boot on the ground. A piteous crack sounded and all eyes were drawn to the two shivered pieces of white wood, now dead and useless.

Vaenomar’s facade shattered with her bow, and she stifled a cry with her hand.
Her look of horror dug violently into his breast and he felt suddenly empty.

“Vaen-” he began quickly, fully meaning to apologize and reclaim her with tenderness. But instead he growled, “You will not leave.”

She stood, tall and haughty, but so full of beauty and unknown power now, that it almost made him pause. Her auburn hair rolled over her shoulder in thick plaits, and her strong, aquiline nose, arching brows and solemn neat lips made every fibre of his manhood tingle. The full chest, narrow waist, powerful thighs…

A woman, not a girl, stood before him. The same, but not the same, as he had claimed for his own out of the forest. Was it chance that brought them together? Or simply fate? The gut-feeling that had whispered and nagged and teased him that day, whispered and nagged and teased him now, saying the same thing:

“Let her go…”

“Never!” he roared, steam practically billowing from his nostrils, “You will not go!! Even if I have to lock you in the Deeps- I am NOT going to lose you!”

Carefully she watched his pacing, taking a defensive stance as she faced him. “I am not a gem to be locked under key. I am not…your Arkenstone,” her voice cracked. She took a deep breath. “There is a darkness in me- and I have fought it all my life. It is in my blood. It calls to me, Thorin, ceaselessly. It is an evil that will not sleep. Remnants of the malice of <i>Melkor</i>…Morgoth…ancient and horrible beyond imagining. I will defeat it or die trying. But I will <i>not</i> let it touch you.”

Feeling his grasp slipping he scrambled madly, as a man hanging over a precipice does in a last desperate attempt to live. He marched up and seized her by the arm, bringing her down onto the bed in one fluid movement. Her legs dangled over the side and she held tightly onto the heavily-muscled arm that trapped her below him.
He bent down close and his breath scorched her cheek. “I am your king, <i>duzka</i>, and you belong to me.”

As the familiar, haunting chill of stale air crept into his bones, and the icy claws of that same strange power covered his eyes and heart in blackness, Thorin lowered himself onto her, pressing his mouth hotly onto hers in a first kiss.


Girding the twin scimitar to her hip and clasping a steel brooch about her woolen collar, Vaenomar idly let the rivulets of salt water flow down her cheeks. She could still feel the tickle of his beard on her chin, taste his wet kiss on her tongue, and hear his pained groan as he slid to the ground against the wall when her power enveloped him and sapped his strength unto its own.

And she wept as she- unable to leave with another look- fell to her knees beside him and kissed his hands and bathed them in her tears, placing her forehead against their cold, hard flesh.

“I <i>am</i> yours, my king,” she sobbed quietly, “My lord.”

At last, the young woman raised herself stiffly and bowed. Through uneven breaths, she whispered and pressed her balled fist hard against her throbbing heart. “And I love you…Thorin… Farewell.”


The entire plate of food Bridi was carrying clattered to the ground when a roar like a vengeful dragon curdled her blood to cheese.

“VAENOMAR!!” it screamed.
And again.

His voice was a hoarse bark, a wild ocean, a mourning mother. The instant she heard it, she knew what had happened.

Gormna and his brother, who had remained in the Halls after their journey, heard it too. Gorlath rounded the corner of the kitchen with wide bloodshot eyes and the older soon after, both looking to her for orders. Dread was written all over their faces.

Echoing rapidly through the many stone halls, Thorin’s heavy boots made an unsteady, thudding run for the postern door. Bridi cringed as he roared again, just before going out, then the door clanged behind him.
With a nod she ordered the brothers to follow her. So it was upon them, then, the fate she had hoped and prayed to avoid.

A plan. They needed a plan.


The sound of his heartbeat matched the speed of his feet. Branches of dead winter slapped him across the face and his shins were whipped by the sleeping foliage as he bounded agilely onwards. Madly, he tore through the woods, and a cold sweat trickled down his sides.

“They would be safe,” he kept muttering between puffs of steam, “Safe.”
But safe from what?
Tethrin’s keen Elven sense boiled in warning within him. Skidding to a stop, he caught onto a tree and leaned there, catching his breath.

The forest was deafeningly silent, even the shrill tinkling of the surrounding snow drifts halted. A surge of darkness filled the back of his eyes and a suddenly it felt as though a frozen gauntlet groped for his soul. Murmuring the blessed name of Eru, he clasped his heart, panting, gulping at the air, as the effect was replaced by a sickening, poisonous smell of dread.
So deep no human ears could sense it, a vibration of air, like giant wings flapping, made him freeze and forget to breath. Moments later a huge black shadow, spanning over many trees, sailed noiselessly overhead. Its windless wake left him hollow and trembling, and he stood for too many moments one with the tree that supported him. A hollowness filled with such evil that his knees nearly buckled, his being refused to go on.
But he did.

Mind blurred like the forest that whirled past, trying to grasp the sudden plight he found himself in, he neared the place of the Glade-Keeper camp. No guard gave a warning call or asked for a password. No sounds of life and liveliness came from his fellow Elves. They were all gone, scouring the forest…for a woman!
What kind of captain sends his men on a mission without telling them why? What did he want with her? Why was he so ill-tempered of late? Why had he hurt Eärón? And what, on this good earth, had possessed Tethrin to encourage his friend to defy the captain and offer to return with the news?!
He slowed to a jog. Grey, white and dark, slate brown wheeled around him. His temples boomed, claws seemed to dig into his shoulders, and an angry voice howled in his head.
“Alcarín is right! Eärón is betraying you.”

“No!” he gasped, but pressed on at a slower lope.

“He is tainted. The cursed blood of Man runs in his veins. He is driven by lust. <i>She</i> is a bearer of true darkness.”

Though he attempted to force the hissing voice out of his head, the memories began to roll before his eyes. Eärón had spoken of the mysterious woman in the forest very little indeed. And he <i>had</i> seemed rather perturbed ever since meeting her. That could not make her evil, though!

“Do not doubt your thoughts for they are pure and full of truth! Eärón has fallen into her snare- Alcarín wants only to protect his people: You- and all the others. Find her.” The voice melted into an almost caress-like female sound,
“Kill her.”

Mechanically, Tethrin drew his blade and walked; he had entered the clearing of tents.
Turning in a cautious circle to take in his surroundings, he sensed the source of all the malice that now churned in his beloved forest. It was so near, and the voice urged him with such force, he could not discern the ugly howling from the silky whisper.

He stopped and breathed deeply. The soft leather grip of his sword was warm in his palm, but a grinding, icy wind from nowhere insisted on muddling his thoughts.
He did not even know who <i>she</i> was. He trusted Eärón, but it would not be the first time his friend had been driven by passion. And Tairiel? Why was she here…really?

Dragging a trembling hand through his hair, Tethrin tried to dispense the chorus of warnings and orders that writhed in his brain as he turned about warily. Any moment now, it felt as though something horrible would leap out at him.
Its power choked him, it was so strong. Her evil? Something ancient- older than him, but not his people. Everything began to wheel around, whispers, squeals, and hisses made his skin crawl and he clawed at his own head as it felt about to burst.

Then, like a ray of the sun in the deepest mire, or a hand of safety to a drowning man, the brazen rasping caw of a raven shattered the stifling mind-mist and shook him.

The majestic bird swooped gracefully down and landed on the top of the Captain’s tent. Tethrin breathed a deep sigh and caught his breath.
It looked meaningfully at the Elf and gave another hoarse cry, and great black wings opened slightly as if in readiness.

Suddenly upon his lips he felt words forming.
“Cursed One- Reveal thyself!” he ordered in perfect Quenya, “The Light has found you!”

The tent opening flapped and out stepped the Captain.

Tethrin stumbled backwards a step. In the recesses of his mind, he caught a glimpse of glittering silver waters and hills and forests of lush emerald, and his spirit was calmed.

“Where is he? the dark, velvet voice demanded, a perfect marriage of those that had swarmed Tethrin.
The Elf bit his lip and lied for the first time in his life, “I could not find him.”

The Captain’s brow grew dark and he stepped forward, the ebony cloak that enveloped his tall, thin form flicking like black flame.

As he drew closer, Tethrin could make out strange, sharp protrusions beneath the fraying mantle and he thought the Captain hid something beneath its folds.

“Where are they?!” he demanded again, this time seething with venom.

Sword still in hand, Tethrin gulped and shrunk back. “They?” <i>How did he know?</i>

Alcarín’s eyes blazed upon hearing the call of the raven behind him. All colour drained from his skin and his thin lips drew into a cruel snarl as the incantation again fell from Tethrin’s lips.

“Reveal yourself!”

The Captain whipped around and hissed toward the bird. The next moment a harsh flutter of rough wings entered the clearing and a tattered, bloody crow dove towards the raven. A loud thud was followed by angry caws and the clatter of sharp beaks and claws.
When he turned back, his face was even more drawn and haggard, far more than just from fatigue. His eyes were an empty dull black and a wave like ink coursed down the strands of gold that were once Alcarín’s hair. Towering over Tethrin, the swirls of his cape pushed to the side, revealing hateful spines and iron teeth of a hulking suit of black armour.

As Tethrin finished slowly, eyes widened, heart sinking fast, “The Light has found you,” a grin, wrought with gnawing malice, spread on the Captain’s face. Two teeth were sharp and elongated like a wolf’s and a red gem at the center of his chest-plate flickered ominously.

“I gave you a chance,” the creature said in a sickly laugh, and moved forward.
The Elf threw himself aside and with a battle cry, such as he’d never used before, brought his blade down heavily on the outstretched arm of the other. The former Captain hissed and lurched from the force of the blow, but Tethrin’s sword glanced off the ebony gauntlet and sent him teetering backwards.

“Pathetic!” cackled the fanged creature, “No Elf nor Man has the power to defeat me! My force will grow and I will cover all the North in Shadow. Soon- I will surpass even Angmar! Feed me worm!”
Struggling with all his strength, Tethrin could do nothing against this overwhelming evil as it seized him in iron-clad grips and raised him helpless to its bared fangs.
He closed his eyes as his jerkin was torn away and the tender skin of his throat punctured. His bones ached, fever raged, and his life blood drained.

“Silver glass,” he murmured, and on the distant shore he thought he saw his mother’s smiling face.

As he was dropped carelessly to the hard ground, it felt as though two barbed spearheads were ripped from his neck. He weakly tried to push himself up, groaning and gasping, and a hot, thin trickle of blood danced down his chest.
“There is no darkness,” he spat, struggling for breath, “That can defeat the Light!”

A sharp armoured boot forced him onto his back, the impact launching a wheezing death rattle in his lungs, and it pressed its iron plates into his ribs. The same sneer now showed blood-stained teeth and lips, the ashen-yellow of unliving skin wrinkled in hate. Drawing his own sword from a giant sheath on his hip, the cursed one bent slightly and whispered,

“It already has.”

But Tethrin did not hear the squelch of the jagged blade in his own stomach, nor the swoosh of wings as a huge horror of feather and scales landed and bore its master up. He felt no more pain.
Just as darkness seeped over his sight, the last movements departed from a ragged dark form as it lay limp, like him, on the wintery floor.
The raven, he thought, and a pang of sadness brought tears to his fading eyes.

But still shining in brilliant blues and greens in the white light of the falling snow, a sleek black bird left the pile of bloody feathers and flapped with strength into the air.

Tethrin smiled and shut his eyes at last. “Valar protect them…”


The Saga of Vaenomar- Chapter 34 ~Company~

Chapter 34


Grey. Everything was grey.
 The low hanging clouds that lazily floated overhead were as drab as the pale lichen covering the stone over which she tread. The smoke that sailed from the stone chimney of the squat Dwarven house, her thick wool cloak, the resealed cracks in the ice of the courtyard’s fountain: all the same, lifeless shade of dust.
  Even the scarce light that barely filtered through the airy, winter canopy was cold and dead.

 A breeze whipped loose strands of her hair across her forehead as she drug her feet over the stones. The birds were gone. Hiding away, warm in their nests. Now and then a dusting of snowflakes would alight on her, coming down from the snow-capped mountains, hidden in the cloud.
 But all she saw was grey. Any other day, she might’ve relished the many different tones and hues of it in nature, but not today. Her mind was filled to the brim with it, like an overused fire pit, overflowing with ashes.
 Listlessly she found herself wandering up the stairs to the Western ramparts.
A familiar spot.
 She leaned her chin on the icy merlons and took in a deep breath of cold air.

 Despite the low clouds, the view still stretched on far to the West- the dark slate of forest and its dormant inhabitants.
 Her eyes saw nothing. Nothing there, at least; but searched deep and delved tirelessly in her soul.

  The understanding slowly unveiled itself, but the will still cowered away.


  “It’s nothing to fret about, alright, just make Grezof and Vahgdûr get the message,” the firm, pointed tone of Bridi ordered, while she distractedly rifled through a large oak chest of gear.
 “Aye, milady,” said the burly Dwarf, trying to hide his confusion.
“And give them these,” she turned and thrust a pair of old, metal shields in his arms and laid an array of Dwarven projectiles on top.
 “Crossbows?” he wondered aloud. “We expectin’ visitors?” his piqued interest hovered between excitement and worry.
“No. Just do it.”
 When Bridi closed a conversation, it was closed. He nodded hastily and exited the room.

 Bridi sighed and folded her arms under her chest as she surveyed the room. The magnificent stone walls rose high up into the darkness until they mingled with the living mountain’s flesh. But below, only a few dust chests and dilapidated armour-stands remained to tell of the glory it once had seen as Azaghâl’s armory.
True, it was in the holding of Durin’s proud heir, but that was all.

 An attempt at expansion…that failed; Bridi’s thoughts drifted in melancholy over the past decade. He tried so hard, wanting nothing more than the good of his people and to restore to them their birthright. Their place as Lords of the Mountains.
But that would not come. Not until Thorin Oakenshield sat on the restored throne of Erebor.

 An ancient heirloom from the line of Thrór, a heavy buckler of once-shiny steel, hung on a rack on the wall. Reverently she dusted off its engraved boss, her breath on the cold metal forming a static cloud that slowly faded away.
 A tired, square-faced woman stared back at her, wisps of coppery hair framing her forehead, and mahogany-red brows lowered over a permanently intense scrutiny of green eyes.
 The edges of her tightly closed lips sunk downwards seriously, set with her jaw in an uninviting frown. A long white scar ran down the length of her brow to lower cheek; it had been there for a good long while. But an inexplicable feeling in her gut told her it was about to have company.

  A patter of footsteps in the outside hall drew her away from the shield. Kjar, no doubt.
Bridi hurredly closed the lid to the chest and stuffed the new whetstone into her belt just before the elderly matron entered the room.

 “Ah, there you are, lass!” she said, her huffing making evident her search for the other. “I was-” A befuddled look on her face interrupted herself, “What are you doing in here?”
Bridi had expected that, “What are you doing in here?”
 The old woman sputtered, “Well, looking for you, of course!”
Bridi shrugged, “I was just making sure nothing was rusting. It’s too damn quiet around here…”
 Kjar gestured clearly that she fully agreed and resumed her previous business.
“I’ve been looking for you for a half hour!” she tossed up her hands, “Because I’ve been looking for Vaenomar even longer! Where’s she got to?”

Bridi’s features paled rapidly. Vaenomar!
 Without even acknowledging the other woman, Thorin’s counselor marched off in a storm, muttering, “Can’t leave that whelp alone one minute without her flying off! Curses on those long legs,” and left Kjar to hobble after her.

  After a quick, unsuccessful search of her room, the kitchen, Thorin’s room and any other sub-mountain haunt of hers, they took to the village.
“Go ask Salfgar and any one else you see on the way.”
“They’re all gone,” said Kjar sadly as she set off towards the tailor’s house at an sturdily wobbling pace.

 Bridi’s metal-toed boots thudded rapidly over stone after stone, eyes darting about, ears piqued for any odd sound. Wind funneling in between two mountain houses caught her in a gust causing her to sway momentarily. She clenched her teeth against the biting chill. A heavy, studded door creaked open behind her and she turned, in one fluid movement on her heel.
 He jumped at the intensity of her tone and at her presence; Bridi wasn’t a common sight out from under the Halls.
 “The girl- you seen her?” the King’s right-hand demanded, but not without an unsettling amount of worry in her stern hoarseness.
“Eh- Vaenomar?” the off-duty gate guard stuttered hastily.
 “You’ve seen her?”
“No, no,” he said, waving his palms defensively, “But I-“
 “Help me look for her,” Bridi cut him off and resumed her determined march.

It was far too early to panic, yet. But if that girl was gone…if she’d run off to perform some hair-brained heroics- or worse- if she was taken captive…by him

  Bridi jogged to a halt, her long whip-lash flopping over her shoulder as she quickly surveyed the market area. No one was around in this frigid weather- the trading only took place in summer, when there were new trades to be made from the payment of Mannish villages.

 The breeze eerily stirred a ragged cloth awning over one of the stalls and a dusting of sleet swirled around her feet in the lonely, empty court.
“Vaen?” her voice bounced off the cold rock that surrounded her and came back, dull and out of place. There was no one here.
 Was it Thorin’s absence combined with the oppressive silt-grey of the sky that brought on these sudden bouts of hollow melancholy? But Kjar seemed to feel the same way. Not all was well: every fibre of Bridi’s subconscious being told her so. Even her rational mind worried constantly over the unknown ‘man‘ in Jarlich. The draegk.

  A few blocks down, Bridi heard Vahgdûr calling the girl’s name, muffled by the wind and stone. She took in a generous, numbing breath to slow her escalating heartbeat and clear her mind.
Jaw set like steel, she turned south and strode towards the gate.

  From several dozen paces off she could see the squat forms of the guards, Khin and Narukar, sitting at their posts on either side of the gate. In addition to the great bear furs that draped the cousins’ already bulky forms, they bore the shields Bridi had assigned to them that morning.
 Aulë grant they not need them.

 Along with the shields and the one crossbow and a few spare bolts she’d dug up to give them, they’d also been given the order not to let Vaenomar near the gate. Bridi didn’t really think she would leave, but she was as precautious as Thorin was headstrong.
And young things often fill their heads with rash nonsense, she though to herself in growing nervousness.
 Looking left revealed only a barren, sloped street devoid of life. She turned right to see Vahgdûr emerge from between the buildings and look in her way with a shrug of fruitlessness.
A few more paces brought her in calling distance of the gate. But her name, short and urgent, caused her to glance back at her companion. He pointed West, far behind her, and up.
She whipped around and immediately let a sigh of relief puff like smoke from her nostrils.

 High above, perched like a rock-dove clad in slate-grey, on the massive wall of the bulwark stood Vaenomar. The same spot where Gormna had ‘caught’ her so many months ago.
Her cloak billowed restlessly behind her, a colourless banner for the nameless, houseless one.
 She was motionless, but for her windswept hair and garments. Her dark, still figure could’ve been carved there, thought Bridi, as she motioned silently for her companion to join her.
“Find Kjar. Tell her she’s fine. Look with Salfgar,” she ordered in a low tone.

 The girl was alone too much as was. Contemplating could be dangerous. Very dangerous.


 “He’ll be back soon.”
Those simple words, soft and firm, caused her to nearly jump out of her boots, as she gasped and took a few steps backwards.
 “Bridi!” said Vaenomar breathlessly, as if awoken out of a dream.

 The Dwarf peered off into the distance, leaning against the solid merlons and rubbing her stubbily-nailed fingers over the pocks and cracks of the stone.
 Giving the younger woman a moment to regather her composure, Bridi surveyed the steep, craggy descent from their mountain abode. Even from that height the precarious path was practically invisible.
 A calm settled over the Dwarf woman’s spirits as they both gazed out over the mist-covered expanse.

It was time.

 Her voice, poignant and low, broke the heavy silence, “Before Thorin found you- what were you?”
 It almost seemed as though she expected it, her manner changed so little. Vaenomar didn’t look up, but an unnoticeable shudder coursed down her spine.
 Though silence persisted a few moments longer, Bridi knew she would answer. The cloaked fear of rejection was being cast off and a firm, level resolution being made in that secretive brain of hers. Bridi the mind-reader could see that far.
 At last, Vaenomar breathed in soft and slowly, and answered.
“An Elf.”
 Bridi glanced at her from the corner of her eyes, but said nothing.
“Or so I wished,” continued the younger woman.

 “Deep in those woods lies an Elven city. Taurëmith. City of the Trees. You’d never be able to find it,” she gestured with her head towards the vast sea of forest to the West, “I wouldn’t either. But it is beautiful.”
Bridi thought a sigh escaped her.

 “I was a border scout, along with many others. Tairiel and I…wandered too far from our camp…” her voice took on the old, musical, Elven accent as she spoke.
 “I was foolish, I know well, now, that Taurëmith was in no danger of being found. But then- I would have protected its secret with my life.”

 Bridi nodded thoughtfully. None of this was too surprising news. But she wondered aloud, “None can find it?”
 Vaenomar shrugged, “Except for the Elves. There is a Girdle of ancient magic surrounding it. Nonetheless, we- they- keep their borders safe and pure. Or so they try.”

 “Yet you doubt?” queried Bridi, reading further into the girl’s thoughts.
Vaenomar’s head dropped low and she scraped at some grey-green lichen on the wall. “I- feel something. Something strange…ancient. As old as their magic- yet, stained,” she turned to Bridi, pallid and eyes wide as if from a waking nightmare, “Evil.”

 The Dwarf clenched her teeth and nodded darkly. “Anything like…” she paused, searching for the right words.
“Me, Bridi,” interrupted Vaenomar, feverishly. “Calling nature to my aid, through a word, a thought. Like in the forest…before Tharkûn arrived.”
 “I thought you didn’t know it happened,” said Bridi, mildly suspicious.
Vaenomar shook her head,”I didn’t. But I remember it now. And…with Thorin…the first time. Bridi,” she turned fully towards the Dwarf, “Ever since I met him, I remember. I…” she grimaced confusedly, “I recognized it in him. It’s nothing I was taught. It’s…in my blood…? Spirit- Ach!” she slapped the rock exasperated, “I don’t know.”

 Bridi suddenly seized her wrists firmly, her cold-numbed fingers gripped tightly over Vaenomar’s bare pulse. “But you do know!”
 The girl’s eyes widened in shock.
“You may not know what is it- but what does that matter? You have power. Thorin- Lord Thorin- sensed it in you from the beginning! Why else did he keep you and release the Elf? He could’ve used her for ransom- but no! He chose you! Your power- use it. Against the creature- that thing– that seeks to destroy us. Turn it against him!”

