Into the Fire

Let's not even talk about how long this took to post. Yeah. Sorry, Life will eventually be less crazy and full of things which do not let me creative. Really long chapter though. Alas, only Mirkwood elves this time around.
Chapter 11, Part 2


A Journey Begins…

Chapter Twelve…On a March

There armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by,

No pipe did hum nor battle drum did sound its loud tattoo

But the Angelus Bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out through the foggy dew

-The Foggy Dew, version by The Chieftains

October, TA 2941

Thranduil’s Camp, Between Lake-town and the Lonely Mountain

“You are looking well this morning,” Thranduil stated as he entered the healing tent.

Tirnion nodded. “My ribs are healed and the ache has gone down. I am well enough to perform my tasks.”

Thranduil raised a brow and asked, “Are you certain you and Claurion are well enough for a full march? We plan to pack up the camp and move in intervals. It may be best for you two to stay here and heal a day or more. Or perhaps travel to where the elderly and women and children of Lake-town are attempting to re-build their homes.”

“I believe Claurion and I are much better suited to a march than to wielding any tools of carpentry,” Tirnion said.

“If you believe that is best,” Thranduil said, slapping Tirnion hard on the back and ignoring his grimace. “If you must force yourself to learn this lesson the hard way then I cannot stop you and will quite enjoy the sight. Find your Second and get ready to move out. We start the march at Noon.” Thranduil left the tent in a flourish with no attempt to hide the smile on his face.

Tirnion held his head in his hands for just a moment, cursing himself and the disposition and pride inherited from his mother. He slid off his bench, pulled on his tunic and made his way outside to locate Claurion.

*******************

A wasteland stretched out before them. In the near distance the Lonely Mountain stood, a crumbling fortress forever witnessing the changes to the land. It housed dwarves and dragons and now dwarves again. Bard studied the mountain and wondered how the treasures hidden inside such a grim place could inspire greed in so many. Was it truly the dragon’s horde that attracted the treasure hunters or just the danger of the journey itself? The glory of the hunt paled in comparison to the hunt for glory.

A battle was coming, a true battle, not a skirmish or the small brawls he knew in his youth. The legends of his childhood and the glorified songs of old were becoming real, forming a new history in front of him. Bard knew how to fight; he had trained his whole life to hunt game and protect his home, but whatever was in the air was something wholly different. He stared at the mountain again and watched the fog descend. The whole scene remained unsettling to a little known archer from lake country.

A voice said, “Fog is rolling over the mountain; it will provide good cover.”

Bard studied the elves before him. Their countenances betrayed no sign of weariness or nerves, but he could not help but wonder if under the masks they too were trembling. He could not recall the last time elves fought in battle.

“We fight each day we ride out,” a soft voice whispered from his side.

Bard turned to find the she-elf he met days ago, Arodeth, at his side. She wore a sedate brown dress this time, her hair tied back in thick golden and silver braids. She carried two packs, four water skins, and a rolled up tent. Among the elves, even those who did not fight still carried more than their share for the camp. He marveled at the organization of it all and the inherent grace and magic of their species, with their clothes that blended in with the land and their abilities to surmise a person’s thoughts before he or she spoke.

She grasped his arm tight and led him away from the road to the mountain. She spoke in soft tones to him, but her words demanded obedience. “You should not project your thoughts so, all elves beyond a certain age will be able to read them. There are many dark creatures who wander this land, Bard, do not give them an advantage inside of your mind.”

He studied the hand that held his arm tight. The overall grace of the elves showed in the long fingers and the smooth skin, but calluses still appeared. Arodeth spent time writing and with a bow, as scars and the worn parts of her fingers showed many years of practice. The overall appearance remained deceptive in comparison to the amount of strength inside the elves. It was this contradiction that amused Bard from the first meeting outside of Lake-town to the temporary camp they established, and now onto the march to the mountain. Trying to guess the ages of all the elves around him also provided contemplation and amusement. None ever answered with the amount in years, perhaps forgetting their true age after all this time. Some of the wisest among the group claimed to be among the youngest and many a fool soldier held a veteran status by their age.

“How old are you?” Bard could not help but ask.

Arodeth smiled and replied, “Not so old, yet not so young. I was a babe when Sauron was last in power. I am the eldest of my family.”

“What about your parents?”

“First Agers. My mother still clings to her duty in this land, but my father fell long ago. Stragglers of Barad-dur made an example of my father. He came back to us in pieces.”

“Does revenge motivate you in this battle?” Bard asked, wondering if all the elves around him had more of a motivation in this fight than addition to the stores of their king.

“Revenge motivates us all. It is that little dark voice which pushes us on, let’s greed outweigh honor. I think a little taste of revenge is good, as long as it does not consume you.” The grip on her packs tightened with her words, her knuckles turning white. She paused for just a moment and said, “Let us walk on, Bard, for we have much ground to cover before the night falls.”

**************

“You look lost in memory, Father.”

Thranduil turned to study his youngest son. Legolas was the free spirit of his children; a true child of the wood. He contained the arrogance of all elves, but he also let himself stay open to more of the world. His son thirsted for a larger world, he just did not realize it yet. Thranduil recognized that look as one he once held, long before his own father fell on a battlefield.

“I am, Legolas, it comes with the years I suppose, in considering all I have seen and all I have yet to see,” he said.

“This will be your first fight with a wizard at your side, will it not?” Legolas asked.

“The first, and I hope the last. While I trust Mithrandir with your life, and that of our people, I am still wary to have an ally of unknown origin fighting, no matter on which side. All of those wizards, whether they wish us good or ill have something to hide.”

Legolas stood beside his father, his head brushing Thranduil’s elbow. While not small of stature, few elves stood as tall as Thranduil. Legolas did have an advantage of height over Berenon, but his brother had much broader shoulders thanks to their mother’s blood. Still, Legolas learned at a young age that being slim and quick was as much of an advantage as broad and strong. While Legolas would never be able to competently carry a spear like some of the other warriors, he would always remain one of the best in regards to archery and the equestrian pursuits. Thranduil knew that Legolas hoped to carry on in his footsteps when it came to the mental capabilities that so many outsiders misidentified as magic. Yet, despite all the experience his father held, he still stood on this hill and turned a troubled eye to the horizon. Legolas grasped his father’s hand tight and held him for a moment. Giving him strength in such a tense and uncertain moment.

Thranduil smiled down at his son. “Do you know why your mother insisted on the name Legolas?”

Legolas shook his head. “I do not recall ever hearing that story.”

“I admit, it seems a fitting name for a child of a Woodland king. That was not the reason for the choice. Your mother’s favorite season is spring, even though she will never admit such a thing to Glorfindel, for fear of upsetting him.”

“Even after all these years?”

“Especially after all these years. Still, your mother wanted to name you after something which reminded her of spring, a new life, something which brings hope through the harsh winter. A green leaf in more than just name,” Thranduil sighed, “I do wonder what your mother would do if she knew that I am putting you on a battlefield.”

“If I know her well, I know she would have marched up to that mountain already and dragged all of the dwarves out by their beards,” Legolas said.

The laughter of the Elvenking echoed through the ranks, causing many to stop in their tasks and share in the joy between father and son.

*****************************

The combined forces of the elves and the warriors of Lake-town made a slow advancement towards the mountain. Thranduil informed all that they would set up a temporary camp closer to the mountain before choosing a spot to break ground for a long battle. The idea was to travel halfway and stop at nightfall, but the lack of progress due to slower creatures and more baggage hindered Thranduil’s planned advancement. The flying spies above them also left him contemplating a whole different set of tactics.

“Is it just me,” Arodeth asked, “or does there appear to be higher than normal flights of ravens and crows in this land?”

“Is it not just you,” Thranduil assured her, “they are spies, of course.” Ravens and crows were good to have on one’s side and horrible to have against. Two temporary camps then. They would stop before nightfall this night, he made a signal to Legolas and the other elves under his son’s command.

“Who uses birds as spies?” Glauverior asked. “Besides us, of course.”

“Agents of the Dark Lord,” Glovien answered, “some branches of the Race of Men, and of course, the dwarves who once occupied that mountain.” The warrior gestured to the Lonely Mountain in the horizon. The mountain seemed far away for a mortal’s eyes, but to the sharp eyes of the elves more and more detail revealed itself with each step closer.

Thranduil nodded his head at Glovien words. “I am sure old Roӓc still flies about in those caverns. Those ravens are so long-lived. I do not dislike the creatures, they hold a certain beauty and will tell tales for hours, but I prefer the grace of the eagles.”