 By now the young woman was trembling and paler than before, droplets of salty water at the corners of her eyelids. Her lips quivered and her chest rose and fell in short breaths.

 It worked. All that- Bridi had made up- just in that instant. But it worked. She had no idea why Thorin had chosen Vaenomar; she doubted if his choice had more to do with rationality than matters of the flesh.
 But in the end, she was right.
Vaenomar could help. The fortress of Azaghâl would have a worthy regiment atop its walls- praying Thorin and the rest returned before anything hit.

 “You can control it, Vaenomar, right?”
The girl bit her lip, still trembling, “I…think.”
 “He may be undead. May be ancient- but not even the forces of Gundabad could stand against the Heir of Durin. If that creature comes here- he will taste the true meaning of ‘cold as the grave’.”
 Vaenomar nodded vehemently, riled by Bridi’s speech.
The Dwarf patted her shoulder and turned to leave, her mission well accomplished.
 “He’ll be back soon,” she added in a softened tone and glanced at the mountain stairs, wishfully hoping to see her lord.

  As the Dwarven metal boots clanked down the stairs, the tear dislodged itself and splashed, alone, onto the cold merlon.
 But it was more than that. She could feel him. Not Thorin, no. The draegk, as Bridi called him. The man from Jarlich. The nameless shadow that haunted her dreams and made her moments of waking into nightmares.

 It had all happened so fast. One day, she had been a happy, pensive Elf-child, carefree and studious in everything. Then she became a Dwarf. Much too tall and awkward, doing her very best to fit in the rigid, stony structure of their culture. And then Thorin. It had started as fear, became fearful respect, mixed ever so slightly with defiance. But she had felt herself falling much deeper than that. The little they had seen of each other had ‘blossomed’, though hardly a fitting word, into the closest thing to love the hardened Dwarf-king could feel. And then he showed up. She wondered what would’ve happened if she hadn’t gone to Jarlich. Would he have found her anyways?
 Was his sole intent to entrap her? Or was she only another piece to a larger construct; one that had no relish of good in it.

 Elves, when confronted by a hidden evil, always recognized it and shunned it ruthlessly.
She had felt it, though not immediately, and had been tempted by it. Why?! She was raised in goodness and light. She knew right from wrong as easily as a raven from a hawk.

 Squinting, she tried to make out a small dark shape breaking through the heavy mist.
As the little form slowly grew closer, Vaenomar chided herself. “Maybe that’s what he wants you to think. To question. To doubt…” She growled in frustration. “Curse him! These are my people and I will defend them with my life!”

 She made out a bird of prey, flapping then gliding, in an unbalanced fashion in her general direction. It seemed…wounded, over-tired?
 Her pity aroused, she watched intently as the distance between them shrunk. “Land here…” she muttered, scaling the length of the wall restlessly, “Land…”
Soon enough the bird began to slow and spread its chest and wingspan to land.

 Alighting on a merlon, the nighthawk’s dappled feathers heaved rapidly as it struggled to regain breath.
 Vaenomar approached it slowly, in a non-threatening, slow amble. She greeted him, but no reply came. She asked him where he was from, but he only looked at her with sad, frightened eyes. Something was wrong. He had much to say, but couldn’t.
 Vaenomar held out her finger and the tired bird curiously stretched out his hooked beak and nibbled it.
 “Will you not speak to me?” she asked pitifully, aloud.
The nighthawk sullenly looked at its rock-hewn perch, shook out its soft feathers, and then pecked at its own claw.
 Then she noticed a tight, rolled piece of weathered parchment tied by a strap to the raptor’s scaled talons.
 A messenger bird! No wonder it was so tired, the poor, dear thing.
With tender gentleness, she reached below the bird’s downy body and slipped the tiny note from the leather carrier.
 Despite her attempts at friendliness, rubbing his bony jowls, stroking his underchin, the stately nighthawk seemed indifferent and a hollow tranquility loomed in his black eyes. An emptiness in his thoughts- and he would not speak. Vaenomar thought that he wished to, but, knowing he could not, didn’t even make the attempt.
With consternated brow, her numbed fingers unrolled the parchment.
 On the outward side there was a faded scrawled note, bearing a few sentences in the Common Tongue which were hard to make out, because of the water stain and weather and the curling faint hand.
 An immobilizing frost spell seemed to fall on her as she turned the note over.

 In bold Cirth runes the colour of dried blood, it read:

“I Come.


 The frost fall sparkled and shone as it caught the first light of dawn. A silvery field of tiny shards and prisms; every stalk of grass and slumbering leaf encased in a wintry suit of mithril.

 The cloud of vapour that floated away from the mouth and nostrils of the solitary figure dissipated quickly in the clear, crackling air. Even the axe blade at his hip was covered in a blue brocade of organic swirls and shapes. A blanket of grey clouds barely moved overhead, their soft undersides just beginning to take on the tint of the rising sun, which would soon be lost above their wooly forms.

 With a lung-numbing inhale that came out a sigh, Thorin turned and began an idle march back, the lifeless vegetation crackling underfoot, showering little crystals onto the king’s furred boots.

 He could almost imagine the frosty carpet being of the finest velvet, covering lengths and lengths of black marble streaked with emerald veins. Silver and gold in all forms imaginable, at his feet. Gems so plentiful they were commonplace- but their beauty still unmatched by all the world.
His kingdom.
 But Vaenomar would find all this- the curled leaves, the bent grasses, red berries all covered in the night’s icy tears- to be most lovely. The clouds the colour of her cloak, touched with the cold pale blue of her eyes.

 If she was with him now… But, no. She was gone. Running wild in the woods, cursing the name of his cousin, his family- maybe even his. What if she came back while he was away? Or worse- never came back at all.
 Instinctively his fingers fondled the axe-head restlessly.
It was time to go home.

 It didn’t take the keen sense of a Dwarf to smell something rotten going on. There were no goblins. No bandits. Nothing here. Nor had there been.
 His boot met with a hollow, hard object and sent it rolling several feet ahead. Picking it up, he found a jawless skull, covered in cracks and filled with dried leaves and fur, having served as some small creature’s bed.
 Washed white by many years under sun and sky, its brittle frailty belied the importance it once held. And havoc it once wreaked. An ugly, oversized canine tooth along with a couple others were still rather sharp. Thorin tossed it down.
At least there hadn’t been any goblins for a while.

 When he arrived back at the longhouse after many hours of a sleepless morning out in the countryside, Thorin heard the boisterous chatter of feasting Dwarves, and smelled good, fatty meats, eggs, cheeses and fresh baked bread.
 He had been treated much more hospitably than his actions of the night prior had merited, but the men- it was just what they needed. Good rest, good food, good company. And then a good, quick march home. Then their minds would forget and forgive the mistake.

 Mistake, he sneered inwardly. The trick! A cunning play by a clever enemy. But he had survived worse.

 Quietly he came into the hall where a table had been set up, and took a respectfully-left-open place next to his cousin, Dáin. The same smiling, round face with autumn curls bounced up to him, hands full of breakfast and back again with warm spiced mead.
As he politely smiled his thanks, a less than subtle jab in the ribs came from his onlooking relative.
“Eat up,” Thorin quipped, ignoring the gesture, “Or you might die of starvation. Just look at you.”
Dáin just snorted, patting a robust waistline, and continued to shovel steaming heaps of eggs and sausage into his mouth.
“She is pretty, though,” Thorin admitted, as the friendly Thaneling’s daughter reseated herself between an Iron Hills woman and a doting Gorlath.

 “We get it from our mother,” Thorin heard her say and shake out her fiery hair.
“Like Bridi…except taller. And happier,” he thought.

 “Rúan’s name even means red-headed,” she laughed again and Gorlath refilled her mug.
“Good thing you don’t name after your surroundings like we do,” he said, “Else you’d be a bunch of Browngrasses and Softmuds.”
 The Dwarf woman rolled her eyes and explained to Dána, “Like Ironfoot, Stonefist…and Numbskull- like him,” she gestured to Gorlath.

 Thorin turned back to his food. He’d never seen Vaenomar enjoy herself that much. What had he done to her…
 “What do you got against your food that you’re glaring at is so?” said Dáin, his grating voice making Thorin look up from his thoughts. “If you’re not going to eat that-“
“Get off my food!” Thorin pushed his cousin away, “You’ve got plenty!”

 The clear, feminine voice of Dána rang out again, “Little Rúan- he might seem scrawny and young- well, he is. But he’s got some skill. Not as good as I am, of course, or my older sisters… but he can hold his own, well enough. He’s always dreaming of being a warrior- like the tales of my father….when the militia was still around.” She shrugged. “Shining his knives, oiling his armour, always practicing with me and Fían. Silly boy. He’s not even been out of Aldon for five years.”

 Thorin drained his third mug and followed it with a rinse of cold well water, and arose.
Dáin followed him and then a few others, at their own pace. The rest of the table looked up expectantly at their respective leaders.

 “A hearty thanks to you and our family for your hospitality, Lady Dána,” Thorin bowed low. “I’m afraid we must take out leave. Home calls us.”
 Dána bowed respectfully back, “It was good to make your acquaintance, Lord Thorin, and that of your people. You all are welcome here any time. Lord Dáin,” she nodded also to his cousin.

 Wooden plates and bowls, metal tankards, rustic iron cutlery began to clink and clack together as the table was rapidly cleared and the hall restored to proper order.

 The aged Thaneling, Thorin was told, would not be awake and ready for an audience until a few hours later. Dána promised to give him the Dwarf lords’ regards. And relay thanks to her strangely absent brother.
 “It’s quite possible that he over slept, drunk too much, or something of the like. Could be in town, too, with his lady friend,” she shrugged.
 Thorin took her small, white hand and pressed it gently to his bristling moustache. “Take care. We will probably never meet again.”
 The warmth in his deep, smoky voice was like a thrilling caress to her smooth cheek. She blushed the colour of musk rose, but nodded, a little sadly, at his words.
“And you take care, too. Eru keep you.”

 And leaving the proud daughter of Aldon on the steps of the longhouse, he joined his cousin and followers at the gates of the town.

 On approaching, Thorin was met by his wild-maned, broad cousin with outstretched arms and a metallic grin.
 As the tree-trunk thick arms of both men slapped familiarly on each other’s backs, Dáin chuckled, “Well cous, I’m glad you managed to live through my visit. You’ve gotten grumpier since last winter. And worse since the winter before!”
 “And you’ve gotten fatter and uglier,” Thorin tugged his cousin’s white braid back and received a playful punch in the stomach.
 “You get back to that long-legs of yours and tell Bridi there’s still room for two on my throne. I’m not that fat yet.”
 “I can only imagine what she’d say to that,” snorted Thorin and motioned for Gormna and Gorlath to get the others ready.
 Newly laden packs were slung over shoulders and belts loosened for walking with full bellies.

 “You send me word if anything shows up along the way,” Thorin told his cousin seriously. “Anything.”
 “Ah, even, say- a little, white rabbit or something?”
Tossing his black head of hair behind him, Thorin grunted and beckoned for his men to follow him Northward; homeward.
 Dáin and his retinue headed southeast, towards the Old Forest Road and began their long march to the Iron Hills and other stops along the way.

 Gorlath the Scout’s jogging footsteps were much springier than the day before as their sound slowly disappeared ahead.
 Hopefully they would all reach the mountains in good speed and unscathed- no surprises along the way or when they arrived.

 But just as Gorlath’s quicker pace drew out of earshot, a longer stride behind him and the Dwarves caught Thorin’s ears. He whirled around, hair on end, to see a very slim figure with long, lanky legs and the sun blazing on a bright copper head. The satchel at his side bounced wildly as he jogged to catch up, breath puffing away in the frigid morning air.
The others stopped and turned, surprised at their sudden halt.

 Steam puffed violently from Thorin’s flared nostrils as he folded his arms across his thick chest and waited, stoically, for their pursuant.
 Drawing closer to the Dwarf lord, Rúan slowed to a lope and then a walk.
Lungs filled with the nipping cold, he panted a bit to catch his breath, grinning widely, pink cheeks spread with excitement.
 “I didn’t think you’d get far,” he laughed in between breaths.
Thorin eyed him suspiciously, “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
  “Did we forget something?” put in Gormna, helpfully.
“Or did you?” Thorin raised his eyebrows.

 The young man was in fur-lined leather armour, very new and very clean looking, gird with a matching brace of daggers and some throwing implements jangling from his belt.
“I am headed to- ah- Old Estenna- to see my sister. Maybe to find our missing hawk, too. So- I thought I could travel with you.” He glanced around, a little less comfortably than before.

 “Is that so?” Thorin said measuredly, “And leave your father?”
Rúan shook his head, “Oh, he’s in the best of hands with Dána. We don’t get many- or any- visitors, anyways.”

“And what about the strange man from the inn? What if he comes back?”

 Rúan’s already pale face blanched from beneath his cold cheeks, and he nodded. “That’s why I want to come.”
 Thorin’s black brows lowered darkly and he huffed, “Very well. To Estenna, then we part ways.” The smile returned to the young man’s face and he gladly fell in line next to Gormna.
 Only one or two Dwarves muttered or grumbled at having the tall, trim fellow obscuring their view.
 His good-natured and genuine excitement was rather infectious, however, and Gormna queried, “So…where were you, lad?”
 “Who, me?” the Thaneling’s son glanced around.
“Nah, him,” Gormna sarcastically nosed towards Thorin in front of him.
 Rúan grinned, “Eh…giving farewells.”
Gormna nodded knowingly, “I see. So…she’s heartbroken now?”
 To his surprise, Rúan threw back his head and chuckled. “Actually she took it quite well…along with the key.”
“Had someone else to give it to, I suppose,” Rúan shrugged.
 “You don’t seem too worried about that, lad.”
Rúan’s dark blue eyes twinkled, “I’m not. I’m gone.”

  And so began Thorin’s long walk ahead of a young, energetic human who hadn’t been away for a half a decade.

The Saga of Vaenomar- Chapter 32 ~False Alarm~

Chapter 32
~False Alarm~

  A gauntleted arm shot stiffly up and in a moment the murmur was hushed and the scraping tread of heavy boots diminished.
Their leader turned quickly and gave a sign to be on the ready. They were nearly there.

“Gorlath,” the king said in a low murmur, “No more than seventy paces, then come back.”
  “Aye, milord,” the scout nodded and trotted off, his steps muffled by a softer leather than the others’.

 Gormna stepped forward to fill his brother’s place next to the king. “Orders?”
“Fifty paces behind. I don’t want you gone longer than fifteen minutes. If anything happens, call, throw something…anything. I’m not losing any more men.”
“Your will, sir,” the Dwarf bowed and fell behind.

    After a few minutes more of marching, their pace was greatly lessened and more careful, Dáin grunted to his cousin, “The mist always shows up when you’re looking for something!”
Thorin only snorted.
“Are you not worried about an ambush, eh?”
“No,” Thorin’s beard braids tinkled together at the clasps as he shook his head. His eyes darted here and there, ears perked and senses piqued, “I know these roads well. Unless they have some sorcery to make them invisible- we’ll see them.”
Or smell them,” put in the older cousin.

  A few more minutes passed, and Dáin again broke the silence.
“It’s too damn quiet!” he growled uneasily.
 A smirk twisted one side of Thorin’s lip, “Not with you around.”
Unchecked, Dáin went on, “No- the air, the wind- nothing! It’s so still. This damned mist! So, sticky- rrrgh!”
“It could help us, you know,” Thorin said patiently. ignoring his cousin’s frustration.
Dáin grunted, “Oh aye, and then we’ll be rescued by your long-legged tree-berserker, eh? I’m afraid we’re out of luck on those lines this time, cousin.”
Thorin rolled his eyes. At least he didn’t call her an Elf.
   Much like brothers at odds with each other, the two descendants of Durin had managed to make up; to heal the rift between them, if only fragilely. By ways of an apology, Dáin had limited his discourse on Vaenomar and when the topic crossed his lips had somehow conjured some manner of art to his wording. This was accepted by his volatile cousin, although he would’ve preferred it go directly to the young woman herself.
She would understand; he hoped.

  No precipitation and no wind, but the mist swirled around with a will of its own. Thinner on the road than in the squat rolling hills surrounding, it left the party feeling over-warm and restless.

  Gormna returned in perfect time, though Thorin almost lost track thanks to his cousin’s chattiness, and Gorlath soon after.
 No sign of movement, no odd sounds, no tracks, nothing. Granted they could’ve moved on, and quickly too, but Thorin had his doubts. Especially without having any signs or tracks. Goblins weren’t that clever. Never had been, never could be. They thought ahead, not behind and hadn’t changed their tactics for all the ages of their existence.

  “My lord,” Gorlath said, “I may be mistaken, but up ahead the fog seems to be thinning.”
Thorin nodded. They were nearing some cropland and then Aldon, the sprawling hamlet in charge of the area. It was not one of their regular routes, as it had never had problems before. Being not particularly easy to find probably aided in its safety.
The report had said goblin activity “in the area”. He hoped the town would still be alive and intact.

  Sure enough, to all the Dwarves’ delight, especially Dáin’s, the mist greatly thinned. It now only played in wispy ribbons above their heads, floating nonchalantly by and away.
The cool air was still and the damp brown and gold of the tussocked hills seemed to lull the area into a wintry sleep.
 Thorin too had to force his senses awake now, so dull and calm seemed his surroundings. The countryside was empty for as far as the eye could see.
With the mist gone, so went the nerves.
Gorlath jogged on ahead again, veering off to the East and West a few times.

 “There’s nothing out here,” he shrugged, a little frustrated to Thorin.
The Dwarf king heaved a sigh, “So it seems.” Then he turned, “Pick up the pace! We reach Aldon by sunset!”
“If this turns out to be a play on us- then- oh ho!” Dáin patted his axe’s head and didn’t need to go on.
Thorin shot him a smouldering look, “You can keep those thoughts to yourself.” He glanced back at his men, “As if they want to be here either.”

  It wasn’t easy for Dáin to be a follower, but half of his entourage had taken a straighter route home as per his orders. They were on Thorin’s territory, now, and though the majority of the number were his men, his cousin lorded these lands. He was heir to Erebor, and, by the knots of Durin’s beard, did he act like it.
He gurgled something unintelligible, but followed the orders.

  The troop covered another five miles and by their leader’s reckoning their destination was close. Several paces ahead of the group Gorlath froze. Thorin followed suit and then the rest.
A cry, hoarse and strained, cut through the dense air, and was followed by another, more shrill.
They sounded like children, or perhaps women.
 In a flash of sharpened steel, weapons were out and muscles flexed, blood-thirst pumping through their veins. With a gesture bearing only one meaning, Thorin began a long charge towards the cries.

  “Before we butcher them up,” Thorin heard his cousin rasping beside him, “I just want to say-“

Was this an apology? Thorin was shocked.

 “I hope,” he continued, taking quick breaths between each phrase, “Your tidbit comes back in one piece. And you don’t have pointy-ears on your doorstep the next day. Women are fickle- you know that.”
Thorin grinned, “Bridi’s not.”
Something like a laugh gurgled from Dáin’s throat, “Exactly! And you go for the newborn long-leg?!”

   A ramshackle barn appeared at the base of a small hill, some rundown fences surrounding it, and the dark shapes of Aldon’s buildings just past the surrounding plot.

   The cry came again and was followed by the same shrill whimper. In the fading grey light the Dwarves saw only an empty pasture and a frozen garden plot.
Then something moved; or sounded like it. Metal clanged from inside the rundown structure and Thorin stopped the advance.
He motioned for Dáin to stay and Gorlath to follow.
   The bone-chilling shriek-like cry came again. Gorlath agilely vaulted over the fence, but one smash from Thorin’s axe sent the rotten timbers into the frozen ground. It was easier.
The two crept stealthily up to the opening that passed for a doorway and listened.

  But instead of the snarling, slavering cacophony of feasting goblins, there emerged a clean, shrill whistle. It wobbled a little then formed into something like a tune. Thorin’s brows bent low enough to touch his nose bridge and Gorlath looked at his lord just as puzzled.
 Goblins couldn’t whistle!
Then came the shriek again and the higher pitched one in chorus.
“Ah, shat yore traps, wouldjya! Ahm movin’ as fast as ah can!” came a stuffed up, gruff male voice. Still axe at the ready, Thorin stepped in, Gorlath at his heels.

  Hobbling around, quite slowly, was a greying, haphazard man in a dirty tunic, with an equally soiled beard. A twisted leg accounted for his lack of speed and thus the complaints of his charges, the owners of the blood-curdling cries of late.
A mother and her overgrown daughter, who still thought she was entitled to nursing rights.

   Thorin felt a hot anger surge in his blood and rush to his face. Embarrassing, to say the least.
Gorlath’s expression betrayed his surprise double that of Thorin’s.
  As he decided what to do next, the gleam of the lantern on Thorin’s scale-mail caught the bumbling farmer’s eye.
“Gran’s hairy knuckles!!” he shrieked, nearly as terrible as the caprines, “W-w-wha’ you want?! Ah ain’t got squat! J-just me an’ me lasses, ‘ere!”

   Thorin lowered his axe, trying not to let his sneer show too plainly, “Goblins. Where are they?” he demanded.
 The man paled and looked around, terrified, “Goblins, you say?” He swallowed his words as if afraid goblins would hear and come running.
“Yes. Where are they?”
The man’s stuttering grated on Thorin’s piqued nerves.
“Ah- Ah- Ah ain’t seen any of…” he swallowed, “Them. Naw, never.”

  The majestic Dwarf king took a couple threatening steps forward. “No?”
The man nearly fell over in an attempt to back away. “No! None ‘ere. Wha’ you want them for anyways- if- if you don’t mind me askin’ sirs, ah course!”
 Thorin turned towards the doorway, rolling his eyes, “To ask them to dinner. What else?”
He jerked his head and was followed out by Gorlath. Their exit was hailed by the does in a series of hungry shrieks and cries.

   As the king and the scout approached their anxiously waiting comrades, the brooding pall on Thorin’s visage was enough to silence all but the boldest.
“Well?” demanded Dáin. “What was it?”
“Nothing,” snapped Thorin and turned to the others, “March on!”

  Dáin looked suspiciously at Gorlath and back to his cousin. “Then where are they? And what was that infernal noise?”
“Oh, just dying babies,” Thorin quipped sourly.
“No sign of goblins and no one’s even seen them,” Gorlath ventured, attempting to put Dáin at rest, “Well…he hadn’t.”
Dáin snorted, “Hmph! So what? We head to the town, ask around, do some whoring and drinking and that’s it?”
Thorin glared at him, “Let’s just get to Aldon first and I’ll go from there.”
Dáin shook his head from side to side and fell back a few steps to share some words with his men. Something was eating away at his cousin, he could tell. And not embarrassment or worry about goblins. Something far away…back home, perhaps. Something dangerous, or in danger.

   A tin cowbell clanked methodically up ahead, and the trudge of six feet, four hooves and two boots, moved along the same frozen mudded road as they.
The post and spike wall of Aldon was no more than a dark shape on the immediate horizon. The man and his cow moved quickly aside for the foreign bunch as they plodded past, with a nod from a few.

   At the gate, which was more of a temporary cessation of spikes ‘guarded’ by a single, sleepy peasant, Thorin gave orders for the bulk of the party to keep watch just outside the town and question the watchman- if they could wake him from his liquor-driven stupor.

 “Keep an eye on them,” he told his cousin, knowing he’d be glad to be in charge for a bit. And that it’d be better not to have him along.
He nodded for the brothers to follow and passed through the gate, the man with the cow several timid paces behind.

  “Look sharp, lads,” ordered Dáin, folding his bristling arms across his chest and taking an imposing stance just next to the gateway.


      “How do you not know of a horde of goblins near your home?” muttered Thorin exasperated.
  Gormna opened his mouth with some well intended explanation, but Thorin’s attention was arrested elsewhere. A noise had caused him to look behind him at the gate posts.

  Ruffling its dark feathers and darting black glances below it was a raggedy crow.
She seemed uncannily interested in the Mannish and Dwarvish goings-on that surrounded her perch, but made no sound.
 His own look lasted longer than he’d planned, and Thorin turned back to the wide dirt street, growing uneasiness gnawing at his liver.

  They passed a weathered hovel, white-washed and tarred against the elements. A warm light issued out of it, silhouetting the tiny figure of a child.
Hand in mouth he watched the strange trio pass his door. The large, wondering eyes of his sister joined his in the doorway.

  The brothers didn’t notice, but Thorin met the little ones’ gazes.
The warmth in his heart froze again at the thought of goblins. He hoped those little ones never had to see the creatures.
  The little boy turned into his sister’s arms and squealed when the Dwarf waved offhandedly.

  “Close the door, you’re lettin’ in the winter!” came the chiding voice of their mother from inside. Thorin looked back to see the last glimmer in the child’s eye before the door closed.
 He sighed inaudibly and looked for any lollygaggers about to question.

  “I don’t smell ’em… I can always smell ’em from miles away,” Gorlath muttered.
“Might have something to do with all the animals,” said Gormna superiorly.

   Even in the unorganized maze of farm houses and rustic wooden shacks, the Thaneling’s longhouse was easy to find.
The entrance was unguarded and so Thorin made unceremonious entry.

   The hall was warm, as a large fire burned in the center. The two wolfhounds that lounged together near its warmth sat up, one growled, the other barked, both with long-haired waggling tails.

  An ancient man, head crowned by snowy locks and a face whose wrinkles could number twice his years, sat deep in a roughly-carved chair, swathed in furs and robes.
The younger man at his side stood up, on seeing the visitors, and walked proudly to meet them.

“My lords!” he said in an expressive, pointed voice, “Welcome!”

 Thorin bowed and cast an eye about him, “We come to speak with Thaneling-“
“Wulfur,” the young man filled in, “My father.”
He gestured behind him and climbed the few steps back to his father’s side. “Dwarves, father. I believe- Thorin Oakenshield. Shall I…speak for you?”
  The Dwarves watched as the old Thaneling patted his son on the shoulder, while looking straight ahead with unseeing eyes.
The son bowed respectfully to his sire and returned to the company. Light red hair, closely cropped and smooth pale skin.
Thorin thought of Vaenomar. How different her life might have been… This polite, handsome young man might’ve made her a happy bride.
He shook himself, “Reports reached us in the North from your town of a goblin threat in your region. Very near Aldon. Yet we have no sign of them. No sign of this knowledge, either, in your townsfolk.” He raised his brow, creasing his forehead, and awaited an answer.

  As the Dwarf spoke, the young man’s look of polite interest had changed to alarm. He thought for a brief moment, “Goblins, you say?” his tone was incredulous.
Thorin barely nodded.
 His fiery head looked to the floor as if racking his brain, “Goblins…” he muttered; it seemed foreign to his lips.
 Finally he met the Dwarf’s eyes, “No. No goblins, and I can only hope there will never be. You…you say you were summoned?”
He looked back at his father, who slowly shook his head; one could almost hear the revered bones creaking.

“Yes. Summoned.”
Jaw muscles rippled and the lanky man stroked his velveteen head.
Thorin heaved an impatient sigh, “A night-hawk arrived two days ago. We made good time, it is impossible for us to have missed them.”
 The other shook his head, “Yes. Yes, it would be.” He looked intently at his guests, “I’ll come clean. I did not summon you. Thank Eru, we’ve had no goblins in these parts for decades. As you have probably gathered- it is unlikely my father had anything to do with this either.”
 He took in a deep breath, “And I am the only one with access to our hawks.”

 Thorin’s face darkened, the tips of his thick moustache lowering even farther. He took three long strides forward and seized the young man by his throat, drawing him down to his height.

The old Thaneling did nothing, Gormna grimaced and Gorlath jumped to the ready.
  “If you’re lying to me-” Thorin began, but the cold terror in the other’s dark blue eyes made his insides twist.
  Unexpectedly, he let him go. The young man straightened, holding his throat, and stumbled back a few paces.
 Thorin ran his hands through the multitude of his tangled hair.
The Thaneling’s son watched defensively in silence as the burly Dwarf lord paced back and forth.
Gorlath couldn’t hold any longer, “My lord-s. The untruth doesn’t belong to anyone present, that much is obvious. Or so I believe. I-“
Thorin whipped around. “No? Then who, Gorlath?” His eyes blazed and his words bore subtle thunder.
Gormna came to his brother’s rescue, “What if we investigated the hawk-roost?” He turned to the tall man, “Would that be acceptable, my lord?”
 His red-head bowed jerkily, still in shock from the assault, and he turned to his seeming placid lord, “We will return shortly, father.”

   As Thorin didn’t move immediately, Gormna took the initiative and followed their host.
The storm of the Dwarf lord’s temper subsided slowly, leaving him in a distracted, brooding humour.
  They passed through a dark hall, emerged into a chilly passageway lit by a single torch, and then arrived at the heavy door, either side hung with old tapestries, too faded to see the story they told.
  The young man drew a leather thong from around his neck that bore three keys. One had a tattered white ribbon tied to it.
“Quite the key ring you’ve got there,” grinned Gorlath, trying to lighten the mood.
The man smiled back. “One for the hawks, the coffer, and-” he winked and held up the ribboned key, “My lover’s chambers.”

 The door creaked open as he unlocked it and the dark room immediately filled with shuffling talons and ruffled feathers. He took a torch off a sconce on the wall outside, handed it to Gormna, and entered.

  Feathers soft as maiden’s skin, beaks and claws as deadly as a lover’s kiss, six sleek night-hawks stood on their various perches, two or three huddled familiarly together.

  “They’re called night-hawks because they can see in the dark, like owls- but they fly just as well in daylight.” He fondly stroked the neck of a large mottled bird, “Wonderful creatures.”

“You have six, then?” observed Gormna.
 “Seven, actually. Yesterday my father sent a letter to my pregnant sister in Old Estenna. He should be back tomorrow morning.”
  Thorin listened, his suspicion only growing. He eyed the birds carefully and watched their owner handle them with great gentleness.

  The young man took one on his arm, its talons easily could’ve ripped through his thin, tender skin, but it grasped its perch so softly, it must have known.
“Do you think you could recognize the messenger that brought you the news?” he asked Thorin carefully.
 Thorin grunted, “I doubt it.”
   The young man let his charge back onto its perch and walked over to another. The bird eyed the newcomers as suspiciously as Thorin watched her. Then she lightly stepped onto her trusted friend’s outstretched arm, curiously nibbling a brass clasp on his doublet. Her eye turned to Thorin again…as if in recognition, but not in trust. She bore a stark white feather on her left wing, where the pigment refused to colour it, and the intelligence that emanated from those black eyes was uncanny. Thorin looked away and then back.
 “It seems you have met Lady Gloaming,” the Thaneling’s son said softly.
Thorin nodded. The younger man’s face grew puzzled and he kissed the top of the bird’s head in thought.
“If she couldn speak, I’m sure she’d have a lot to say…”

    “Vaenomar…” thought Thorin, “She could talk to you…”
The bird cocked its head and met Thorin’s eye, but imparted nothing further.

  Gorlath’s voice from a far corner made a few of the hawks jump, “There’s no other entrance or exit. The ventilation is far too small for a human body to fit in.”
“No other keys?” Thorin finally addressed the man.
“None,” he answered in utmost honesty, his own trust slowly ebbing back.

 He didn’t deserve Thorin’s wrath. The Dwarf king’s black thoughts searched for who did.
Was it because he had imagined Vaenomar with this young man, that had caused jealousy to flare and blind him? Was it one frustration and worry after the next?
Or was it because he felt someone or something was undermining him at every turn.
Thorin sucked in a long deliberated breath and let it out of his nostrils.

  “No sign of goblins for decades, you say?” Gormna asked as Thorin gathered his thoughts.
 “Ever since my father defeated their regional chief, mmm…twenty-five years ago or more- they haven’t been back. I was only a tiny lad then, but we used to have something of a militia.” He sighed in nostalgia and let the hawk back on her resting perch, “I guess it disappeared with disuse. I only hope we don’t need it…”
 Thorin nodded solemnly in agreement. He hadn’t placed warriors around this locale since two years of dwelling in the Grey Mountains. There had been nothing to worry about.

“Any visitors to the town lately?”

 The taller man cocked his head and eyed Thorin, “Visitors?”

“Foreign, odd-looking…male?” 

  He ran his fingers over the coppery stubble on his head. “Now…that almost rings a bell.” Drumming his long fingers on his skull for a moment, he looked up slowly, “Eh- perhaps you should talk to my sister.” With that he took the torch from Gormna and led the way out.

  “This door locks when it closes,” he explained, “Dwarf-make, actually. A fellow…from Dale, I think, or something like that.”
Thorin glanced at Gorlath.
  The only Dwarf in these parts that claimed to hail from the city on the lake was Branbur. Gormna raised his eyebrows.
“A different sister, I take it?” the older brother said slyly.
 That earned a frown from the patient host, “I knew Dwarves were mistrustful, but- not everyone is a liar. -Yes. I have three sisters. They practically raised me.”
  “Pretty boy,” snorted Gorlath, louder than he meant.

  The ring of a knife being drawn cut the air and the man turned on his heel, easily pinning the scout to the wall with a hand and his superior height.
 “Pretty moves, too,” he hissed, with a slightly crazed grin, Gorlath’s eyes widening as he felt something jabbed hard into his underchin.

  Thorin’s axe was at the ready just as fast, but any action was halted by a throaty chuckle from Gormna.
 The tall man’s grin softened, a raspy laugh shaking his own thin frame, and he stepped back, removing his hand from the Dwarf’s throat. In place of a knife he had used his thumb, and now sheathed the dagger which he’d held behind his back- to Gormna’s merriment.
  He patted the reddening scout on the back and cast a wary eye on the Dwarven leader who slowly lowered his axe.
 “I’ll have you know, all my sisters can fight. They were the ones that disciplined me…not father.”

  They came to an open room, not very large, with carven pillars at the four corners. He approached a door on the West and, clearing his throat, he knocked.
“It’s just me, Dána. Are you…awake?”
 The sleepy drawl testified otherwise, “It’s so late, Rúan! What is it?”
The voice grew nearer and he quickly motioned for the Dwarves to stand back a bit.

   The door opened and a well-built, round faced woman with shoulder length, thick, orange curls stood, tall and lovely in her billowing nightgown. As her eyes accustomed to the torchlight, she blinked and suddenly shut the door to only a few inches.
“Rúan! You liar! You said it was only you!”
“Well, I meant-“
“What do you want?!”
 Thorin stepped forward, throwing the stray hair out of his face with a toss of his head. The fire light of the torch lit up his fine, rock hewn features and highlighted glints on his scale-mail.
 “Thorin Oakenshield, at your service, my lady,” sounded his gravelly rumble. It always worked.

  Her fair cheeks tinged rosy and she made a sort of curtsey. “Dána, daughter of Wulfur, at yours.”
“Forgive the intrusion, we never meant to wake you.”
She shook her head, copper curls bouncing lively.
“Your brother made mention of…a stranger to the town, that perhaps you had some dealings with?”
 The colour left her cheeks and she shot a withering look at her younger brother. “Maybe,” she said weakly.
  Playing his cards well, Thorin took her hand and pressed his lips and beard to it respectfully.
“It is very important that I find him,” he said calmly, doing his best to hold back unnecessary emotion, “You would do me a great service by aiding me in this matter.”

  Rúan glanced at the Dwarf brothers, but they were just as in the dark as he.

Her tone lowered confidentially, but she let go of the door.
“Five days…or around that, I was-” she glanced at her brother, “At the tavern. There’s never anyone new in Aldon- so, when this striking…gorgeous…strapping…” she blushed again, “Man comes up and asks to buy me an ale- I’m not going to refuse.”
Though he hardly agreed with the reasoning, Thorin nodded sympathetically.
“He had a strange accent, ah, a short beard,…very…strong body,” her eyes moved wistfully over the Dwarf king for a moment, “And the most perfect….white teeth I’ve ever tast- er…seen.”
 She turned even redder and again resorted to glaring at her brother.

   Thorin said nothing. His eyes were fixed as if attentive to the girl’s story, but by now his mind was far away.
 The damned teeth! Accent…Bridi had mentioned that. No defining descriptions of a face though…odd. Women always seemed to be good at that sort of thing, he mused.
He returned to the present to hear her say, “Cold…he seemed so…cold. Not that I touched him or anything.”
Thorin’s own blood began to run cold in his veins.
  She hesitated for long enough to make Thorin wonder if she realized his his inattention.
He bent closer and whispered, “Did he try to…touch you?”
She gulped rather loudly. “He asked my to join him upstairs. I- I couldn’t say no. But- you see, I’m not that kind of girl, alright. But…I don’t know, he – well, my cousin made me come away with her. But, I’m not that kind of girl-“
  He placed a firm, calming hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I know you’re not.” It was the least he could do to calm her back down. “My-” he looked down and sniffed uncomfortably, “‘Daughter’ had a similar experience with this same man. I’m glad you’re safe.”

  She nodded gratefully with large eyes. Thorin mocked himself in his mind, “Your daughter? What a father you’d make! And Vaenomar…a daughter?” The thought was gut-wrenching.

   The three onlookers grasped the situation slowly, each in their own time and way.

“Dána…” Rúan’s voice broke in softly, “Any idea where he was headed?”
She didn’t look at him, but kept her eyes on the intriguing company, “He never talked about himself. But there was something about him…that made me not even want to know…” Her curls bounced as she jerked her head, “Ah, I’m talking strange now. I’ve told you all I can. I hope it helps…”
  Before she shut the door, Thorin took her hand again and placed a farewell kiss on her soft skin. “Thank you, Dána. Forever shall I be in your debt.”
A smile flickered across her round face as it disappeared behind the door.

  The smile that had lightened his was gone with the thud of the door, buried deep in re-unearthed troubles.

The Saga of Vaenomar- Chapter 30 ~ Not Alone~

Chapter 30
~Not Alone~

  The welcoming chirps and rustling forest calm was all but lost on Vaenomar as she crashed through the underbrush like the same mother boar she’d so lately been pursued by. The feverish heat in her head obscured the other sensations of her body and mind. Her legs throbbed violently from an intense march of nearly five hours. Locked and firm, her jaw was set in an angry scowl, eyes straight ahead, only barely seeing what was there through the fiery haze fueled by one man: Dáin.
  Her small vocabulary of curses didn’t suffice to describe him so she left off trying. Branbur, the man she trusted most, was gone forever. Thorin had done next to nothing to stop Dáin’s abuse and Bridi even less. They actually were listening to him!!
She was disgusted.
 They took his word over months and months of her unfailing loyalty?! How could Thorin? If a guest at her pleasure had insulted one she professed to love, she knew, most definitely, she would never sit by and watch them so rankly offended!
   Dáin’s words rang through her ears like giant bells clanging overhead, making her unsteady.
A large bank into a brook sloped down, littered with rocks and loose soil. Carelessly Vaenomar jumped onto the slope and began to slide, losing her balance and tumbling down with a splash, feet first into the water. Without hesitation she got back up, tears of fury welling up in her eyes, and climbed up the other side. Teeth grinding fitfully, she thought to herself, “Perhaps I’ll just not go back for a long time. I’ll do my duty as flawlessly as ever and go back when I please. That should teach them.”
Just maybe Thorin would feel bad; heartless man!
   Dark clouds were high above the trees while smaller wisps floated just over the tallest branches. The air was chill but damp and in the forest dank and muggy. A warm spell in the middle of the winter had awoken a few Northern creatures, but still the woods were quiet. Quiet, but for the plodding footsteps that traversed the Western edge.

  The trees were less dense and the underbrush leafless and sleeping from the cool winds that penetrated the edge of the woods for about a half mile. Vaenomar’s aimless marching led her just out of the warmth of the inner woods and into the realm of winter. But she noticed it not. Nor did her clouded eyes perceive the broken branches and stirred leaves that under more normal circumstances would’ve been picked up immediately.

  A stronger anger she had never felt in her life, at least that she could remember. The Elves had taught by example to be patient, caring and above such base feelings. The Elves: why were the Dwarves so suspicious of them? Her past association with them was the main source of her problems and her own upbringing left her unable, or unwilling, to address such insults as Dáin’s.  Picturing Thorin’s grisly, rasping relative beside her, she lashed out with a wayward punch, her fist colliding with a rough tree trunk. That, of course, had a jarring effect on her knuckles and she recoiled her hand. Sucking the numbing scrapes, she looked up at what she’d struck. Dead leaves rustled as if unhappily disturbed and the dormant beech’s branches swayed in a breeze.
Vaenomar stepped back, muttering, “I’m sorry…” Then a clang echoed through the forest and searing pain shot up her leg as cruel, iron jaws sank into the flesh high above her ankle.
Her body collapsed in utter shock and she heard her throat utter a wailing cry. With grinding teeth and bated breath the trapped creature pulled her throbbing leg out from under her to find an iron contraption as long as her forearm and hand, piercing, with long, evil teeth, latched on either side of her leg.
  She gasped for breath, squeezing tight the blood flow on her calf and closed tight her eyes.
As she tried with trembling hands to pry off the clamped fangs, the blood left her face and raced to her leg. It wasn’t budging, despite all the strength she forced into it. Blackness hovered around her sight, replacing the haze of frustration, and it closed in.
“This is what I get for running off?” she muttered through clenched teeth, “I’m sorry Thorin…”
Her arms went limp and she keeled backwards, head landing on a soft bed of lichen, while the malicious row of metal spikes remained locked on its prey.


    The last several hours Thorin had spent chastising Dáin at the top of his lungs, and arguing and calling for Vaenomar in and on the outskirts of town.
 She had been seen leaving by the gate, confirmed by the half awake gate-guards, and, according to Bridi, had brought her fresh filled, supply bag along with her.
Bridi had assured him that the girl needed only to let off a lot of steam, and, being a well-mannered thing, preferred to do so without the company of others.

  “When have you ever seen her lose her temper?” she had encouraged, “And let met tell you- doubt not that she has one.”
 She’d simply returned to the woods, to her post; her duty. She’d return soon and make amends. It was her way. With a magma-filled glare at Dáin, “If there are amends to be made,” she said.

  Thorin’s throat was sore and his head ached. As he stared at the cracks and uneven shelves in the flagstone floor, his eyes saw only Vaenomar, abused and offended beyond measure. He should have done more. Not in his wildest dreams did he think his cousin would go that far.
Thorin bore no love for Elven-kind, but Dáin’s dislike seemed to have turned into an extreme hatred. Not only had he accused his cousin’s adopted lover of being a sympathizer, but had argued for that being as bad as a goblin-chief or such. Since when had Elves and goblins been simultaneous in a Dwarf mind?! Not in Thorin’s long life time.
Branbur had always a good opinion of most pointy-ears, Bridi was neutral, and both were, and had been, trusted opinions.
  Dáin and Thorin and all of Durin’s line from under Erebor had good reason to be at odds with the folk of the realm of the Greenwood, but all Elves?
Vaenomar would never truly understand, and she shouldn’t have to. As he told himself often: it wasn’t her burden to bear.
 Through shouting, threats, curses, and a bit of blood-drawing punches Thorin and his newfound ally, Bridi, had mostly successfully driven that point like a spike in Dáin’s thick, rocky skull. Not that he apologized- but he would have to.
 If she ever came back…
Bridi’s firm hand rested on his shoulder, as he hunched over in a chair.
“She’ll come back, my lord. If I know her at all, she’ll come back. Just give her time.”

   He glanced at Dáin, who was sitting sullenly in a corner, sharpening a few axe-blades to pass the time.
Thorin’s eyes turned back to the floor.
“I shouldn’t have made her come…”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It could’ve been avoided… My own failure to see things the way they are-“
“My lord, it’s not your fault. Believe me- I’d tell you if it was.”
He managed a chuckle, “Oh Bridi, you’re worth more gold than was ever in my father’s coffers.”
“I hope so,” she replied dryly. “You could never have anticipated such a row, so don’t blame yourself. There are more important things to deal with at hand.”
He nodded solemnly, but his mind still lingered on Vaenomar. Her sudden absence had struck him like a ballista bolt. He hadn’t even been able to-
 Startling Bridi and his cousin, he stood up. With Vaenomar not around his restless spirit awoke and tormented him. He had half a mind to follow her…
 If Darzûn hadn’t found her though, there wasn’t much of a chance he could. Especially if she didn’t want to be.