“Like all elves,” Lothon said, gripping tighter at the bow hanging on his shoulder with the eagles carved into its arms.

“Not all elves,” Glovien said, “Tirnion knows many a story about how nightingales are revered in Imladris, even before the birth of the Lady Arwen.”

“Cirdan’s people also hold a great love for gulls and the albatross, but those are birds unfamiliar to those of us who reside in the woods. Though I do believe Elrond has his own fair share of seafaring birds to deal with, who decide to stop by the Bruinen for a drink and a wash,” Thranduil said.

“I have heard of the gulls, but what on Arda is an albatross?” Glovien asked.

“Nothing for you to worry about, Glovien, unless you plan on boarding a ship anytime soon. If you do, I pray you, if a bird of an immense size lands on your deck, let it be and bring to it no harm.” Thranduil smiled to himself as he remembered all the tales Cirdan told of his time on the sea, and the one Glorfindel shared from his own time around many a sailor and mariner. Thranduil surveyed the area. “We will stop here for the night and wait for the warriors of Lake-town to catch up with us.”

“And our handful of injured elves,” Arodeth muttered.

Glovien laughed, “True. They both should have known better than to do such heavy lifting so soon after injuries to the rib cage.” She noted the height of the sun and the moon in the sky, “I think it would be best if we settled closer to the mountain under the cover of night.”

“Yes, that will best, but we must set up here first and rest for a day or two, let those spies give the dwarves a false sense of our timing.” Thranduil studied the sky and said, “Besides, I am expecting a guest.”

“How will your guest know where to find us?” Lothon asked.

“He always knows,” Thranduil said, a wide smile on his face.

**************

Arodeth’s night was spent walking from tent to tent in order to prepare all the tents for a large meeting. Thranduil remained his enigmatic self when it came to the matter of states and just insisted that they were to keep the temporary camp for a few more nights. One of the black squirrels traveling far off their path brought Tirnion news of a special guest coming and the hint that another member of royalty or a warrior of great would soon arrive set gossip throughout the whole camp. Arodeth knew Thranduil remained aware of their soon to arrive guest but only allowed Arodeth a half hour to prepare him for something along the lines of an official council.

“With all due respect, my King, will you please sit still,” Arodeth said. Her attempts to put the proper warrior braids in the Woodland King’s hair kept failing. Thranduil remained eager in his desire to plan a full strategy and spend most of his hours walking from tent to tent to gather materials. Arodeth followed his path through it all, trying her best to garb him in the proper way of an elven warrior.

“Arodeth, I am sorry. I just envy Elrond and all his maps during these times. Our are so out of date that we must gather all current accounts of the paths and draw a whole new set.” Thranduil took his seat and placed his chin in his hand. “Your mother’s said for ages that those maps needed an update. We were always more concerned about the other parts of the wood. I never thought so much would change that the old paths would be blocked.”

“I am certain no one imagined a dragon bursting out of the mountain-side and causing rocks to tumble and block the path,” Arodeth said. She quickly worked her fingers through his hair. Thranduil never sat still for long.”

“Yes, your brother probably rues the day he walked up that mountain path.”

“He’s taken his fair share of tumbles. Remember the time when Mother was in the process of re-thatching a part of our hold barn and Tirnion fell right through the roof?”

“Ah, yes, the incident with the manure. I do believe Tholinnas holds the blame for that one.”

“No one ever guesses how mischievous Tholinnas is; he always remained quiet in the face of his siblings more overt temperament.”

“For all our grandstanding, my family does have a tradition of mischief to maintain.” Thranduil patted Arodeth's shoulder in thanks and moved over to the table. “Please go rouse your brother from his healing bed, and Claurion as well. I need to gather their information, along with that of Legolas.”

“Where is the youngest prince?”

“Up in the tree above this ten, taking measurements of the land. Oh, and Arodeth please prepare one of the great tent for a large gathering. Please also go through the rations to find food that will please the citizens of Lake-town among us.”

***********

“It may have been too soon for us to march,” Tirnion admitted as he sat in the quickly erected healing tent. The fabric still flapped in the evening light as the elves hurried to tie it down.

“Really?” Claurion asked. He grimaced as the healer wrapped his bindings around his chest. “Whatever could have given you that idea?”’

“I believe the inability to carry the cargo more than three hundred feet and having it collapse on us was the first clue,” Tirnion said, leaning his sore back against the smooth material of the tent.