   Passing out of the postern door, he made his way in the clear air to the bulwark walls.
In the gloaming light of evening he peered into the dark mass of forest far below and hoped somewhere in their midst a young woman, wronged in her own home, lay at rest with a forgiving heart and peaceful mind. Comfortable on a pillow of soft leaves, enmeshed deep in her soft woolen blankets. Someday he would hold her in his arms, kiss the tender skin of her neck, and enjoy the peace and innocence of young life, as he had none.
Always, it was someday.
 Thorin realized then- if he’d actually been worried, or doubted her, he would’ve immediately given chase. But he didn’t. Now he must sit and rot with his accursed cousin, waiting for news from her or others to call him away.
 Bridi was always right, there was no reason to doubt her now. In matters of female emotions she was a good one to trust. If he’d been insulted in such a way he simply would’ve broken the insulter’s nose.
 So why hadn’t he…before Vaen got incensed and ran away? Back in a circle! Confound it all!
He slapped the stone and looked East, letting the cool wind whip his worn, stately face.
A small, black silhouette soared high above the base of the mountain against the remnants of an orange and violet sunset. He thought of Vaenomar’s friend, Grimsvodn the Young.
  “Take care of her… where ever you are… where ever she is.”


   They had been tramping for two hours now, though probably only an hour in distance from camp, and had found nothing unusual. Not even the beasts were about, and the only tracks they found were very few by river banks in the barely thawed mud and silt.
  The two men that followed him kept a constant quiet babble, mostly coming from Rumil, as they endeavored to keep up with his vigorous pace. Though a large frame was less agile and maneuverable in tight branches, Eärón’s solid thighs provided him with all the stamina of a horse. Or a mûmak, as his friends called him.
   As usual, the day was uneventful. Not that he minded being sent into the woods on seeming pointless rounds. Anything to get out of camp. Captain Alcarín grew on his nerves daily; the more he saw Eärón the worse he liked him as well. Despite his rather fruitless returns from scouting, however, Eärón had retained his promotion to lieutenant. It didn’t really mean much, but that he got to ‘head’ the small groups of Glade-keepers that accompanied him. He didn’t even get to choose who went along.
  On the last few outings the timid, clingy Nurtalië had come. He always seemed so nervous, never looking in the eye and watching his back as if something pursued him, walking just at Eärón’s heels. He was too young, Eärón thought, and scared. It was infectious, making Eärón nervous too when he was around.
So thin and frail, like a little girl, almost. He made Eärón, in all his broad bulk, feel so big and clumsy.
But at least Nurtalië was quiet.
 He threw a stern glance behind him, as a signal for the lads to pipe down. Earlier he’d been more polite about it, but one too many times had exhausted that.
   Up ahead a brook rushed loudly, the ice melted as the day warmed considerably. He turned, walking backwards for a moment, and, with a nod to either side, he jogged off.
Morcion stood in his tracks, confused, but Rumil explained, “Split up!”

  Eärón gripped a thick branch and pulled himself up onto a massive fallen tree that spanned the width of the stream. They always crossed separately, if possible: scouting tactics.
The mud below looked particularly soft and so he decided to inspect, in hopes of finding signs of any sort of life. Plus, he didn’t mind having a moment of quiet to himself now and again. Ever since he left Tauremith the first time, he had, with much forcing of his willpower, tried to block Tairiel from his mind’s eye and rid his memory of her precious torment.
 However unsuccessful this had really resulted, at least now he had things to distract him, tedious though they be.
  As he inspected the river bank he felt the icy water with the tips of his fingers and shivered. The air was much more chill here than closer to Tauremith. Barely two months ago he’d been hot at night even without a shirt, now two blankets was just enough out in the woods. Last time they’d slept outside of camp while on a ranging party, the little Nurtalië had been so cold that he, in his sleep, had snuggled up to Eärón’s back for warmth. Out of pity, he didn’t complain, despite how awkward it had been, but the poor boy had apologized so profusely that Eärón chose to forget it all.
 “Who needs a fire with Mûmak around,” Tethrin had joked, tugging the big Elf’s long black braid.
   Eärón smiled to himself and looked into the ripples and courses of the clear brook flowing happily over smooth pebbles.
  His reflection was distorted as he watched it shimmer and fragment, but his face changed quickly from placid expression. The water was tinged red! Just slightly tinted in ribbons of colour, but there was no doubt. Blood in the stream.
He jumped up and listened. Only the hum of his companions a few metres off.
They could wait; not as if it was possible to lose them.
 With only the strength of his arms he hauled himself back up onto the natural bridge and moved upstream in the brush. Stopping to inspect further, he found no tracks, but a more dense stream of red liquid in the water. He was close.

 “Eärón?” his heart thumped hard on hearing Rumil’s hushed voice behind him.
So they could be quiet if they wanted.
“Have you found something,” the other whispered.
Eärón held his finger to his lips, “Spread out in silence. One eye on me and the other on the river,” he said as simply and quietly as he could.
Rumil leapt nimbly over a narrow opening of the brook, while Morcion moved away from the bank and disappeared in the forest.
 Their leader melted with the underbrush, his dark leather armour and black hair camoflauging well with the wintering woods.
  As he crept up the hill, slowly moving through the undergrowth along the gradual waterfalls, he heard one splash, followed by the rustling of dead leaves underfoot, and froze. Upstream about twenty feet.
   Silently he picked up his pace and came within five feet of where the movement have been. A quick glance showed him no less than a boot print on the opposite side of the bank of him. It was large enough for a small man, squared and light. A dark mass flashed ahead and he jumped to the pursuit.
  The other two had seen only the action of their leader and moved to keep up with him. He was obviously on the trail of something.
 The few broken twigs and boot prints left by his quarry made it clear that whatever he was after was a very clever woodsman. He didn’t move quickly, as one would if they knew they were being pursued, but it kept Eärón on his toes to stay apace. On Elven soil, outsiders were as uncommon as natural death and nearly as unwelcome, unless by invitation. He seemed to be oblivious to Eärón’s and the other’s presence, and so too, probably that these woods were in Elvish keeping.

  Eärón skidded to a halt. A dozen or so paces ahead stood a tall, broad, and darkly cloaked form, with a mask and large woolen hood that obscure the rest of the face. Eärón watched as the figure turned away and a white hand pulled down the mask a little to free the nose.
He sniffed the air, replaced the mask and shot a penetrating glance in Eärón’s direction before starting off into a lope.
 He did know they were there, though not precisely where they were. He couldn’t let him disappear now.
 Eärón kept up the chase, moving stealthily from one tree to the next, with both eyes on his quarry and ears on his companions. He couldn’t hear them and didn’t want to.
The outlander woodsman stopped again only briefly, to shift the pack on his shoulders and continued on. The pursuing Elf peeped out from behind the towering mallorn to see the draped figure pull his long, elegantly carved bow off his back in a calm, measured manner, more in defense than attack. He resumed his quick walk and pulled the cover off his quiver.
  Perhaps no mere woodsman, thought Eärón. A muffled whistle of a pine thrush broke the peaceful quiet, but didn’t seem to disturb the cloaked traveller. Eärón called back to Rumil in a similar call and was answered by the croak of a raven.
 That wasn’t Morcion’s call!
It came again and the quarry looked about and kept moving. The warble of a bullfinch came from Eärón’s right hand side and set him more at ease.
They were both there; not as incompetent as they seemed.
 Several paces more and the Elf lieutenant gave his thrush call again. The mysterious figure came into a long, narrow clearing and Eärón hid himself behind another giant mallorn. Taking in a deep breath, he readied a warning speech.
  But the crunching of leaves stopped and a low, but not at all masculine voice demanded:
“What do you want, Elf?”

  Thrown completely off his guard, Eärón started and peeped slowly around the white trunk.
She, for it definitely was no man, hadn’t turned to face him, though she seemed to know where he was.
 He left his hiding place and came into the clearing. With a frame like his, weapons were often unnecessary for intimidation effects. But his tone was mellow and resonant.
“I wish only to learn your business in the forest?”
  Curtly she replied, turning around to face him, “None of yours. Why are you following me?”
She was very tall and appeared strong and possessed a calm and cool that unsettled Eärón.
“I protect and patrol these woods. State your business and if it be peaceful I will gladly let you to it, friend.” He didn’t come any closer than seven long paces.
“Friend?” her masked voice scoffed, holding her bow limp at arm’s length. “Well, friend, you may as well call off your men…”
 After a tell tale pause he stammered, “My men?”
She didn’t miss a thing.
 “The one there,” she nodded to his right, “is so loud I could have hit him with a stone…blindfolded. He’s quiet enough,” she gestured to the other side, “In comparison. But you- I could’ve smelled you from miles off- with a cold.”
  Her tone was serious, but he caught the sarcasm and smiled: he could appreciate humour, even coming from a stranger who had completely foiled his stalking attempts. A word in Elvish from their lieutenant brought Rumil and Morcion out of their hiding places, albeit a bit timidly, and they fell into form behind him.

  The woman smirked aloud at her own exactitude and she turned and resumed her walk, to Eärón’s surprise. Her aura of confidence only intrigued him more. Cold and aloof, she was ready for anything: just as he would need to be in dealing with her.

  “Who are you?” he asked, keeping close behind her, though he knew not what he expected to learn.
“What’s it to you?”
 “I ask only for your purpose here. If you are a friend, then you may pass freely in these lands.” He hoped his voice was as convincing as his words.
 “These lands?”
By her accent, he couldn’t tell her race or homeland, but in size and bearing she suggested a very tall and noble culture.
“You are on Elvish soil,” he said, lengthening his strides to gain the space between them.
 “I am on soil. And you are an Elf.”
Eärón sighed; the masked intruder was a tough nut to crack.

 “Do you really think you own the soil?” she threw a glance over her shoulder, measuring her followers’ decreasing distance.
“Ah- no,” he mumbled. Such an unexpected situation was getting the better of him, “But,- we are charged with the safe keeping of these woods. You’ve crossed into our territory and you must declare your intentions.”
 She whirled around and glared at him from under hood and mask, “Oh must I?”
Behind Eärón, the two others, tense and skittish, glued their hands to their sheathed weapons and bow and arrow hand ready to nock.

  “A friend to these lands can go free. If you pose a threat, however, you will be taken captive.” There wasn’t a chance this would end nicely if she saw his uncertainty. He heard his father’s stern, warlike voice in his own.
 She cocked her head thoughtfully, “So, would taking a deer for food be posing a threat?”
He hesitated and then answered quickly, “No.”
 “Then you really wish to gauge how dangerous I am.”
Eärón cleared his throat, “I guess…”
 She was making him dance around like a fool in front of the others; he could feel their nervous fidgeting behind him, just waiting for any sudden movement.
 “Say- then,” she continued, not slackening her pace in the least, “I could slay all of you before the third could draw his sword.”
 Eärón put his hand on Morcion’s sword arm as Rumil soundlessly reached for an arrow.
  Again she whipped around, showering ice down on Rumil with her glare, “And you’ll be first!…But would I? No. Not unless you attacked me.”
 Calmly she turned back around and moved on.

  The terrain was more level and easy now. At Eärón’s bidding, hoping to avoid further incident, the two others hung back and he jogged to catch up.
“Are you a mercenary?”
 More patiently than expected, she shrugged, “Something like that. I live in the forest. Eat what I need to survive and nothing more. I leave no marks where I go and only kill those who make themselves my enemy. Dangerous? Yes. Trouble? No.”

  There was no doubt that she was a skilled combatant as well as a ranger, but the stony exterior aside, Eärón sensed something far deeper and infinitely more personable within.
 “Then you are free to roam as you will…”
Somehow, he believed her. Despite the looks from his companions suggesting their feelings to the contrary, in Elvish, true to his word, he sent them back to camp. “I’ll join you soon and make a report to the Captain.”
  As was evident by her familiarity with the woods and lifestyle she had dwelt her for some time.  To Eärón’s peaceful logic what harm was there in letting her be? His conscience spoke otherwise. “You can’t trust her,” Rumil’s wary eyes had said before he left.
“I can fend for myself,” the lieutenant assured him in muttered Quenya.
The other two Glade-keepers vanished into the brush and Eärón continued to follow her, unwelcomed.

   Hearing the large feet in soft boots crunching behind her and a little to the side, she sighed, “And yet you still follow me?”
Without the others tagging behind him Eärón felt his confidence returning. He wasn’t completely sure if he still pursued her for the sake of sating his curiosity or actually out of duty.
 “We’re going the same way.” He could almost hear her roll her eyes. “Nice try, Eärón,” he thought.
  “Ah, and you actually sent them off,” she observed, pretending not to have understood his Elvish. “Good,” she added in a purr that arrested Eärón’s pulse like a bolt of hoarfrost.

  The ground grew uneven as her path led them downhill towards a watery ravine. Thousands of questions chased each other through his mind and her every step, quickening with the descent, increased his wariness of her and made him doubt the soundness of his judgment to follow her alone. Not that he doubted his ability to match her in combat, only he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. His unease only grew the longer he followed her.
 The forest began to feel chill, despite there being no wind. His heartbeat raced and all his sensed tuned to their sharpest. The croak of a large bird sounded ominously again a ways off and the mercenary began to move faster and less casually. Cold instinct made Eärón silently unsheathe a long hunting knife. The clouds darkened overhead and he could see their fitful forms through the canopy. Amid her hasty footsteps he thought she gave a short, grim chuckle.
She slowed on coming to a steep incline and Eärón stopped a few paces behind her.
“What’s happening?” he demanded breathlessly, more from apprehension than exertion.
    She halted and turned slowly. Seeing his weapon at the ready she unflinchingly approached him. “You know… it’s dangerous threatening someone on their home ground.”
 Before he could step away she was there, and two sudden pricks in his throat and below the ribs arrested him.
  Her dual blades pressed harder against his skin and thin leather doublet, forcing his steps backwards until he was backed against a broad tree.
  Blue eyes flickered beneath the dark hood. His heart beat so loud he was sure even she could hear it. The cold steel moved up and down with his larynx with a gulp. As the sellsword gave no signs of letting him go, Eärón threw down his knife. “I’m sorry,” he said earnestly, his handsome features respectful and pleading. “I was jumpy, that’s all. Please- I mean you no harm. Forgive me.”
  Still the whetted blades hovered about his vitals and a fell blaze lingered in her icy glare. The mask covering her mouth and nose moved in and out with measured breath.
“Please,” he insisted in as suave and calm a tone as he could muster, ” I’ve disarmed, and apologized- What more do you want?”
 With a guttural rumble she rolled her eyes and released him, sheathing both her dagger and an arm’s length scimitar of unique fashion. The quick flash he saw it Eärón thought it looked familiar, but wasn’t sure. Rubbing his throat, he let her retrieve his knife and get a head start before resuming his shadowing.
 She was dangerous, that much was undoubted, but she was only as wary of him as he was of her. Perhaps he was being paranoid. After all, she was the first sign of two-legged, non-feathered life anyone had seen in this forest for a long while. He couldn’t leave her now. and she did nothing to deter him. The curiosity was on both sides.

 “‘On their own turf'”, she had said. And was right. The mallyrn were nowhere to be seen. They moving just along the border of Elven lands. “You are a much keener forester than I,” he called good-naturedly, as he caught up, “One could almost take you for an Elf.”
“Oh really,” he heard her grumble back, obviously not taking his well-meant words as much of a compliment.
 There was much more to this self-professed mercenary than she revealed. Something drew him to her, and it definitely wasn’t his tired, trudging feet. She was deeply suspicious, but more trusting than reason would dictate. Both pairs of eyes and ears kept close mark on each other.
A certain fate was engraved in the depths of her glacial eyes and their sad, knowing aura. She seemed lonely, yet peaceful enough with her life. How he could know so much from a look, feel so much from just being near her…he had no idea.
 As if she could read his prying thoughts, she broke the silence, “What is your name, Elf?”
 They waded through an icy stream, the ground uneven with rocks and fallen timber and he caught up close behind her.
He knew not why, but he answered her falsely, “I am called Eöl.”
 She snorted, “Oh? And I go by Beruthiel, Queen of Cats.”
Eärón, off his guard again, found himself unable to reply.
 “Just as well, then, Eöl Moriquen, as I wouldn’t have given you my name either.”

 There was nothing distinct about her garb: she was wrapped in a wide, slate, woolen cloak and hood, without adornment. Her boots of simple, worn leather. She walked with the steady, powerful gait of a noble, well-trained person. Until after they reached the top of the craggy hillock on the other side of the stream.

 Before his conscience could stop him, his tongue wagged, “Why are you walking like that?”
He wanted to slap himself.
“Like what?” snapped the defensive voice of one who knows they’re being observed.
It reminded him of Tairiel, only lower and more reserved.
“You’re walking different…” he tried to explain.
But she was. Her lower leg or foot seemed suddenly in great pain, despite her efforts to hide it.

  Ignoring him, she pushed on. As the water from the stream eventually dried from the tracks left by her boots there appeared another dark substance. Blood! More blood!
“You’re bleeding!” he caught up to her side, “What happened?”
“Nothing!” she hissed and pushed him away, charging ahead.
 The facade of ruthlessness and stern cool originally put on by the female forester ceased to play on Eärón’s honest personality. It didn’t make her any less formidable, though. “You’re wounded! Wait,” he placed a firm hand on her shoulder, but was violently shaken off.
“I don’t need help- especially from you! Leave me alone,” she said angrily and took off in a laboured lope.
 It was no trouble keeping up now, “Please! You must let people help you every now and then!”
     How could he possibly know that?
She shook her head and growled angrily, “No, no I don’t.”

  He brushed past something white and it drew his eyes upwards. Mallorn bark.

 “We’re on my ground now. Stop or I’ll shoot.” He held his bow at arm’s length and an arrow loosely nocked.
 She stopped in her tracks, but didn’t turn around. “You’re catching on, then. And it’s only been fifteen paces.”
“Go no further,” he ignored her sarcasm, “I order you on pain of death.”
 Exhaling through flared nostrils, “You won’t do it.” She took one step forward.
The wood of the bow now creaked under pressure.
“Disarm yourself. Quiver first.” Along the route of gaining her trust, this was probably one of the worst shortcuts he could’ve taken. Who knows what was going through her mind now. Again, he wanted badly to bang his head against a tree, but he couldn’t turn back.
 After a long stubborn pause, she actually obeyed.
Her quiver clattered to the ground a few feet away from her.
“Now the daggers and your sword.” All three clanged as they fell atop each other.
Arrow drawn to his ear, bowstring held firm in place by large, strong hands, he asked, “Anything else?”
 “Oh, of course not,” came her sarcastic tone.
“Throw it to the side,” he ordered sternly.
 With a defiant snort she drew a hatchet from beneath her cloak, and two boot knives and tossed them to the side. She unstrapped a hand blade from her thigh and pulled off another throwing axe from the small of her back.
 The growing heap of weapons made a slight shiver run down Eärón’s spine. Still feeling the prick of her dagger in his throat, he wanted badly to see the face of this mercenary.
“Now step away from them.”
 She acquiesced, leaving a larger print of blood where her right foot had been.
 “I know you’re not going to shoot me.”
“I will if you don’t do as I say,” he lied convincingly.
 She scoffed, “What are you going to have me do? Strip?”
“I could,” and then to himself, “Idiot!!
 “I’d rather be shot.”
“Sit down on the patch of moss over there.”
He steadied his voice, “Do it.”
 “I don’t want help.”
“I’m not going to hurt you. Just do as I say.”
 “You are threatening to shoot me. Are you suggesting that is painless?”
He growled, “This is your last warning. Do as I say.” Harsh as his threat sounded, he relaxed his bowstring.
It was all she needed.
 The captive ducked and whirled around, knocking the bow out of his hand with a wild blow. A quick reactor, Eärón seized her wrists and used his massive body to knock her onto the soft moss. She planted a knee in his gut, sending all air from his lungs, but he didn’t let go. Taking both her wrists in one hand and turning on her stomach, while anchoring the writhing body with his own weight, he bound her hands behind her back and lashed her to a tree.

  An Elf with that kind of brute strength was not what she expected. He stepped back and all colour drained from her cheeks as he stripped off his belt. He buckled it behind her, strapping her throat to the tree. She couldn’t move without hurting herself so she eventually quit struggling. Heart thumping wildly against her chest she ground her teeth in anticipation of his next move.
 “Get off me!” she hissed like a cornered snake.
“Relax,” he tried to calm her, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
 “Don’t touch me.”
After securing the buckle, he sat back on his heels, “Please. You’re hurt and bleeding. I saw the blood in the stream, too. I’m going to look at your leg.”
 “You will not!”
“I’m a healer-“
 “So am I. Get away from me!”
“Obviously.” His smile was so genuine and calming that she relaxed just a bit.
 “I can take care of myself,” she squirmed.
“But you’re not. Just hold still.”
 “Let me go, now!”
Patiently, he promised, “If it’s nothing, I give you my word I’ll leave it alone and let you go, alright?”
 The same bear-like gurgle issued from her throat and she banged her head against the birch she was bound to.
 Removing his kneeling leg from her lap, a rather compromising position to be sure, Eärón gently took her foot in his hand, staying clear of a kick in the face.
He slipped off the muddied boot and unwrapped the bloody stockings from her solid calves. On finding her cold, pale skin he began to wish he had Nurtalië’s gentle touch. He’d watched him handle a nasty gash on a fellow keeper’s arm recently without so much as a groan from the wounded party.
  She didn’t move as his sturdy fingers examined her wound. It was clean, but very deep and looked incredibly painful. He glanced up at her wan face, “Was it a boar?”
 In silence she watched him from beneath thick eyelashes.
“Was it?”
 “Why do you care?”
“Just tell me- please.”
 She sighed and leaned her head back, “No, it wasn’t.”
His brow furrowed on looking more closely. “What was it?” he asked almost to himself.
 “Some sort of trap. The one time I wasn’t paying attention, I stepped directly into it…”
He grimaced, “How long before you got it off?”
 Her head fell back again, “Too long.”
Realizing the pain that must have caused he shuddered, “How long ago?”
 “Why so many questions?” she demanded.
“I need to know if there’s rust in it.”
 There was a quiet pause of terse breathing and she answered, “Five days ago. I cleaned it well.”
 “That you did.” He hesitated briefly, “I’m going to have to sew it up.
 “What?” For the first time she jerked, “No!”
“It’s the only way it will heal,” he pleaded.
 The slightest tremble moved in her voice, “No.”
He placed his hand on her knee and used the intimate tone he might ask a very personal favour in, “Please?”
 Eyes shut tight, she refused to answer. There was only fear now. A male stranger, threatening to shoot her if she didn’t obey, forcing her to the ground, tying her up, now asking to stick a sharp object into her flesh… What else could he expect? He began to feel sick , realizing what she must be going through. He couldn’t just leave her though, and her wound needed tending to. Now, it was far, far too late to turn back.
 He dug into the pack at his side and produced a small satchel. At the sight of the long, curved needle she pulled back her legs, and groaned.
While readying the thread his voice was soft, and caressing, “Have you ever seen a wound sewn up?”
 “I’ve closed one before…but not on myself.”
“Well, you don’t need to watch. Here,” he rolled up a piece of bandage and offered it to her for between her teeth, which she refused. “It won’t be too bad. Just relax.”
From a small brook nearby, he scooped up the icy cold water and rubbed it onto her leg to numb and clean the wound. It ran off streaked red.
 The last thing she saw was him readying the needle.
She shut her eyes and looked away.
  For the best angle and least possible movement Eärón straddled her legs, backwards, putting the least amount of weight on them as possible. Her entire body stiffened and he heard her breath shorten. Pulling off his cloak, he bundled it up and placed it over her knees and between his legs. He didn’t want any…injuries.
 Without further hesitation he deftly pierced skin and flesh and began to close up the bloody gash.

 Why he was forcing help onto a complete stranger he couldn’t explain.
She seemed a woman with a strong heart and body, but Eru knows what she was thinking as he, virile and very male, tied her to a tree and straddled her.
 “Think before you act,” Vilenas had encouraged with endless patience, apparently to no avail. Eärón wasn’t used to thinking in such…country matters. Until his encounter with Belrien, at least.
He tied the knot and began to bandage her clammy leg.
With a long held exhalation, he relaxed his clenched stomach muscles. Lifting his weight off her legs, he knelt softly by her side.
 “I’ve finished,” his smooth, dark voice said softly.
 She didn’t stir.
“It’s over…” Her shaded eyelids took on a bluish hue beneath her hood and her chest didn’t appear to move.
 He hesitated then touched her arm, “Wake up…please.”
Still nothing.
 Acting, once again, before thinking, Eärón reached for her throat to feel her pulse.
The second she felt his fingers crawling on her chest trying to find her bare throat, she jerked out of the stupour. Eärón shrunk back with a hiccup-like breath and gave a nervous laugh, “Ah, there you are. I was afraid you’d-“
 “What have you done to me?”
He cleared his throat then smiled, “I put a clean bandage on. Left it a bit loose so when you stand it should fit perfectly. The salve will help it heal fast and keep it from bleeding.”
 Suspicion still hovered in her manner, but she inspected his work with a nod. “Well done. They taught you well.”
 Humbly he bowed his head again, “I can see why you had trouble with keeping it closed. It must have been a strange metal and-” He realized he was attempting to make conversation with a stranger belted to a tree.
 “Oh, let me-” he leaned forward to remove the strap from her neck, but she shied away from his hand and instead he took hold of the cloth and the belt and off came the mask.

  After a frozen moment of shock and surprise, the captive woman screeched, “No!! How could you?!”
Eärón shrunk back as if bitten by a snake, “No, no! I’m sorry! You- you don’t understand! I didn’t mean to- at all! Please!”
 Betrayal, fury and terror raged across her revealed, handsome features. Her savage aspect was like to a wounded wolf.
 “Lying, cheating son of a whore! Come here! You untie me and I’m going to rip off your manhood with my teeth!” She was hysterical.
Eärón didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t leave her, but had no intention of risking any part of his body to her teeth. Her features were unfamiliar to him, though very lovely even in their current savageness. He couldn’t imagine a reason for her to hide from him, save, perhaps, that she was a criminal or fugitive…
 “Please stop! You’re going to hurt yourself! Tairiel- uh-no- stop!”
Feverishly she writhed against the unforgiving bonds, while the towering, flustered Elf stood frantically by, begging her forgiveness.
“I’ll-get-out-of-here- if it’s the last thing I do!”
 Tears streamed down her impassioned face as she struggled to no avail and her throat muscles bulged and purpled against the tight belt.
 “Do your folk know what kind of Elf you are? Bet they like having one so pure around their women-” she spat, in desperate indignation.
 Looking down at his feet to gather presence of mind, he noticed, to his embarrassment, that his doublet had, unbelted, unlatched itself, revealing a bit of tunic and a lot of skin beneath. He shoved the clasps back together, threw the loose wisps of raven hair out of his face and knelt next to her. With powerful hands he ceased her head’s thrashing, holding her skull firmly in a soft, but steel grip.
  Their bodies were so close he could feel her heart throbbing. The tension between them crackled and hissed like fire on ice. She was lovely, he was handsome, both powerful and very opposite. Her body stiffened and trembled, and she stared straight ahead at his chest, panting through her teeth.
 His hands relaxed and left her head slowly, moving down her neck and onto the belt.
Closing her eyes, she felt her nose nudge into his partially bared chest as the belt was removed.
His calloused palms worked ever so tenderly on her smooth wrists and soon her hands were unbound.
 He squatted to the side and stared at the ground.
“My name is Eärón,” he said at long last.
 “I know,” came her reply a moment later. “Mine is Savone. I’m from Esgaroth.”
“Savone?” he tried to hide his surprise, “That’s- a beautiful name.”
   The storm passed as quickly as it had arisen. Out of the sparking mistrust from before had come a peaceful wariness of each other. What had doused the fire or calmed the waves, neither could tell, but Eärón offered her a hand and she took it. She steadied herself on her feet and he gathered up the panoply of weapons nearby. Handing her the excellently crafted pieces, he asked, “So…you speak Elvish?”
 “A very little.”
She strapped on her knives. “These are very beautiful,” he remarked, genuinely impressed as he handed her a long-shafted axe with a unique blade shaped like an angular rune.
 A grunt sufficed to answer the compliment.
“Are they Dwarf-make?” Eärón asked with piqued interest.
 Her cheeks drained and coloured just as quickly, but she answered without hesitation,  “Probably. Found some in an old riverbed and bought the others on the road. All that matters to me is that they’re good quality and won’t fail me in a tight spot. No dragon curses on them or anything.”
 Eärón agreed with a nod, but found himself unconvinced of her non-caring attitude towards these works of such artistry.

  Here they were, holding conversation as if they had shared the forest for months, when only moments ago escaping unscathed, sans violence, seemed a luxury on both parts. Whatever had transpired between them had happened so subtly that neither was sure of it.
  As she shifted the strap of her quiver more comfortably, Eärón took up her last weapon, hilt in one hand. Something about the grip was so familiar he almost didn’t think twice.
Before she reached for it, he glanced at the handle. It was wrapped in soft, black leather and decorated with a pair of onyx on the elegantly formed pommel.
Almost identical to his own sword- save his had sapphires!
 The scabbard was beautiful in it’s simple elegance, but the shape- there was no other pair of hilts so alike.
“Where did you get this?” he asked energetically.
 Taking it from him she hastily gird it on, “Why?”
In explanation, he drew his own, holding forward carefully by the blade for her to see.
Something in her bright eyes flashed a remembrance…or a realization?
“Similar, eh? Fancy that.” Her words were forced.
“My father gave me this sword, telling me that its twin lived in the hands of a friend, somewhere far away. That Dwarf forged my sword and my father its twin.”
He could see her hands tremble as they fingered her pommel. “I think you’re mistaken,” she said and took a step back.
 “And Savone was my mother’s name,” he added, his tone more grave and looks more in wonder every moment. “Who are you really?”
 “Believe me, sir, I do not know you. I got this sword from Dwarven merchants near Jarlich on their way to Esgaroth. As your build would suggest, you are not of purely Elven blood. Your mother, I might guess, was of Mankind. My name isn’t uncommon- and you are quite fortunate to have a father with good Dwarven relations. Too few of his kind left in the world…”
There seemed to be something else in her words, something that revealed too much, but nothing. Too many coincidences. And it wasn’t called Esgaroth anymore.
 She was greatly affected. Her eye lids were red and the corners of her eyes slightly moist.
 “Is there an inscription in Elvish?” he persisted.
She gave an exasperated sigh; he wasn’t giving up. “Yes.”
“Don’t you want to know the other half?”
She couldn’t hide it: yes, terribly.
It rang out into the trees as she pulled the twin from its sheath. As the two, shining, curved blades neared each other for the first time in over a hundred years, a pure, blue glow began to emanate from the etched inscription.
  Completely mesmerized, he read aloud in his smooth, musical tongue, “Alliances may be sundered,” and she finished, her own voice beautifying the earthy Dwarvish, “But Friends are fast as Steel.
 He raised his head slowly to meet her eyes. Both pairs, deep onyx and glowing sapphire, glistened in memory of the swords’ makers.

  A muffled croak sounded high above from the same watchful raven. The young woman glanced up. There were very few ways this could end.
 Eärón, enrapt in the moment, gazed at her now resolved features, highlighted by the moon-like glow of the enchanted weapons.
 Then he felt her hand on his bare chest, soft as a lover’s caress, and he melted. His sword fell to the ground as her face neared his and she pressed her warm, wet mouth onto his. The last thing he heard from her, was:
“Forgive me, Tairiel.”

   The two hundred pounds of solid Elf body slumped to the ground, back against the same tree.
Vaenomar dusted her fingers and replaced the powdered mushroom mixture in the herb satchel at her side.
Being the first time she’d used that concoction, she was quite relieved it worked. She made quick work of binding him to the tree, his beautiful Elven twine was effortless to tie. Was a shame he’d have to cut it, though.
  Despite what he had unwittingly put her through, she felt a strong affinity and warmth for this kind, slightly clumsy man. How could she not? Long before she was even born, dear Branbur had held this baby in his arms and shielded him from dragon fire, while his father searched in vain for the poor child’s mother.
 Not five days earlier she had cursed every one of the First-born in her anger. Then the name Tairiel had accidentally escaped his lips. And then Bran’s sword.
 Holding both scimitars side by side she admired them with a full heart. She sighed and stuck Branbur’s blade in the ground between Hallacar’s son’s legs, very near his armoured codpiece.
“Farewell, Khuzd-friend. Maybe some day we will meet as friends…”
 And after a nudge to ensure his unconscious state, she trotted off.

   “One Elf amid all those trees and he happens to be in love with Tairiel. What are the chances,” she murmured to Grimsvodn, who kept a watchful eye on her while hopping about on the branches above. He simply cocked an eye down in silence.
 In her heart she knew Elves and Dwarves would never truly get along,…but she wished ever so deeply to see such a phenomenon. Being away from the Eldar for so long had made her forget her love for them- getting away from the Dwarven family for a few days helped quench the anger. Now she saw things from a more calming, even perspective. She only wondered if Thorin could ever see in the same light…

The Saga of Vaenomar- Chapter 26 ~Reunited~

Chapter 26

 Havoc spread as quickly through the town as the fire on the dry plains-grass surrounding it. Cries went up and people ran here and there, some organizing buckets for water from the well and the rest taking cover as deep into the stone of the Mead Hall as they could.
  Thorin tore down the stairs of the inn, barking orders for the proprietress and her daughter to douse all lights and get into the cellar, while buckling his weapons belt tight. The clatter of Dwarf-steel sounded through the inn.
  Once the troop got to the door, Thorin stopped Branbur, “I won’t force you to- but, if you wished, you might stay and make sure Anya is safe-“
 “My place is with my Prince, my lord. We won’t let them past the wall.”
Thorin nodded, though his heart bode ill, “Then be careful.” Turning to the rest he roared, “Baruk Khazad!!” and led the charge out onto the frozen street and towards the fiery fray.

  By the time the few seasoned, bearded warriors plunged into the battle the town guard, valiant in their effort, but untrained and lacking in discipline, had lost four of their already small number, either to wounds of fear. The enemy was made up of a ragged bunch of bandits and outlaws, hungry for food and lusty for riches. Old Estenna had fought off these raids before, but never had the enemy been so brutally lethal and determined.
  Thorin’s first blow landed heavily in the back of an unsuspecting bear of a man, over twice his height and breadth. The fire in the charging Dwarves’ eyes was matched that which blazed on the field.
  Nearby a town guard in a mail hauberk grappled with a large-boned woman with maniacal hair and wielding two short swords as if in a deathly dance. Thorin took down another, using his Oakenshield as a bludgeon, after a jarring clash of steel axe on solid quarterstaff and turned to aid his ally. He was greeted by a spurt of hot liquid in the face and immediately was charged by the blood-splattered woman. The gore from the fallen guard blinded him only for a second, but long enough for his opponent to launch an attack on him. One of her knives barely pierced his shoulder, and he only just blocked the other from his throat with an armed gauntlet. With brute strength he seized her hand and twisted it, his bellowing mixed with her raging scream. One arm he cracked behind her, the other, still grasping her sword, he plunged into her throat.
Wrenching the bloodied blade from her dead grip he cast it in the arm of one marauder about to draw a bow.
   Branbur’s dual greatswords whirled around him like scythes of death. None could near him without losing their life or at least a limb or two. As his visage was painted in the warm red of his foes’ lifeblood, he laughed and taunted, almost as happy as if reunited with his lost lover. The old bloodlust was back. A blonde scraggled head sailed through the air and fell, unceremoniously, with a thud on another lifeless body. As one sword clashed and brought the enemy weapon to the ground, his other dove into the rib cage and spilled innards and organs.   The sword master spun, his right arm at the high guard and his left sweeping low, and passed clean through a pair of limbs. The screams of the hewn enemy he silenced, in pity, playing the executioner to his head.
  Thorin looked up just in time to see the maddened smith bearing down on a big brute with a flail and a pronged mace. Too near to that pair, however, a young member of the guard struggled to retrieve his spear and shield.
 “Boy!!” Thorin roared and willing his reach farther, caught him by the sleeve and yanked him out of harm’s way. A long blade, glistening crimson, sliced the air just past the boy’s ear. Breathless he looked to Thorin. The Dwarf nodded, “He’s got bad eyes- stay out of his way.”

  “Thorin!” he heard Drisgund’s voice surface above the din, “They’re trying to scale the gate!”
He whipped around to see three stealthy sneaks, trying to hide their torches in front of them, with ropes and hooks at the gate.
  “To the gate!” Thorin bellowed and the young guard and three others followed him.

  A final stroke to the guts ended Branbur’s opponent. Staggering with adrenaline and fatigue the swordmaster surveyed the field. He panted, still with a crazed laughter in his lungs, and wiped the gore out of his eyes.
“Any more? Come on, don’t be shy!” he cried and flourished the dripping blades. None rose to his challenge. He could see only the blur of fire light on faces; now mostly just the blaze on the dry grass.
 Five or six outlaws, realizing the unexpected odds, decided they preferred life and took to their heels. The few that had tried the way of stealth and tried to steal into the hamlet with fire, were dispatched quickly with an arrow in the back or Thorin’s axe severing their limbs.
   But for a few stubborn fighters, the death or glory type, the battlefield was quiet. The last wounded enemy was silenced and Gorlath called out, “Victory!”
 Thorin looked back at the blaze on the field and the pitifully few left standing. He jogged towards the carnage and his sweating face was met by a sudden gust of air from the west.
Strange, as there was no wind this night.
  The Dwarves and the guards paused to catch their breath in this calm after the storm. As Thorin scanned the black and red field, scattered over with lifeless bodies, parts and weapons, an object floated gracefully down in front of him. It was on fire, and its tendrils curled and crackled as it was consumed by it. A feather? He looked past it.
And his soul fell as if into the depths of Angband’s pits. All breath was torn from his chest, and his eyes, wide and riveted, thought they dreamed.

  Branbur, his oldest friend and teacher, was suspended a meter in the air, his solid body limp and lifeless. Then he fell, collapsing on the ground in a pathetic pile. The blackest form of darkness enshrouded the thing that had held him. It moved forward, not floating but with a bodily form. Only then could Thorin move, and without any thoughts he rushed at it, uttering a blood-curdling cry of horror and bile. Before he came even fifteen paces from it, Thorin could see through his tear streaked eyes, the beautiful, but cruel features of a tall, gaunt man. He could not make out if he was Elf or Man, but his rage only boiled over like a volcano.
“DIE!” bellowed the Dwarf and with all his strength hurled his axe into the heart of the creature’s black robes. Just when the steel should’ve pierced flesh and shattered bones, the fiend’s form dissipated and transformed into a screeching, flapping mass of bats that flew at the Dwarf, then disappeared into the black of night.
 Thorin fell to his knees, mouth gaping, and groped for another weapon. But it was gone.
“Come back, you coward!” he roared and panted, and his hand met with a cold steel blade. As he tried to take it up he met with resistance and looked to the cause. The heavy body of a small man lay drenched in blood atop it. Thorin recognized the armour in a second. It was from Erebor.

 “Branbur!” he choked and turned him onto his back. Blood on his face, but no injuries that he could see. “Bran!” he begged and shook him, “Hear me! Your king calls you!”
An eyelid twitched, “Aye, but so does my Reykin…”
  Thorin gasped, thanking Mahal that he was alive. “No- she can wait. Where are you wounded?” Thorin felt a firm hand laid solid on his shoulder.
  “Not this time, lad. I- I’ve got no more left,” the dying smith struggled.
“No, no! We’re getting you into the city, damnit! Where are you wounded?!” He made to lift his friend up frantically, but Branbur stopped him.
  “Burn me out here. It’s plenty lovely…” he said with a pained grin. “Tell my bonny Vaenomar that I’ll miss her. Hopefully I’ll see old Thrór- I’ll be sure to tease him for eternity…” his laugh turned into a choking fit.
 “Bran! Don’t give up. You’re not dying yet, old fool,” Thorin encouraged and noticed the old smith’s hand tugging weakly at his collar.
 Branbur muttered with laboured breathing, “He asked me…something. I didn’t answer, but- ah, it doesn’t matter now… Long life to you, lad, and don’t let her grieve for me… Damned eyes-” and his head fell back limp over his king’s arm with a final exhale.
All was silent at Branbur’s passing.

  Hundreds of leagues away, deep in the Western forest, all the early morning bird song ceased and Vaenomar’s heart went cold and her body felt clammy. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she sat heavily down on a fallen log. Her heart was as dark as the sleeping woods around her and, though she knew not why, she grieved.

  Thorin laid his old friend gently on the grass, closing his unseeing eyes. Branbur’s cold hand gripped at his collar even in death. As Thorin laid it on his breast with his other, something caught his eye. So it wasn’t a black magic that killed him!
 He tore open the laces on his fallen companion’s hauberk and started in horror. Deep, narrow gashes bloodied his neck and chest, almost like fang marks from a warg. Thorin shuddered, his entire body frozen in dread.
  Branbur’s words, ‘I’ve got no more left…’ Blood; he’d been drained of blood!
There were no other marks or wounds on his body that could have slain him. Thorin quickly pulled the neck piece back around the Dwarf’s throat and paused to think.
 The others had seen nothing, as they kept a mourning and respectful distance.
Where had that thing come from? He shuddered again and forced himself to his feet. It obviously wasn’t working with the marauders, they didn’t even know it was there. But it was after him…and his men.
  His eyes met with the others’, standing around him with downcast faces. He wasn’t sure how much of the creature they had seen, but all keenly felt their fellow’s death. Thorin mustered the rest of his strength, “We’ve lost the best among us this night,” they nodded, “But we’ve prevailed and the town is safe. Hail the glorious dead and those that live in victory!”
Dwarves, guards, and townsfolk alike took up his cry. There was always the need for a strong leader, even when that one felt as down and unsure as the rest. Thorin gazed into the distance, his thoughts bent on this new found enemy. The hate and rage he had burned with on seeing the thing’s features had been mixed with terrifying familiarity. Not the face itself, as nothing about it had been recognizable, but the feeling on beholding it. He’d had it before. It was handsome…yet indistinguishable as to Elf or Man. A haughty, cruel beauty. It reminded him of…


 “No!” With a sharp jerk of the head Thorin forced it all out of his mind. It was all black sorcery. He would talk to Bridi; she had a clear head and knew lots outside the typical Dwarven learning. But now it was time to send Branbur’s longing spirit to the ancestral halls to meet his lover.

  To the west burned a reeking bonfire, unwatched, unmourned, full of enemy corpses. The great bier bearing the late swordsmith and master, friend and trainer to the Kings Under the Mountain, burn high against the Eastern sky. The flames, as hot as those that had engulfed the Dwarf’s fierce passion, now mixed with the blood- red sunrise and a chant as low and solemn as thunder in the mountains rumbled. His fellow Dwarves mourned him and sang of his victory, even in death.
  Thorin’s deep bass eventually faded out and he, with his head hung on his chest, turned away from the flames. Nearby, the townsfolk mourned their losses and dug graves, as was their custom, with the wailing and weeping of sorrowful matrons.
Looking on from a distance Thorin sadly mused, “That old sot never would have told Bridi… And now he’s with his woman…” He swallowed hard, lost in his wandering thoughts. In his hand he gripped the heavy hilt of one of Branbur’s greatswords. He’d saved one for Bridi, and the other for Vaenomar. The closest things the smith had to children.
 Then a glint of orange light caught in the angular runes etched in one side of the blade. Branbur always loved inscribing his works; some were quite clever, others poetic, but all with a touch of his natural humour.

 “I drink like a fish; but not of ale or of water. My name is Thirst. Of Blood.”

Thorin’s jaw tightened. And some were prophetic, he thought with a shudder.
 “Be at peace, friend,” he muttered. “You’ll never be forgotten and your death shall be avenged, I swear it!”

The Saga of Vaenomar- Chapter 21 ~That Thing Called Love~

Chapter 21

~That Thing Called Love~

THUNK! whirr THUNK!‘ Small throwing axes almost chased each other in the air across the room before being embedded in the cork and wood chest of the target dummy.
“That cursed-” ‘THUNK!’, “Prince-” ‘THUNK‘ “Of Mirkwood!” ‘THUNK!

“You know, my lord, peasants will chatter,” said Gormna timidly from behind the angry Dwarf lord.
“Yes they do,” he growled between clenched teeth, “And they were right.” Another axe sent the rest clattering to the ground.
“My lord?” asked Gormna confused.
Thorin ignored him, running his hands through his hair. Taking in a deep breath to calm himself he turned to the patient advisor. “I shouldn’t let my frustration make me forget my debt to you. Well done Gormna. You did your- my job- well in my absence. I trust it did not prove too difficult.”
Gormna inclined his head.
“It would be my honour to have you in my council once again.”
Gormna bowed lower and kept silent.
Thorin made for the door, measuring his steps, trying not to let his temper get the better of him. Then he stopped and turned on his heel. “In fact, Gormna, Kjar said you handled it all so well, that I want you to take control of the storeroom. Here,” Thorin handed him the key back. “May you keep it as well as I have.”
Gormna bowed so low his beard almost swept the ground, “Thank you my lord for such a tremendous honour.” He held the key tight in his hand as the Dwarf king left the room with no further ceremony. As soon as he disappeared Gormna’s smile faded and he sighed, looked tiredly at the key. It was back for good now.