“Honestly, I thought the inability to run or ride should have warned you before anything else,” Claurion said.

Tirnion waved his hands in a dismissive gesture and closed his eyes against the nausea welling up in his stomach. He blindly turned to his second and said, “It was either march or build huts and I think we can both agree that even injured I can better wield a sword than a hammer.”

“True,” Claurion gasped as the final binding pulled too tight, “But I believe our reinjured ribcages disagree.”

Claurion paused in his complaints as a commotion sounded outside the tent. He could make out some snickers and laughter, a quick barked order and then the sound of the tent flap being thrown back as an elf marched inside.

“Oh, there you two are,” Glovien said as she entered the tent. She bit her lip as she studied the two elves, noting the bruises on their bodies, the new injuries and the general disarray of their hair and clothing. She pressed a hand to her own perfect braids before stating, “The King is looking for you; we are updating the maps with information gathered from the scouts. We are to pull the lead warriors from Lake-town into the discussion in the main tent.”

Tirnion let his head drop down and took a quick breath. “He wants us to make a grand entrance, doesn’t he?”

Glovien nodded, “If only to impress upon the men of Lake-town that elves can at once be both commanding and mad as rabbits.”

“I think they already know that,” Tirnion gasped out as he forced himself to stand. He called for one of their chief healers, “Tollureth?”

Tollureth walked back into the tent and asked, “Yes, my ever ungraceful Captain?”

“I need your great skill to tie my bandages tight again yet still give me freedom to move.”

“I will do my best,” she said, “but first let me call for some looser tunics so you will not have to move your arms too much.”

“Leave it,” Tirnion said, “we need to make an entrance and what better way to shock the men of Lake-town than to appear in nothing but bandages and leggings.”

“What, no boots?” Tollureth asked.

“Oh, boots indeed,” Claurion said as he too forced himself up, “let them think us mad but not uncivilized.”

“I eagerly await your entrance,” Glovien called as she left the tent, giving a wave to Tollureth.

“We really should send her somewhere for a decade,” Claurion said, “she is becoming far too smart-mouthed.”

“Oh, please send her to Imladris,” Tollureth said, sweetly.”

“No!” Tirnion cried. “The last thing she needs is lessons from Erestor, Morwen, and Eluialeth on how to be even more smug. Now, let us get to those bandages, shall we.”

“If you insist,” Tollureth said, with a dark gleam in her eyes.

*******************

Bard stood at the back of the tent and watched the proceedings before him. The elves babbled back and forth to each other, their voices raised in excited inquiry. Two elves seemingly took in the accounts of the others while they constructed a new map of the area. Commotion arose as more elves stumbled into the tent. Bard did not understand the language, but he easily recognized the laughter and teasing directed at the two new arrivals and he took a moment to study the new subjects of attention. Bard surmised the elves were male, from their flat bare chests wrapped in bindings. Both bore fading bruises and scratches. The elves stood at similar heights, however one had a more broad build. The slimmer one’s hair appeared silver while the other held a more wheat like color, but it was difficult to tell in the low light inside the tent. The two elves ducked their heads for a moment before shouting back replies that left quite a few more ducked heads and blushing elves.

“Now,” said the slimmer elf, the Common Tongue making a lilting sound with his accent, “let us speak in a tongue most of our guests recognize. This land is more familiar to them and they may know some hidden paths we have overlooked. For those among us who d o not speak the Common Tongue or the dialect of Lake-town, then those of us who can will translate. We must all learn to communicate for this battle to result in success. Glauverior,” the elf gestured to one of the others drawing the map, “is constructing a system of hand signals for us to use.”

“Our Captain speaks the truth,” the other elf said. “Now will all the men amongst us please introduce themselves.”

Bard felt the call of authority from the other men, “I am Bard of Esgaroth and serve as a representative of my people.”

“You are the one who shot down the dragon?” The second elf asked.

Bard nodded, “It was quite a fortuitous shot.”

“Fortuitous?” The elf laughed. “That was more than some dumb luck, my mortal friend, that took great skill. I only ask for some of the dragon hide.”

“You desire a trophy?”

“Hardly, I just need proof to bring home to my wife that there really was a dragon involved,” he replied.

Bard laughed and noted with surprise the undignified snickers that rose up from those who understood the Common Tongue and the other that arose once it was repeated in Mirkwood’s tongue. Bard bit back a guffaw as the first elf smacked the second on the back of his head.