Poor old Kjar nearly jumped out of her skin as the door to her lair swung violently open and in marched the king, his temper obviously holding onto sanity by a thread. She had been sweating over a large bread oven and in the middle of stuffing a few goat pies for supper, among many other things, but she snapped to attention, ready to serve her ‘young’ lord’s every need.

“Ah, my lad, what can I get for ye?”
He grumbled something unintelligible and surveyed the kitchen for something to eat.
“I’m famished. Haven’t eaten all day,” he finally said in a grumpy tone.
She didn’t ask, but she knew something had ruffled his feathers a bit. Nothing a full stomach wouldn’t solve though.
“Oh dear me,” she couldn’t help but dote on her precious king, however volatile, dangerous or not-so-very young he was. “Come sit yourself down and drink a bit of this,” she said, sliding a foaming mug of warm mead into his hands as he seated himself heavily on a low stool by the large preparation table. He exhaled loudly through his nostrils and raised the cup to his lips. The next moment he set it down empty, rather heavily, and let out another long deep breath.
“Thank you,” he said quietly and rest his head in his hands.
The devoted Kjar immediately refilled it and sunk a bowl into the steaming soup pot over the fire. She accompanied it with two hunks of crusty bread, a perfectly hardy meal for a growing young Dwarf.
Thorin couldn’t help but smile, his half-smirk that twisted the edge of his lip ever so slightly. She was the next best thing to a mother, he thought to himself. Except his mother had never cooked… she was the queen, though.
“Mind you eat it before it’s cold,” scolded Kjar gently, “I’ll have hot pie for you in two minutes.”
Thorin shook himself out of his mind wanderings and gulped down the rest of the brothy, rich soup.
Once he’d devoured the entire meat pie, and another couple tankards of mead, he was more satisfied than he had been in months. As he pulled the last bits of flesh off two cold pheasant drumsticks he heard footsteps in the halls. Kjar didn’t look up, but continued kneading the massive pad of dough in her corner. A lively whistle accompanied the springy step and a moment later both entered the room. In walked the familiar, tall, female figure with waves of mahogany tresses and the most delicious, slightly serious face with crystal blue laughing eyes.
“Vaen! You’re back!” Thorin almost jumped out of his seat. It felt like forever since he’d last seen her.
She was as surprised to see him as he was glad.
“Oh! Lord Thorin,” she gave a quick bow, “We, uh, just arrived.”
Putting on a more serious air he folded his arms, “Oh? And how did you fare?”
“Very well,” Vaenomar half lied, biting her lip.
“Good,” he said simply. His plan had been a success. “Put your things down so I can have a look at you.”
Well that had been easy, thought Vaenomar relieved. This part was never the most enjoyable though.
She slowly set the leftover bundle of food down and neared him reluctantly. Sensing her unease Thorin explained, “Your folk grow so very different than mine. I don’t want to turn my back and find you an old woman one day!”
“My lord,” Vaenomar said in a scolding voice and he held back a grin.
After looking her up and down, as per the usual, he nodded his approval, “Hardly different.”
“Lord Thorin, it’s been a week.”
“Thorin,” he corrected.
She glanced around her, “But Bridi-“
“I’m the king! Call me Thorin. And that’s an order.”
Vaenomar swallowed, “Fine,” she said after a moment, a little glint of mischief in her own eyes, “I’ll not call you anything. I’m not sure who I fear more- you or her.”
Thorin snorted then burst out laughing his deep-throated, ringing chuckle. “Come here,” he beckoned. She obeyed, a little nervously, but as soon as she felt his warm, solid embrace she couldn’t help but relax and melt into his arms.
Kjar glanced behind her and quickly went back to her work.
“I’m glad to see you two didn’t tear each other apart,” he murmured softly. Feeling her body tremble slightly with a laugh, he pulled her closer. “It’s good to have you back,” he whispered in her ear.
“It’s good to see you too,” she heard herself reply. And it was.
A tear splashed onto the dough Kjar was quietly rolling out. Despite what everyone said, she thought they made a fine pair.

That late afternoon Thorin listened with great interest to Bridi’s much abridged and edited version of their week on the road. As Vaenomar sat nearby, reclining peacefully in a corner near the hearth, she listened to Bridi’s familiar tale. She found herself looking quickly away every time Thorin shot a glance her way. She didn’t even mean to look at him. The more useful she felt around the city, however, the more comfortable she felt with him, around him. Or maybe he was beginning to understand her. Hardly plausible, though, she thought. They hardly spoke, even less spent time together. She wasn’t even sure if she would want to if the opportunity arose. He still terrified her. And intrigued her- as intensely as they day they first met.
Thorin seemed genuinely impressed by all their endeavours, especially those that involved either fighting or stratagem, and nodded in sympathy for the weariness suffered from travelling. Bridi had completely omitted their episode with the mysterious stranger at the Jarlich inn, embellished their dealings with Thane Bolgrew, and skipped a bit till they fatefully met the wizard Tharkûn.
Thorin scratched his thick beard, making his little braidlets tinkle as the clasps swayed. “Tharkûn, you say? I can’t say I’ve heard of him.”
“He has many names, so I’m told, but the only one I can remember is ours for him: Tharkûn.”
Vaenomar shifted in her seat and seemed interested, but reluctant to speak. It caught Thorin’s attention.
“Vaen? You ever encounter this ‘wizard’ when you were…an Elf?” he asked.
She did her best to keep the blood from rushing to her face. She was done with falling into his little traps. “No,” she said steadily, “But-“ her voice halted. “Never mind.”
“Oh no you don’t!” Thorin got up and approached her. “Finish.” He folded his arms, looking all the more handsome and dwarfing, (despite the irony of the word).
Vaenomar sighed, the only way he could ever understand her was if she let him, she supposed. “Well, you might know that I…” she ground her teeth but remained calm, “I can talk to birds…and they talk to me.”
No ridicule in his eyes, he stepped nearer and leaned on the back of a chair, “Ai, I’ve suspected something of the sort for a while. It does seem rather…Elvish…but then again the ravens talk to us.” He eyed her scrutinizingly, taking in her reactions, her expressions…and beauty. “But continue, Vaen.”
She did her best to avoid his eyes. “It’s not that important- just… some wood pigeons were conversing and they mentioned something about a Mithrandir and Olórin. It’s Elvish, of course,” she added for Bridi’s sake.
“But he wasn’t an Elf?” Thorin asked concerned.
“No, no,” said Bridi quickly, “I’ve heard he’s one of many- or maybe a few- wizards that inhabit the West. I don’t know much more than that, other than he’s quite powerful and has amazing timing. He should be here by now, though. I wonder what’s keeping him.”
Poor Bridi was hardly being afforded much of her lord’s attention, as Thorin’s eyes and thoughts were continually being drawn to the other creature in the room. He tried to ignore it, but every extended time he was away from her he realized he desired her presence more and more. It wasn’t just her beauty either. He’d seen and experienced many lovely females in his life, from many different walks of life and a good variety of races. But Vaenomar… this ever growing, wonderful, mysterious, increasingly dangerous, innocent girl. Woman. Who was many, many years younger than him… He tried to make himself stop. She was fidgeting under his gaze and he forced himself to walk back to Bridi.
“If he has business with me, I’m sure he’ll show up soon. Hopefully before I’m out again.”
A pause of silence ensued until Bridi leaned forward to Thorin and said in a whisper, “What of the Elves? Gorlath told me you found nothing.”
Thorin nodded glumly, his shoulders tensed and he took in a terse breath. “I wonder if they even made it this far. There was no sign of them,” he lied. “I trust Gorlath completely, but Elves are nasty sneaks. As long as they mind their own pointy-eared business then I won’t go looking for trouble with them. I’ve had more than enough dealings with their folk.”
Bridi nodded in full agreement. Finally they were beginning to see eye to eye. “I don’t know what they would want with us anyways,” she added, with a quick look at Vaenomar, who was not a part of the present conversation.
Thorin’s face was tiled downward, his eyes seemed to study the grains of the wood on which his arm rested. But many other things were on his mind. His angular, bearded jowl flexed and unflexed as he ground his teeth. The wrinkles in his forehead creased with the lowering of his thick eyebrows and he stroked and fiddled with the little braids that swung from his chin.
There he sat, the image of Dwarven perfection, his voluminous cascades of knotted hair rolling down his back and over his shoulders like the Great Falls just outside of the settlement. His distinct sharp nose was like chiseled stone from the high, powerful brow and forehead. Just as he had admired the younger female with a shameless gaze, so were two pairs of eyes set on him. Bridi watched him from beneath her arched red eyebrows, subtly. But Vaenomar found herself blatantly lost in his features. His looks and his person had begun to grow on her for quite some time now. And her feelings were beginning to morph out of simple respect into something…more, though she did not see it. In proportion to the great amount of time she spent in the town and Halls she really saw him very little. Their paths would ever lead opposite, it seemed. As she took in Thorin’s entirety, less obviously as he had done to her in the kitchen, her heart felt a pang of guilt shoot through it like a deadly Elven arrow. What if she had gone with that man in Jarlich? She really wanted to bang her head against the stone wall, cursing her foolishness. From now on she would never be tempted again, she promised herself. Thorin was her lord, master…and friend. Betraying him would be betraying herself. “If ever I see that man again, I’ll make him pay,” she swore in silence. Now that she was safely home that stranger set off her warning bells more than ever. Especially now, as she gazed at Thorin, in all his rugged, kingly majesty and beauty.
He looked up and their eyes met, just for a moment till he looked away. The illusion of Vaenomar, ravishing and tempting, hadn’t disappeared yet, so it must be real. Damn woman! Ever since he could remember he had been getting into trouble with her sex, which was why he’d sent them to Jarlich in his stead, but it seemed Vaenomar was the most dangerous of all who had crossed his path. And dangerous in many ways. He used to think she would be easy, in her innocence, but now he knew how wrong he had been. It was more likely to be him that got into trouble if he trifled with her now. A little vixen could bite painfully if threatened by a bear. She was safe, he thought, for now.
Forcing his tired body off the stool, he groaned and stretched. “I’m sure you two are worn out. You should take an early rest, start fresh tomorrow,” he suggested kindly, his eyes eventually finding a resting place on Vaenomar.
Bridi nodded and she too looked at the young woman with raised, expecting eyebrows. Vaenomar took the hint and jumped up, “Goodnight Bridi. Goodnight my lord.”
Bridi inclined her head and Thorin glared, but with a glimmer of playfulness in his eye.
Thorin,” he hissed in a whisper and tried to smack the young woman’s rump as she passed him for the door. Too quick for him, she ran out of the room and down the hall. Bridi looked mightily disapproving at him as they heard a slight giggle. Now they were communicating like the birds! With a sigh the Dwarf woman arose and took her leave. “Rest well, my lord.”
“And you as well, Bridi. Tomorrow we’ll need to make plans.”
She stopped and waited, “For what?”
“Distributing forces. Our defenses here are thin, but so too in the field. We will discuss it tomorrow.”
She bowed and left, glad to find he had more on his mind than masculine interests at that moment.
As Bridi’s footsteps quieted down the hall, Thorin sat for a moment, considering sleep. Then he heard a rumble. He was hungry again. Time for another visit to Kjar. Best to fill up while he was around.
Deep down he knew he was hungry for other things, not a hunger of the stomach or one satisfied by food. No other being tempted that hunger as much as Vaenomar did, but out of respect and a false feeling of paternal duty, he abstained from even the thought. Food would have to do for now; he never ate enough anyways.


The rewarding clang of the hammer on glowing red steel and the hiss of the quench sounded over and over again in the small smithy on the lowest level of Taurëmith. Sweat dripped from the loose strands of hair around his forehead and into his eyes as Ëaròn pounded a lump of light metal into an exquisite Elven blade. He was on his fourth sword of the day and had started at dawn’s first light. He was making good time, one blade to go until the order was complete.

Ever since his father had left him alone here the orders had dwindled. This was the last one and it would be finished today. Months ago he wouldn’t have minded much, as smithing wasn’t what he wanted to spend his days at, but now that he had stopped attending training at the barracks he wasn’t sure what he would do. Maybe he could get work as a gate guard. He wanted to use his training, but wearing armour and holding a weapon might be the closest thing he got to that. A guard position at the palace would get him the chance to see Tairiel. He’d seen the woman he loved less and less after leaving the Barracks, but it had been his decision.
His muscles only grew larger and more bulky at the forge though, while all the other young men stayed slender as saplings and lithe and agile. It was probably for the best that he and Tairiel’s paths seldom crossed, but his heart was rent by it. Yesterday he chanced upon her in the marketplace. There she was, as exquisitely stunning as usual. And there he’d been, blundering and foolish. Sometimes he hated himself for ever even dreaming he had a chance. But she had noticed him and smiled kindly, no pity or loftiness in her eyes, which by setting the fire in his heart blazing even hotter tortured his spirit the worse.
Sparks showered on one last hammer strike and he quenched the blade, wiping his brow and setting down his tools. Time for a breather. As Ëaròn sat heavily on a bench near the outdoor smithy he sipped a large vase of cool water. All around him gold and silver leaves floated down from high above and the waning sun set a wash of rich copper over the city. Sitting in solitude, his keen ears sensed an excited bustle in the busier part of the city. He walked around the side of his house and smithy to peer down the lane, not that he really cared much for the goings-on of other folks. A train of carts were in the market, by the look of them from the palace.
“Must be a banquet,” he thought, disinterested. Nothing that went on in the upper levels affected him, so he preferred to keep out of it. Tairiel would be there, his conscience painfully reminded him.
At a deliberate pace he walked back to his workplace and set to work on the last sword blade. As the metal formed gracefully beneath his strength and skill he took his time, working slower and slower. It was the last thing this forge would make for a while, he thought, maybe forever. At first this had come as a relief to him, but on recalling his father and their forging lessons, all the work they’d done together, his lips pursed and a tiny droplet rolled down his high cheeks and sizzled on the hot steel.
“The Greenwood,” Halläcar, his father, had said, “I must go.” He only vaguely explained. “Many years ago, when you were but a child, King Thranduil and I had a disagreement. I left in anger. It has gnawed at me ever since and I mean to make matters right. Whether I return…I know not. Take care my son.”
His father, Ëaròn knew, had once been very high up in rank in service to the King of the Greenwood. Ëaròn didn’t know who else knew, but it wasn’t important. He had made a home for his son in Taurëmith and neither had been to the Greenwood since, Ëaròn wasn’t even sure if he had been.
The last order minutes from being filled filled he busied his mind with possible other work elsewhere. He wanted very badly to join the Glade-watchers, as they were now called, in the woods. The only thing holding him back was Tairiel. The thought of probably never seeing her again was excruciating. While he lived his Elven heart told him never to abandon hope. It was difficult, but Ëaròn’s spirit was as strong as his body. He began to hum, his soft bass voice vibrating in the metal in his hands. The tune was one always on his tongue, but he had no idea where he’d learnt it. No words, just a melody. It didn’t sound Elvish either.

“Ëaròn Halläcarion?” came a voice, a little louder the second time.
He started and whirled around surprised, white hot blade still in hand.
The Palace messenger jumped back nervously. “I- I’m sorry to disturb you-“
Ëaròn hurriedly threw the steel into into the quench bucket and wiped his faced embarrassed. “Forgive me. You only startled me,” he said sheepishly.
The Elf bowed, “With respect, Ëaròn Halläcarion?”
“I am he,” the other replied simply.
“I am to inform you then, that your presence is expected by Túro Lenwë, Lord of Taurëmith, at the Palace in exactly one hour’s time. I hope you have been given enough warning.”
The tall, strapping Elf’s jaw dropped and he said nothing. The other, hearing no reply or complaint, took his leave and departed Ëaròn’s smithy.
The bench received his well-made figure with a slight groan.
“What??” He tugged at his long ponytail. Was there trouble? His face twisted; a commission? Then a gulp got stuck in his throat; there as a banquet tonight, or so he had guessed from the food collectors in the market. He knew he was not being invited to the festivities, by any chance, so…perhaps they needed guards. His heart swelled in his broad chest. Tairiel would be there.
In one hour?!
He jumped up, seized the blade out of the water, fortunately cooled for he had forgotten his gloves. Laying it on the bundle with the rest of the swords he wrapped the cloth around them and tied it tight, hastily jotted a name on a paper and tucked in it the binding string. He could deliver it on his way to the palace.
Once inside his quiet home Ëaròn perused his meager wardrobe. He’d never had to worry about dressing nicely before. He was amazed, however, at the percentage of dark and black mournful fabrics were there. With a sigh he picked a short sleeved black tunic cut in Greenwood fashion and embroidered with delicate gold plant forms. It was his father’s.
It was a bit too tight for his liking once he slipped it over his shoulders, but it was plenty long and it was beautiful. His father was taller than he, standing a giant nearly six foot eight, but much more narrow like normal Elves, thought Ëaròn out loud. His voice sounded so alone in the empty house. The last commission, the dark garments, the lonely home- it was getting to him. It all felt rather foreboding.
Trying to shake off his gloomy mood Ëaròn let down his soft black hair and wrapped it behind him in a long, thin strap of supple leather. A glance out the window at the sun’s light and lack of told him he had twenty minutes. He splashed water on his face and tried to scrub the soot and grime out of his hands. The heavily muscled Elf that stared mockingly out at him from the mirror, forearms rippling ever too obviously and chest and shoulders barely fitting in his tunic, made him cringe. He had half a mind to break the damn thing, but he didn’t.
“Time to go,” said his reflection, with a sour face and a raised, disapproving eyebrow. It took a bit of time to climb all the levels to reach the Palace. They were some of the tallest mallorn in Middle Earth and he didn’t want to have to run…and start sweating, or worse- rip his tunic.
Nearly an hour and a half earlier, a few levels above Ëaròn’s modest forge-works, was the not-so-modest dwelling of Arendial, whose household, much like many others on their level, was a place of excitement and preparation.
As Ëaròn had rightly deduced, there was to be a banquet in the Palace tonight and Arendial, being a high ranking advisor to Taurëmith’s ruler, Lord Lenwë, secured his home as the temporary resting place for the newly arrived, honoured guest. Meanwhile, in a much less vibrant mood, was the lord advisor’s daughter, who sat defiantly still in her room on her bed.
“Tairiel, I do hope you’re getting ready!” her father’s voice called up. She ignored him and didn’t even turn to look at her well-stocked wardrobe. With many tactics and in many ways he was always trying to find her a well-off, well-positioned match, though a match at all was the last thing she wanted.
“I don’t want to wear a dress,” she said stubbornly to her persistent maid, “I won’t.”
She heard her father’s footsteps near the doorway.
“Tairiel, dear, may I come in?”
“I’m not dressed yet,” she answered shortly.
“I need to have a word,” he insisted, holding back his frustration.
She made a very un-lady-like growl in her throat, “Alright, fine.”
The maid left and Arendial entered and found his daughter, as he suspected, dressed and not ready in any way for a palatial audience.
She faced the mirror, her back to him, and looked angrily at his reflection.
“Darling, please, I’m…begging you. I’m not going to tell you what to wear, but please- this is no ordinary guest. It’s not every day you sup with the Prince of the Greenwood!”
Tairiel rolled her eyes. “My dress will make no difference in Lord Lenwë and King Thranduil’s relations, father.”
He looked away, trying to hide his face, and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Just, please. For me?” He put his hand on her shoulder and she turned around. She was spoiled and she knew it, and her father and she had never got on very well since her mother left, but Tairiel still loved him. Behind his grey scheming and clever eyes were unfathomable depths which deserved at least her respect.
She sighed deeply, making sure he heard her disinclination. “Alright. For you. And just this once.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “Thank you my dear,” he said and made to leave. She always suspected him, and she was right. She was too much like him, Arendial thought.
Just before he left, her father added, “If it helps any; I’ve heard the prince is… devastatingly handsome.”
This description was quite humourous coming from her father, but she stifled her laugh and pretended not to care.
This was going to be a long night.

The higher he climbed the harder his heart thumped against his chest. Maybe it was guard duty that he was being summoned for, but a dread like none other accompanied him on his walk up. Ëaròn rounded a curve that gracefully followed a huge, white mallorn trunk and caught a glimpse of a female figure and a male, lightly illuminated by a lantern.
Before he even recognized her, Ëaròn’s heart leapt into his throat and he slowed his pace. There was no mistaking that figure. And her father was with her. He hoped she would not see him and feel obliged to acknowledge his presence.
He watched from a good distance behind, her silvery lavender cape billowing together with the gilt torrent of her hair. It made him slow even more. So much so he ran the risk of arriving late for his summons.
The palace was in sight and the closer he grew to it the louder the merriment inside became. He would slip around the outskirts of the crowd, unnoticed, he planned in advance. He was now so near he could hear the Lord of Taurëmith making an announcement and what sounded a bit like an introduction. Lady Tairiel and her father approached the doorway and Ëaròn waited until they disappeared through the curtained entrance before getting closer himself. He sucked in a nervous, shallow breath and blew it out his nostrils, trying in vain to calm himself.
“You can do it,” he egged himself on in a hoarse whisper.
The curtains rustled silently as a young woman stepped outside. She too took in a deep breath, in preparation to be swarmed, and fawned over, and to present Lord Arendial’s daughter as the image of perfection she was supposed to be.
A quiet and excited, “Ëaròn?” startled him half to death, his nerves already in shreds.
“Lady Tairiel! I-“ he bowed, fumbling over his words.
“I’m so glad you’re here!” she smiled earnestly, without asking the dreaded question- why?
He only forced a smile that looked more like a cringe.
“I haven’t seen you for so long…well, besides yesterday,” she laughed. She was perfection in his eyes.
“Yes…I…I’ve been busy at the forge,” he apologized, haltingly and making sporadic eye contact.
She looked down, his nervousness was unsettling.
What was wrong with him? She put her small white hand on his pulsing, trembling arm, “I hope to see more of you Ëaròn. We’ve missed you at the Barracks.”
“Thank you,” was all he could manage.
“Tairiel, dear, where are you?” came a lofty voice from just inside the Palace doorway.
She rolled her eyes and shrugged explicitly at Ëaròn, “I’m sorry! See you inside?”
He nodded quickly and, barely realizing what he did, called to her, “Lady Tairiel.”
She turned, surprised but smiling expectantly.
“You look incredibly beautiful,” he said simply, without faltering.
Her soft rose lips parted, revealing her pearl-like smile. She took a step towards him. “And you look dashingly handsome,” she replied touching his arm ever so gently.
With another blinding smile she left him, his throat parched, muscles aquiver, and all male senses aroused.
He banged the back of his head on the wood of the palace in an endeavor to wake himself up from the spell the Elf witch had cast on him.
Now he was late, and more in love than ever.

Taurëmith palace hummed like a beehive with activity. Elven lords and nobles chatted and the Lord Lenwë and his royal guest spoke privately at the Taurëmaith seat of rule. Many glittering lanterns cast soft light into the air and the elegantly carved tables were being laden with food and drink. The smells were enough to drive a starving man mad and the woodland colours, sumptuous fabrics and patterns of the clothing were like the forest when autumn and summer meet and walk hand in hand for a time.

From all the way across the hall the prince’s all-seeing eyes caught the entrance of a tall, broad, black-haired Elf, with wide eyes and a shy countenance.
To Lord Lenwë he said, “Without a doubt, that is the son of Halläcar Mórefalma, lest my eyes are cheated”
One motion from the sovereign and all were silent and suddenly Ëaròn felt like his entire body had caught flame. All eyes were on him, as if he’d walked in naked as the day he was born. He froze.
“Ëaròn Halläcarion, you have been summoned to hear the tidings brought you by our esteemed guest,” here Lenwë bowed to the prince, who in turn respectfully lowered his head. “Please come forward Ëaròn.”

He didn’t know how he got there, but all of a sudden Ëaròn found himself withering under the gaze of the two most powerful people he’d ever met.
The prince stepped forward, his striking features more handsome than any other Elf-man he’d set eyes on, and strong, lithe and graceful. Tairiel was watching, his mind cleared enough the make him think. Forcing himself to straighten up, he met the winter-sky blue of the prince’s gaze. But no pride was in his eyes. Instead the prince’s face was sorrowful and he looked pained to deliver his next words.
Before the prince opened his mouth, Ëaròn heard his own voice say, “It’s my father, is it not?”
The prince stepped down to Ëaròn’s level and clasped his arms in his hands, “I’m sorry,” his voice was steady, but mournful, “He was killed fighting for my father on our borders. Foes from Gundabad. But he was duly avenged and given a king’s burial in my father’s house. I’m so sorry.”

Though he’d expected it the moment before, these news came as a club blow to a bare chest. He couldn’t breath and clenched the prince’s forearms in his hands.
The room was hushed and all he could hear was the prince’s gentle voice murmuring a prayer. He couldn’t even weep, his breath stuck in his throat. After a moment he loosened his grip on the prince’s comforting arms and bowed his head in thanks. Taking a bundle from his seat the Prince of the Greenwood unwrapped it saying, “Your father died for his people…and your people. Never fought a more valiant warrior under the Greenwood, Ëaròn, my brother. He left you this,” he placed a magnificently carved bow and quiver in Ëaròn’s hands. “He said- ‘Just in case.’ And this,” next a small satchel containing a phial of a healing liquid. “And lastly,” said the prince almost in a whisper, “This. He gave it to my father for you, saying, ‘Life is fleeting, but love is forever.'” The prince pressed a tiny, cold object into Ëaròn’s big hand and placed a firm brotherly clasp on the shoulder.
“I wish you the best. As does my father. If ever you should wish it, our doors are always open to you.”
Ëaròn swallowed the growing lump in his throat and nodded, “Thank you.”

At that moment he wanted nothing more than to be alone. Lord Lenwë silently bowed in respect as did the prince and Ëaròn forced himself to turn around, put the crowd out of his mind, and eventually made it to the entrance. A pair of unaverted eyes, just before he exited, caused him to look up.
That last look from Tairiel made him want to burst into tears, but instead he steeled his heart. Next the piercing look of a protective father shattered the feeling from before and he stepped quickly into the night, leaving the assembly to resume their banquet without the shadow of his misfortunes cast upon them.


Tairiel wasn’t sure what had passed between the prince and Ëaròn, but she assumed it was nothing to be joyful about. Rumour had told that the dark, young smith was from the Greenwood and some scandal involving his father had banished the two hither. She took it all with a grain of salt, as she did all gossip and rumour, but with the arrival of the prince and the unexpected episode that passed between them, she wondered. The gifts given as well, and the solemn, sad faces made her think perhaps a family tragedy had occurred.
She wanted terribly to chase after the poor fellow and ask him, and, if need be, comfort him. After all, he’d done the same for her. But her father held onto her arm and led her, gradually, to the head of the room. It was time to meet the prince who, she was recently informed, would be making his stay with them.


Centuries past a towering, mighty Elf with hair black as night served under the ageless King Thranduil, as the Captain of the Guard of the Greenwood. Through his battle prowess he had risen swiftly through the ranks and was afforded much respect and honour from his lord and the royal household. He was given a beautiful dwelling all to himself and was sighed over by many women. As his rank grew so did his relationship with the king, who, as a friendly reward, gave him plenty of free time to do as he pleased. At first the dark-haired captain made use of this peaceful time to train younger Elves in his unwaivering methods of combat with many different weapons, but soon the King noticed him growing absent, both in mind and person, for longer periods of time. Some said he explored the vast Greenwood, others that he went farther, even making contact with the legendary Erebor and its inhabitants overflowing with wealth. No one suspected the city of Dale of being his frequent destination.
At times he would be seen arriving late in the Elven city, bearing strange weapons and goods. During his training sessions in the barracks some remarked subtly on his carrying a unique sword which seemed to be of Dwarf-make. He appeared larger and more muscular every time he arrived home, the kind of strength that only a hammer to the anvil would give.
One day the King, almost a brother to his favourite warrior, found him looking sadly into a fountain, his body bent and eyes pining.
“I won’t insult you by asking your whereabouts of late,” said the king, “But I cannot understand why you seem to pine for love when you are flocked by doting and worthy Elf-maidens daily. Else I misread you, my friend.”
The dark Elf was quiet and thoughtful for a moment, knowing the king only meant well.
“I guess I have withheld the truth from you for too long, my king. I am a married man; thus do I spurn the advances of the lovely ones that pursue me.”
No doubt the king was taken aback by the news. “Married? When? To whom?”
The other explained to him that his travels had taken him to many places indeed, but in the lake town of Dale had he found the most precious gem of his life. A strong, beautiful woman, unmatched in appearance and person by any he had met before. She had stolen his heart away and there it remained.
“That, my king, is why I pine. A man cannot well live without his heart.”
The king pondered all this, troubled only for a short time. “You gave up your immortality for her?”
“And would do so a thousand times more for another minute with her.”
The king understood then, his friend was truly happy and congratulated him and bestowed his blessing.
“I will miss you, my friend,” said the king on taking leave of the dark-haired captain.
“And I’ll never forget our friendship,” replied the other.
“Return to us if ever you miss your people.”
“I will someday, I promise.”
And with that the friends parted, one to mourn the absence of a friend and powerful ally and the other to join his loving wife and her people.

The Greenwood went on in life as it had for ages, and so Halläcar and his wife Savone grew in love and happiness, the former learning the ways of mortal-kind and she loving and teaching him. Soon Savone became with child. And, after an uncharacteristically long pregnancy, gave birth to a great bear of a boy with beauteous Elven features; pointed ears, his father’s black hair and eyes and his mother’s strong, sturdy build and lovely alabaster skin. Ëaròn Lorámie, they named him, Winged-Night, and raised him with all the loving care that could be given by any parents.
It became evident his growth would follow the pattern of his father’s people as he matured very slowly in body, but quickly in mind. As his mother taught him at home Halläcar took work in a smithy under the supervision of a Dwarf of the Lonely Mountain. Soon Halläcar and the Master Branbur grew to be good friends, an unlikely bonding between these two races, and the Dwarf made toys for Halläcar’s young son. So life went peacefully on until the year 2770 of the Third Age. The year of Unending Tears.
One early morning in midweek Halläcar was out hunting in the fields surrounding Lake Esgaroth, as he was apt to do quite often. Just before he released his bowstring to bring down a large buck, a sudden and tremendous gale swept the land with hurricane force and he was thrown, unprotected, on the ground.
The child strapped to his back had been so quiet that he’d nearly forgotten him. Only recently had the father begun to take his son with him on hunting trips and they never lasted very long. The child made his first whimper then as the two were cast violently to the ground. He cut his child loose and cradled him in his arms, shielding him with his body from the wind which gushed now like none he’d ever experienced.
The clouds rolled in quickly, dark and storm-ridden, and in terror the desperate father marched against the wind, trying to reach the city. But he and his son alone were lucky they never reached their home.
All of a sudden it was still and everything was silent.
Just before it happened he heard a bellowing voice from the mountain, “DRAGON!!!”

And then his world changed. The clouds were rent by two massive wings, their spread countless metres long. They bore aloft a mighty red wyrm, tail like a giant pronged scourge and jaws spewing molten rock and fire hotter than the forge of Telchar.
The Elf saw only a swift and terrible glimpse of the beast before it was hidden by the massive column of smoke that used to be Dale. The city was instantly enveloped in flames and the screams and crashing towers made it a living hell.
“Savone!!” Halläcar cried and tore madly towards the city, clasping his son to his breast. On reaching the water’s edge a drenched exhausted figure struggled to pull himself out of the lake. The Elf grabbed him with otherworldly strength and drug him to safety.
“Savone,” the Dwarf coughed, “I went for her.” He shook his head and tears streamed down his cheek.
The father and husband couldn’t take it. He thrust his child into the Dwarf’s arms, “Don’t let anything happen to him.” And left the Dwarf and his child with a determined dive into the black, flaming lake.
As the Dwarf cradled the child and crawled into a hidden ravine he noticed his precious bundle made no cries. The boy’s large black eyes were wide and little mouth shut tight. No tear fell, but he asked, his tender child’s voice trembling piteously, “Mama?”
Branbur clasped him tight, “She’ll be here soon, boy. Soon.”
But Ëaròn never saw her again. Hours later when his father found them he hardly recognized him so aged, worn and covered in ash and burns he was. There were no tears, only anger now. The Dwarf hadn’t the heart to ask about her. After many more hours of dread and silent waiting he ventured to his friend, “Where will you go?”
His features pale and expressionless Halläcar replied, “I know not. The Greenwood has betrayed me…us. Curse them all.” With that they parted; Branbur joining his fleeing kin from the Lonely Mountain and the Elf father and his child vanishing into the wild.

~Ëaròn Lorámie, son of Halläcar~

Ëaròn Lorámie

The Saga of Vaenomar- Chapter 20 ~Always On Time~

Chapter 20

~Always on Time~

    The burden of Jarlich far behind them and the beckoning shadow of the mountains ahead, the Dwarf and the long-legged girl moved many times lighter on their feet than on the first half of their journey. Traveling off-road meant a slower tramping speed, but the soft, moist grass was easier on the feet. They also were cutting out a few good miles by making their route more direct than that which followed the road.

On the first night the two fought off a scavenging wolf pack, its members hungry but dysfunctional and not willing to lose their hides in exchange for a few pathetic bites. It was definitely not Vaenomar’s first encounter with this canine species, Bridi was relieved to find, as she handled herself like a professional. The next day provided much less entertainment for the travellers and they trudged along tirelessly, steering the course North East amid the tundra plains.
At least it wasn’t raining, thought Bridi.

Though respectful of the Dwarf’s superior position with obeisance to Bridi’s decisions, Vaenomar usually found herself quite a number of paces ahead of her companion. As there was no smidgen of conversation to tie her back, she would, getting lost in her own thoughts, wander ahead at her own speed. At first this peeved Bridi, but being one of the few specimens of Durin’s Folk that thought before she spoke, her mind found other things to engage itself with and soon she forgot all about Vaenomar’s presence.

In truth it seemed their relationship had come to a stalemate. But something could be said for the fact that they hadn’t, despite Thorin’s foreboding, yet killed each other.

As the leagues between Azaghâl’s fortress and the two travellers shrunk, one by one, so did Vaenomar’s excitement grow at the prospect of some woodland venturing.

It would be a shorter trek, yes, as long as those trees and their inhabitants didn’t cause any trouble, pondered the Dwarf.

Most Dwarves haboured a deep superstition of forests, along with a great many other things, but mostly because of their often being the secret dwelling places of Elven-kind. Bridi, being an overly rational and practical woman, however, worried very little about such things. Or at least tried to. By now she had more faith in her young companion than when they had set out and unfailing faith in herself. Of course that didn’t render her careless; quite the opposite. Thorin often compared her to a paranoid dragon guarding its horde; she never took shortcuts…well, other than this kind.

Soon enough a dark green line appeared like a layer of tightly knit wool on the horizon before them.
Vaenomar’s heartbeat began picking up speed at the sight of the trees, and it was difficult for her legs not to follow suit. About fifty paces later Bridi’s eyes caught the fuzzy shadow of the forest ahead. She cleared her throat, indicating her desire for Vaenomar’s attention, who promptly fell back in step with her companion.
“Once we reach the tree line I don’t want you running ahead and getting lost. There are worse t hings than wolves in the woods.”
Like Elves,” Vaenomar thought and smirked. She didn’t want to ‘show off’ her woodsman skills for Bridi, but she had every intention of moving as quietly as possible as they passed through the woods. Even though the Elves with whom she had once dwelt never journeyed that far Eastward anyways, preferring to maintain a more wieldy, smaller border than an attempt to rival the neighbouring Greenwood. She thought it best not to mention a word of the Elder race in case it raise more unnecessary suspicion of her in the Dwarf.
As Vaenomar’s mind wandered so did her eyes. They neared the woods and she surveyed the land around them. Far to the East lay expansive tussock and tundra which eventually met with the North-South road. To the West stretched more plains and the forest curved around a bit to the South. Somewhere in that mass of green and brown foliage lay Tauremith. Vaenomar knew she couldn’t find her way back there now, even if she wanted to, it was so well hidden.
Her eyes swept the North Western horizon then stopped suddenly on a tiny white object, moving as fast as the wind. She tried to make it out, but it lay just out of her focus. Bridi need not be alerted; it probably was a deer, anyways. The only animal that could move that fast.

Before they plunged under the leafy canopy the Dwarf took one last look behind her. A chill feeling sent a shiver down her spine as she recalled, suddenly, out of the blue, the mysterious incident in the inn. On scanning the horizon she half expected to see an obscure, black, flying shape appear out of the haze. But nothing showed itself, and she decided she was just being paranoid. She turned around and saw Vaenomar looking expectantly at her, politely waiting a few metres in tree cover. Bridi nodded that all was well and they were off again.

It took all Vaenomar had not to run off into the forest, to climb every tree she deemed large enough, and to cast off her sweaty boots and feel the soft forest floor with her bare feet. The dimmed light cast lovely patterns on the ground through the leaves and branches high above. Birds chippered and flew from branch to branch and she absorbed it all like sunshine. So many different kinds of birds. And the trees; some old, some saplings. In her absence her forest had continued on in its perpetual circle of life, growing and death.
Two and a half weeks ago while traversing the outskirts of these same woods, as she trailed Thorin’s war party, her state had been quite different and she, bogged down with apprehension, and not to mention drenching rain, hadn’t been able to appreciate her return to the woodland as she was now. They were on their way home, but now she hardly wanted the journey to end.
Passing a tall silver beech she let her hand glide over its bark. A tiny black robin fluttered down on a log nearby and eyed her with intensely clever and curious eyes. It seemed to say, “You new here?”
She smiled and the bird hopped on spindly legs to keep up with her strides. She was going to say something to her new friend when she remembered Bridi. Better keep her bird-conversations to herself, she thought. The steady crunch of Bridi’s heavy boots behind her had grown steadily softer, but Vaenomar hadn’t noticed. She shot a glance behind her to make sure the Dwarf hadn’t caught her excitement at the little bird’s presence, and stopped short. She listened. Nothing. No one.
“Bridi?” she called out softly at first. The Dwarf might’ve stopped for a moment. No answer.
“Bridi?” she called a little louder, her voice tinged with franticness. Still no answering sound; no crunch of leaves or angered Dwarf voice. Vaenomar cursed and started to jog back, retracing her steps. The little black robin flew next to her, a little upset at being forgotten. It chirped at her.
“Please, help me find my friend?” Vaenomar begged out loud.
With a peep it tucked in its stick legs and bobbed off, dodging tree trunks and branches masterfully, until it disappeared.

How? How could she just lose Bridi like that?! Some forest guide she was. And even worse a scout if she couldn’t find her! Vaenomar felt horrid.
Bridi could be just behind and the thick foliage, even into autumn, muffled her cries. Then a thought crossed her mind: Elves.
“Iluvatar forbid,” she prayed, her heart beat picking up speed. Then she halted again suddenly. Looking up to the sky, the clouds had swiftly blown over and the day was now unpleasantly overcast. She couldn’t see the sun for direction and their trail was almost non-existent thanks to her previous efforts. No wind blew this deep into the trees. In her frantic haste she had completely lost her inner compass. Or so she thought. This part of the woods was unknown to to her.
Still only the stunted echo of her own call came back. “Damn!” She could be anywhere! Her next instinct was to see the forest more like a bird. Grabbing the nearest branch close to her height she pulled herself into a massive lebethron.
It wasn’t as good as flying, but perhaps some sign of movement down below might show itself. Once a good forty feet up and the branches were getting denser and smaller, she peered down, almost holding her breath, watching for any sign of movement.
A breeze made the leaves above her shiver and sway. She waited, holding so still a squirrel crawled across the branch just in front of her and continued on its way to another tree, without so much as a look in her direction. As its bushy silver tail slipped into a hole after it in the large oak adjacent to Vaenomar’s perch, her eye caught the slightest shift of shadows far below a dozen or so metres away. Lithely she twisted herself around tree trunks and limbs and moved from lebethron to oak to ash and then sidled halfway down a thick red dragon-scale beech. It could have been anything, but she called out.
She was answered by a violent shuddering beneath her feet. All of a sudden her perch became alive. A fell yellow light emanated from the crevices of the twisted bark and the limbs thrashed madly. Vaenomar’s first instinct was to let go, but one look thirty feet down changed her mind. She grabbed two handfuls of bark and held on for dear life while attempting to straddle a nearby branch with one leg. The tree jerked and her face smashed into its rough skin, scraping her face and hands. It let out a deep, woody bellow, like a much magnified mournful cry of burning green wood. A deafening creak and snap sounded as a foot thick limb moved, as if in a joint, around the trunk. She felt sharp, cruel branches thrashing her back. The ‘fingers’ as large as she wrapped around her body and yanked the angering pest off as if she weighed nothing. Vaenomar shrieked as she was dangled far above the ground by the painful grasp of branches. The encircling grip grew tighter and a stick jabbed into her shoulder blade like a blunt spear. She couldn’t get to her weapons, however little good they’d do anyways. Fruitless she struggled, but the grip grew tighter and more constrictive. In a panic she thought, if it did succeed in crushing her ribs and hips in its deadly solid grasp, then she hoped Bridi was far, far away.
Just then a whir followed by a loud, dull thud came and the next thing she knew she was sprawled on the ground. The awakened creature roared and shook, infuriated and its roots began to show above the ground, writhing like snakes searching for prey.
Vaenomar got to her feet her feet, but lost her balance and fell over. A root grabbed her foot and she tried to free herself. She was knocked on her back again, but no sooner did the fell tree move to seize its prey than a blood curdling cry of ‘Baruk Khazâd!‘ ring out in the forest and the red flaming braid sailed behind its owner in a mad leaping attack. Bridi’s two-handed axe planted itself deep in one of the tree’s larger roots. The mostly severed half writhed and withered, leaving Vaenomar free. She was on her feet in seconds and whipped out Thorin’s single headed axe. Bridi was madly hacking at the solid, furiously shaking trunk, dodging swipes from branches right and left. Vaenomar leapt on a protrusion in the trunk and launched herself into the air, landing a sharp blow on an arm-like branch. The axe stuck and she pulled herself up, just out of reach of the wildly swinging limbs. Down below, Bridi lifted her axe above her head, about to bring it down onto another root when a branch smashed into her stomach, sending her flying back ten feet. Vaenomar wedged her weapon with a heavy descending sweep between a split in the trunk. The fallen nature vaulted forward, sending Vaenomar, minus the axe, far over it into the air. She stopped short of the ground, her weapon following her grazing her crown, and folded over a moving branch that caught her in the ribs, knocking the air clean out of her. Bridi crumpled into a tree, but only for a moment, and forced herself up. She made a laboured charge back into the fray, readying her axe again. Two roots shot out from under the dead leaves on the ground and seized her legs. She fell flat on her face, the axe flying out of her hands.
Nothing they did damaged this thing, only making it angrier and more determined to end them.
Vaenomar slid to the ground gasping for breath, gripping her bruised ribs, groaning. As soon as she made contact with the earth a constricting root wrapped itself around her shoulders and began to pull her towards the churned dirt and leaves beneath the base of the main trunk.
“Bridi!?” she shrieked, seeing her friend’s face pale and a greenish hue from the burning core of the fell creature sickened her features. The Dwarf’s head was limp and she put up no more struggle.
Vaenomar cried out again, frantically trying to writhe free of the death grip. She kicked at a root that tried to ensnare her leg which deterred it long enough for her to grab a severed branch. She brought it down hard, time after time, on her captor, but it didn’t let go. Exhausted, her strength was giving out. Just before she was drug into the dark beneath, a soft wind brushed her face. Hovering but a step from her face was the little black robin. A happy chirp was the last thing she heard before a blinding flash sent a wave of force that knocked her unconscious.


The fragrant smell of tobacco filled Vaenomar’s nostrils as she inhaled deeply. That mixed with a fresh cool scent of trees and fallen leaves in damp undergrowth made her blink awake.
She was greeted by the long lost friend of sunlight through tree tops.
A slight murmur of low voices hummed in her ears. At first she thought it must be a nearby hive of honeybees, but she began to hear words. Then…coughing?
Blinking away the haze she turned her head.
In a small dell she lay, surrounded by some long fallen trees. Opposite her a large half rotten log lay covered in moss. What caught her eye was a slate-grey woolen hat with a wide brim and tall pointed crown. Next to it, leaned on the log, was a curiously twisted, hardened stick, much like a kind of quarter staff. Draped over the log were thick robes of the same colour and material as the odd hat. The folds of those she followed up to see a weathered and wise face, sporting a long bushy grey beard and calmly puffing at an equally curious shaped pipe.

“Well, Mistress Dwarf, I see your companion awakens,” said the old man in a raspy, chuckling voice. Only then did Vaenomar notice the red-headed Dwarf sitting opposite the stranger on the same log.
Bridi raised her eyebrows and snorted, “Well, you’re alive then.”
“Indeed,” chuckled the old stranger again, smiling knowingly, “You are quite a stubborn fighter, Vaenomar of the Grey Mountains.”
So surprised she was unable to speak, Vaenomar just gaped at Bridi.
“I’m glad I heard you before that Huorn turned you both into dirt. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard that tongue and never from one as young as yourself.”

By now Vaenomar managed to sit up, though still a bit sore and hazy. Bridi looked relieved and relaxed as she too smoked her pipe. She had a piece of cloth and leather tied about her elbow by way of a bandage, but looked relatively unscathed.
Vaenomar rubbed her head and cast her eyes to the ground, as Bridi offered no explanation. She looked up again, utterly confused, at the smiling stranger.
“Who are you?”
He laughed, deep and hearty, then stood up, “I had quite forgotten. You’ll have to forgive me.” He bowed his head in his own version of a Dwarven introduction and said, “I am Tharkûn; conjuror, meddler and a wizard of impeccable timing. We have never met, so I do not mind that you do not know my name. However, I think you should tell me from whom you learned those words.”

“You’re…a wizard?” Vaenomar asked, too excited to answer his question.
He puffed another large smoke ring and then a smaller one through it. Vaenomar watched, intrigued. She’d never seen Thorin smoke and Branbur only breathed out shapeless clouds when he did.
Bridi cleared her throat awkwardly. Tharkûn set down his pipe, “Are you going to answer my question?”
Vaenomar looked up quickly, “What?”
“The incantation. Where did you learn it?”

She looked at Bridi with wide eyes and then back at the wizard. “I’m sorry…but, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Tharkûn’s bushy eyebrows furrowed, “Just before the Huorn swallowed you and the Dwarf,” he tried to refresh her memory.
Vaenomar racked her brain, “I don’t remember…”
Tharkûn looked puzzled and stroked his beard. “The forest went cold and very still and a great many birds began to call. And one in particular harped at me until I followed him.”
Vaenomar’s face brightened, “Ah! The little black robin! Yes!” She gazed at the ground as if trying to recall everything back. “Yes. Just when I realized I’d lost Bridi in the forest the little fellow was with me. I-” She glanced at Bridi’s face, but continued, “I asked him to look for her. Well, I said- ‘help me find my friend.'” Earnestly she said, “But in Common Speech. Anyhow…the little fellow must’ve misunderstood me, I guess.”
Bridi rolled her eyes, but Tharkûn only laughed, “Well, you can count me a friend, young Vaenomar, if you wish. I don’t think he misunderstood you at all.”

She nodded thoughtfully, “Thank you.” After a pause she added, “And he also came back, just before I blacked out.”

“So you talk to birds….like an Elf perhaps?” It reminds me of a good friend of mine. He lives not so very far from here,” he chuckled into his beard, as if talking to himself.
Vaenomar blushed and hoped Bridi wasn’t ingesting too much of the old wizard’s musings.
The Dwarf was quiet though, she seemed thoughtful; neither angry nor jovial. Thoughtful…and unconvinced.

Vaenomar looked back at the old man; his face was much softened since the earlier questioning and he too seemed to ponder.
She sized him up. He was very tall and lean and looked like one always on the go. Dirt on his robes, leaves in his hair. His hat tattered and worn. Apart from the quarterstaff with the interesting tip he bore no obvious weapons. A wizard, as he termed himself, would probably not need any though.
The blunt undecorated end of the stick lay within her reach. The wood was one she didn’t recognize, too dark for oak, and too twisted for lebethron- the typical woods used in quarterstaves. Curiosity nagging, she reached out to touch it. Swiftly the wizard turned his head and she drew back her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she gulped softly.
The wizard’s face melted into a friendly grin as he picked up the staff and reversed the end so that the gnarled tip was closer to the ever-inquisitive Vaenomar. Out of a satchel he pulled an odd shaped crystal. Wedging it between the elegantly twisted wood, he proceeded to blow on it. Before Vaenomar’s wondering eyes he touched it to a dry twig in his hand. It caught flame and burned purple and green. Even Bridi couldn’t help but watch like a child intrigued by a ‘trick’.

“So that blast wasn’t just my imagination,” said Vaenomar.
“We’re very fortunate you came, Tharkûn. Even my axes were no match for that…thing. Elf magic,” Bridi snorted to herself.
“No!” laughed Tharkûn, “No they were not. And you are lucky she called me…though apparently we have no memory of it,” at this remark he looked straight at Vaenomar.

“They weren’t made for chopping wood anyways,” thought Bridi to herself.

As the twig was finally consumed and the fire disappeared, Vaenomar looked up, surprised to find him watching her as if waiting.
He decided to let it lie and resumed smoking. Choking on his pipe smoke he muttered, “Foolish Dwarves! No enemy too large…never know when to run. Fools…”

Bridi just rolled her eyes and cracked her stiff neck. She had met Tharkûn a long time ago. Though there were countless names for grey old man who wandered tirelessly here and there, helping many and always stirring up some sort of troublesome business, the Dwarves had always called him Tharkûn. She’d heard rumours of his association with the Istari, but that meant very little to her.
Both the Dwarf and the wizard looked up startled as Vaenomar suddenly jumped to her feet and sprinted off into the forest.
Bridi shouted after her, but Tharkûn stopped her, saying, “Let her go.” He winked knowingly. “Curiosity isn’t always a bad thing.”
One thing the Dwarf knew well of this wizard was that he always spoke in riddles; often confusing, frustrating ones at that. She strained her ears to their utmost; if she lost Vaenomar again- best not to worry on it just yet.
Cutting her fretting short came the sound of many feet crunching the undergrowth. What had that girl dragged in now?”

“Bridi! Look!” Vaenomar emerged followed by the most majestic steed Bridi had ever laid eyes on. Its coat was a blinding white and its large black eyes so deep and full of wisdom she knew there was nothing usual about it.

“Look who I have found!” cried the young woman, excited out of her wits, as the powerful horse followed her as docile as a young cygnet. Bridi just watched in awe while Vaenomar stroked the huge animal’s sleek coat, its shoulders twitching at her gentle touch.
“It’s- it’s a horse!” stammered Bridi, nearly as surprised as Vaenomar when she saw her first specimen of this beast. “Where did you find it?”
“Just a few paces over there,” Vaenomar beckoned behind her, “I heard him pulling some vines off a tree. Isn’t he beautiful Bridi?” She stroked his cheek and kissed the long soft muzzle.
Bridi wondered how she could already feel so trusting and comfortable with a creature and species she hardly knew at all.

Tharkûn, who had been grinning to himself the entire scene, got up and hobbled over to the animal. He stroked the horse’s forelock and the great animal raised his head to make eye contact with his friend.
“Shadowfax has been my friend for many an age.”

Vaenomar looked from the old man to the steed, “You know him?”
Tharkûn chuckled, “Oh yes. We’ve seen much together. No one and nothing can match his speed and his loyalty is rivaled only by his freedom. Shadowfax meet Vaenomar.”
The young woman drew back and gazed into his large black eyes. “You are no ordinary being…” she muttered as she reached out to touch his soft nostrils. Shadowfax blinked calmly and gently rubbed her hand.
“For ages, Tharkûn, sir?” she asked, “Does he take you everywhere?”
“Only when he so chooses.”
-“How long is ages?”
Tharkûn laughed, “Too many questions! You should return to your lord soon, lest he worry needlessly.”
Vaenomar glanced at Bridi; what had they discussed without her?
Barring another word, the wizard took up his staff and tossed his knapsack over Shadowfax’s shoulders. His show of feeble old age was undone as he leapt on the great steed’s back.
“If I see him before you, I will tell your Lord Thorin that you are both as well as can be and that he should expect you soon- unless you go chasing after possessed trees again!”
“Farewell Tharkûn,” called Bridi after him as the two cantered off out of the dell and rounded a mossy outcrop.
Vaenomar watched wistfully as Shadowfax’s glowing white coat vanished gradually in the shade of the forest. “I’ll probably never see him again,” she said sadly.
The Dwarf snorted, “He’ll probably be there when we arrive. He has a lot to discuss with Thorin, so he said.”

As they gathered up their things and made to push on, Vaenomar decided to get it over with.
“Bridi,” she said seriously, “I’m sorry I failed you again. I’ve been nothing but trouble on this trip and I’m sorry to have put you through it. I guess I’ve lost my touch as a scout…”

Bridi swallowed hard and sniffed uncomfortably. She was quiet for a moment then said, “Alright Vaenomar. I’m not going to lie to you or myself. I’m glad to find that you’re humble enough to apologize for you mistakes, but in this case you are not to blame. Much like with the incident at the inn, I suppose. I never make exceptions for people, even if they deserve them. Every adversary we’ve faced the past week you’ve shown yourself more than able to deal with. Your age belies your abilities. And…well, that can be a good thing in a battle if, say, an opponent misjudges you. But that’s aside my point. You’ve done well and despite our differences, I salute you for it and would…would trust you with anything.”
Tears glistened in Vaenomar’s eyes. Bridi looked away.
“It wasn’t your fault in the woods, Vaenomar. It was mine. I was a fool- yes, I admit it. I wanted to test you. I stopped following you, though I knew you had every right to lead. You know these woods.”
Vaenomar’s brow knit fitfully.
“I started my own course, thinking my compass would lead me home. I figured you could easily find me…but my question was would you? For as little training as, supposedly, you’ve had, you fight…” she cleared her throat, “very well. Like an Elf with a bow and a Dwarf with an axe. If ever you get the chance…I’ll vouch for you. And that’s all I’m saying.”

The warm, soft feeling speeches like this usually give the listener was not there for Vaenomar. Instead her heart thumped like a massive drum in her chest and she thought she must’ve imbibed some intoxicating wizard’s potion, her head was so giddy. She merely nodded gratefully to Bridi, biting her lip to hold back a long pent up exhale.
The Dwarf stoically swung on her knapsack and weapon belts and shook her short legs to get the blood flowing. “Shall we?” she said, back to the old, serious and tart Bridi and the two were off.


The light was steadily dimming, leaving the many hues of green, brown, and yellow grey and still. Only a slight chill breeze blew, rustling the leaves overhead and sending some plummeting gracefully to the earth below. A gradually thickening layer of low cloud hastened the early darkening of autumn eves.
Dry fallen leaves and undergrowth crunched beneath many heavy boots as the owners did their best to keep their noise to a minimum. Sixteen feet, eight Dwarves. All keen eyes scouring their woodland surroundings for signs, tracks, trails and most importantly Elves. To sharp ears it might have sounded like a pack of two-legged hunting hounds, sniffing the air for any scent of their quarry. The fading light wasn’t much of an issue for the Dwarves, their eyes more than accustomed to the dark underground, under mountain.
They had been searching and scouting all day, scrutinizing everything they came across. There could be no Elves near their borders they didn’t know about.

And from Mirkwood…” Thorin muttered to himself, his inner anger flaring up inside him. He wondered if they did find the Elves- would he be able to keep his calm as he encouraged the others to do? Or would be behead the first and start a bloodbath…and a war. He sighed, he was a prince…a king, and he would behave honourably and justly, as always he strove to do.

Late into that night the Dwarf party quietly set up camp. No fire was lit and no songs sung. As they ate a cold dinner Thorin squatted near Gorlath. He tore at a piece of dried venison as he questioned his companion.
“How far away from where you saw them are we?”
“Unless they’re moving twice or thrice the speed as when I saw them, they should be very close to here. And Elves can’t see in the dark without some kind of light.”
Thorin nodded, “But where did you see them?”
“Not a day’s sprint South East from here.” He pointed on Thorin’s map.
“They could’ve changed directions,” Thorin suggested softly.
“Aye milord, but I’d say we’ve covered all that. They were headed straight North West. They weren’t wandering around like they didn’t belong. They knew where they were going.”
“Thank you, Gorlath,” He patted the Dwarf on the shoulder, “Get some rest. We’ll be up early- before the sun.”
“Yes, milord. You should rest too.”
Thorin smiled kindly, his tired grey eyes slightly creased around the edges and princely eagle-like features noble and unyielding.
A young Dwarf named Finbur approached him, “Shall I take first watch lord Thorin?”
“I’ll watch first, lad. Go rest. I’ll wake you in an hour.”
Finbur bowed and left Thorin to his thoughts.
The Dwarf king seated himself on a large jagged boulder, beneath which trickled a small, natural spring. Quiet enough not to obscure outside sounds, but loud and constant enough to mask those of the Dwarf camp. A sharp slope of craggy rocks and vines led up to their resting place which, in turn, was densely surrounded by thick brush and trees.
Thorin gazed down the slope and eventually lost himself in thought. Once a deer and fawn crossed his vision, awakening him out of a different world. A brown owl hooted nearby and was answered by another farther off. An hour passed and he awoke no one. He himself rarely slept. He couldn’t. On closing his eyes there were too many unwanted images and scenes that arose. The present was more important anyways; didn’t want it to slip away unseen.
A large luminescent green moth with large eye-like spots floated past him and ethereally down the slope, landing on the evergreen bushes now and then. Slowly it would close its delicate wings and then open them again, as if time was nothing. But in the eyes of the world it meant more for the moth than even humans. Its life was only a few days, or weeks, but that didn’t seem to matter. Life was fleeting. Thorin’s more than a century and a half long life had gone by so fast. Yet, as he thought on it, very slowly. Sometimes it felt like ages ago when he sat on a tiny throne next to the awe inspiring one of his grandfather, Thrór. And others seemed but days past, so fresh were the wounds dealt by the accursed worm. As a child he had been invincible, as all little ones are. He’d never even considered death for himself or anyone near to him. Then, he lost everything. One after another. At least he still had Dís, his little sister, and she had two young ones of her own. He missed them. But filling up a bit of that empty chasm was the girl he called Vaenomar. She soothed many wounds, satisfying a bit of both parental love and, well,- the other needn’t be considered, he told himself. Before she came along he had been much more reckless and bloodthirsty and less measured, much to Bridi’s chagrin. Having someone so very young, frail by comparison, and inexperienced around had changed him. For the better, he thought. A life was more precious than gold, mithril and even the Arkenstone, lost scion of his father’s house. Even more than pride, which his kind tended to horde and treasure the most. And vengeance…

Just then a soundless movement caught his eye far down below in the gully. He sat erect and peered into the night. Only then did he realize what he had been staring at for quite some time now. Reaching behind him he grabbed the short heavy scouts’ bow and pulled a black shafted arrow out of the quiver next to him. Sitting peacefully on a fallen mossy tree at the foot of the long slope was an Elf. Why Thorin had not seen him before was beyond his imagination. The He-Elf’s long white-blonde hair he had mistaken for a glare of moonlight on a rock. But the moon wasn’t even visible tonight. He grit his teeth and nocked the arrow. Pulling back the thick string he hoped the little trickle of water would hide the bow’s wood creaking under pressure. The Elf didn’t move. He looked placidly about him, evidently taking in all the nocturnal beauty just as Thorin had been. He leaned forward, scooping up some fresh water in his hand and sipped it, splashing the rest on his face. Thorin held the arrow firmly nocked, and narrowed his eyes. He could just make out the Elf’s features. Sickeningly perfect, as usual, but with distinct thick, dark eye brows and a small serious mouth. Something about that face was vaguely familiar, as if from a dream… or a long lost childhood memory. Thorin clenched his teeth and steeled his heart. “I must,” he told himself. Then the youthful looking Elf’s face turned his way. Slowly and contemplative, not as if startled. Did he see him? The Elf’s glowing blue eyes seemed to see far. Thorin gulped. The face was so serene, unhateful and bore the look of one who has seen much and said little; much like himself.
Against the angry tongue-lashings of his ancestors in his head, Thorin relaxed the bow. He wouldn’t do it, not that he couldn’t; he was not that kind of Dwarf.
Moments later the Elf got up. He made a slow circle in place, as if taking one last look at his surroundings. Lastly his piercing eyes settled on Thorin, whether he could see him or not, he had no idea. Hand on chest, the Elf bowed and muttered something in his language. Thorin held his breath, but as he blinked the Elf was gone.
Thorin listened and heard nothing more. Hastily grabbing his axe he jogged down the little hill into the ravine. There weren’t even any footprints. No twigs broken, earth stirred or leaves smashed. He stopped again, waiting for any sounds. On hearing nothing he plunged into the denser wood.
After searching fruitlessly for a half hour he returned glumly to the camp. The Elf, and any possible others, had completely vanished. Was it all a figment of his exhausted mind? He’d never had dreams while he was awake before and unless he was losing it then what had just passed wasn’t an illusion.
Frustrated, Thorin sat back down on the stone. All was quiet again save for the spring under the rock. He had let his chance slip by, right through his fingers. Now they were gone. How did he know that if they Elf had seen him, Thorin, he wouldn’t have attacked. He had appeared calm, but that was in unawares.
It was too late now. Thorin got down and stretched, trying to release some of his tension. He had spared one Elf. One Elf. One dead Elf would not avenge him or his father and his kin for abandoning them in face of the curse of the dragon, Smaug. That Elf was not the king of Mirkwood. He had done nothing worse than travel too close to unknown borders. Again the Dwarf king sighed deeply following it with a deep throated growl.
Although that pointy-eared fellow did look strangely familiar. No matter, Thorin shook his head, dispersing the gloomy thoughts of regret. The sun showed the faintest glow of pink on the edge of the Eastern sky. It was time to get the troop up and move on. They would search around a bit more and then return. If he hadn’t been able to find them no one would. He stopped for a moment as a thought struck him.
Vaenomar could.
No need to involve her now. The Elves were gone- he was gone, the He-Elf, and by all possibilities never to be seen again.

The Dwarf host was up, fed, and ready to move before the sun even passed the tree tops of the Greenwood.
Knowing his followers wouldn’t understand his reasoning for letting an Elf escape unchecked into the forest, despite their plan of ‘spying’, Thorin instructed the company to scout around for a while longer telling them if they found nothing within the hour they they should return home. Better to be at home, especially with Bridi gone and Gormna in command, than lost in the forest with Elves on the loose.

After a disappointing search, the company slowly headed back North, ever on the look out for ‘unusual’ activity. Elves were extremely elusive and despite Gorlath’s definite bearings on their last known location the Dwarves weren’t too surprised they’d lost them.
The younger hot-heads grumbled about it, but the older and wiser were glad not to have to deal with a new enemy.

“Until they show their scrawny faces at our gates then I say we do our best to avoid them,” said Binli tagging along next to Thorin in his usual nervous way. Thorin nodded, but said nothing.
Something ahead caught his eye. A blurry flash of pale grey and then it was gone. Moments before he’d thought he had heard hoof beats and had attributed it to the heavy clumping of boots behind him, or even someone unwittingly thumping on their shield. Nevertheless he kept alert and his sharp eyes of a bird of prey cast about him always.
“Gorlath,” he called and the fit Dwarf jogged up next to him.
“Ai, milord?”
“The Elves- did they have horses?”
“No, my lord. Did you hear hooves too?”
Quite a tracker for a Dwarf, thought Thorin, but an exceptional warrior too. It was hard to have him both in the field and at his side for the regular emergencies at the same time.
“I’m not sure. But, you’re certain? No horses?”
“Ai, they were on foot. If they’d been on horseback I think we would have heard them.”
Thorin agreed hopefully, “I don’t know why Wood-Elves would keep horses anyways. Sounds impractical. Thank you, Gorlath. Take up the rear and keep your senses alert.”
Gorlath bowed quickly and obeyed.
It could’ve been a white stag. They could exist, Thorin supposed, though he’d only heard of them in silly non Dwarven legends. It moved fast enough to be.
He just wanted to be home. Not that an outing to stretch the legs was a bad thing now and then, but he was sick of the vagabond life. Once a prince in the greatest Dwarf hall ever made, he wished now just for a soft bed to rest his weary bones in. To close his eyes and not worry about waking up in the halls of his deceased ancestors. Too many places to be at in too little time. He was one Dwarf trying to be many.

The forest was filled with sounds, foreign and familiar: crickets chirping, bird songs, feathered wings whirring overhead, crunching leaves, broken twigs and laboured breathing from a few in the company. No more sounds of hoof beats, though. He was a few metres ahead of the closest Dwarf and paused to listen, before the rest caught up. For a moment and he thought he heard female voices, sonorous and mellow. Then his thick stormy brows lowered. Elf magic! Everything was making him jumpy. Cursed Daukhel! The forest, he decided once and for all, was no place for his kind. Without riling up the others he managed to quicken the pace, insisting they arrive at the Halls by nightfall.


Exhausted and completely drained, Gormna slumped down into a rough hewn chair by the fire. That morning he’d been woken up early by Kjar telling him they were out of salt and that something immediate must be done about it. He scrambled about the food stores, to which he found he was not the only one with a key, Kjar also possessing one. Nothing there, he had to send away for it via note on messenger dove. From that hour on the rest of the day had been filled with answering requests, settling petty and not so petty disputes in the town, divvying up rations and supplies for the guards and townsfolk with the help of Kjar, who thought it necessary to serve as advisor, and making sure the armory’s contents were well sharpened and none were rusting etc. etc.
“Does Thorin really do this every day he’s here?” thought the exasperated Dwarf.
The truth was: much more.
A rap on the heavy door made him look up. Oh, not another one!
“Gormna? It’s me, Hroffgar.” The neatly muscled and small messenger of the Halls strolled in the door, glad to see his friend and fellow gossipmonger. They met each other with hands on arms.
“Well, if it’s not been far too long, old friend,” Gormna grinning.
“Ai! And quite a place you’ve got yourself into, I see!”
The older Gormna laughed, “No doubt! But you- have you just arrived?” Your boots would suggest so.”
“Ai, that I did,” answered Hroffgar, “But never too weary to share my news.”
Gormna looked intrigued, “News?”
The other shrugged, “Ah you know, things I pick up while on the road.”
Gormna nodded, “Eh, you don’t still go on foot do you?”
The messenger shook his head vehemently, “Oh no, no. Got me a right fine rock pony. She handles any terrain with the ease of a mountain goat.”
And so they chatted for hours, Gormna glad to have something not tiring to busy himself with and Hroffgar pleased to be able to share his adventures.

Nearly having exhausted their topics, (quite a feat for two extremely talkative individuals), Hroffgar yawned and casually began, “Ah, it’s hardly very interesting, but…” he paused for a swig of mead, “The Taurelín locals said somethin’ about a ‘special’ visitor passing through…” his voice trailed off nonchalantly.
“Oh?” Gormna encouraged.
“Ai,” said his friend, “Something about the Prince of Mirkwood. They said he was headed West…or North West. I can’t remember.”
Gormna set down his mug. “Where had Gorlath said Thorin was going?!”