“That is my sister you speak of, Claurion.”

“With all due respect, Captain, your family is not known for its sympathy.”

“Then one would think you would stop mocking it in front of both me and your wife’s sister.”

“Indeed,” Arodeth interjected from her place at the table.

Bard knew this act was to put everyone at ease, offsetting the gravity of the situation with their humor. The elves, such mythical creatures, did seem to enjoy being the source of amusement for all.

“Bard,” the elf indentified as the captain said, “please come to our side.” He turned his head to one of the elves standing at the entrance. The rapid cadence of the words led Bard to believe it was an order, the nod of the head and his quick departure from the tent confirmed his suspicions. The captain turned back to Bard, “He is going to get us food and drink along with clothing for myself and Claurion,” he held out a hand, “I am honored to meet you, Bard the Bowman”

“Thank you for your kind praise.” Bard took his hand. “May I ask what I am to call you, Captain?”

“Tirnion is best and the least confusing.” Tirnion shook his head as some of the elves laughed, “I am both seneschal and captain of the guard.”

“But, you are so young,” Bard said.

Tirnion laughed. “In some ways, but a warrior born and bred and for many centuries as such on Arda.”

“Is that why you speak the Common Tongue so well?”

“Oh no, I am afraid that is more a necessary skill in order to walk the halls of Imladris, which you call Rivendell.”

“The Rivendell? The Great Half-elven Elrond’s home? You have been there?” Bard asked.

“He lived there until recently,” Claurion said.

“It was only a short visit,” Tirnion protested.

“Even for elves, ten years is more than a short visit,” Claurion said.

“Claurion, should you not be outlining the water border so Glauverior can properly add in the land mass scale?” Tirnion smiled at Bard’s look, “Even an elf's life is too short to live in misery. Find joy where it is to be found and revel in it while pushing the annoyances of life to the side.” Tirnion pressed a hand to his shoulder, “Now, what trails do your people use to gather falcon eggs?”

Bard walked with Tirnion over to the table and studied the map before him. The progress made was amazing, a task that took weeks for his people took hours for these elves.

“You must remember we require less rest,” Tirnion said, “and to stop comparing your abilities to ours. We all have strengths and weaknesses, Bard, and on this battle field we are all equal.”

Bard nodded, soothed by the musical cadence of Tirnion’s voice. He gave a closer study to the largest map laid out before them; its color yellowed and its corners curled from age. He placed a finger to one of the highest hunting paths, accessible only through a quick maneuver through a grove of trees.

“There is a path through the grove of trees here which leads to a high pass, though it is narrow and steep. It requires sure footing and quick eyes.”

Arodeth looked up from the small map she was working on. “That means Tirnion and Claurion are forbidden from that path.”

Bard’s own laughter was lost in the sound around him.

********************

Tirnion walked the perimeter of their temporary camp, watching the horizon as dusk fell. He felt a whisper of wind and turned to find Thranduil beside him.

“Should you not be in a tent handing out orders?” Tirnion asked.

Thranduil smiled. “I wish to be a normal foot soldier, if only for a moment.”

Tirnion gestured to Thranduil’s forehead. “Then I suggest you remove your crown,” he said.

Thranduil raised a hand and traced the metal resting on his brow. “I must confess,” he said, “I often forget it is there. Such a familiar weight and for so long borne.”

“Yet done so well,” Tirnion said.

“You have no need to gain my favor, Tirnion, I assure you it is already earned” Thranduil said.

“I only wish to remind you that despite all the rumors which paint you as a cold-hearted ruler who will do anything for more jewels including war-mongering and use any and all advantages before you that your people follow your rule with trust and pride,” Tirion stated.

Thranduil patted his shoulder and laughed, reaching up a hand to ruffle Tirnion’s hair. “I suggest we return to the camp before your sister sends out a search party.”

Tirnion nodded and started to follow Thranduil. He turned to give the horizon one last look. “How long do you think they can stay up there?” Tirnion asked.

Thranduil shrugged. He said, “Dwarves are stubborn creatures. If they find any hidden passageways out then we are in for a very long fight. Dwarves guard their gold with their lives.”

Tirnion sighed and shook his head. “It seems a lot of trouble for a few baubles.”

“It is currency, a good bit of currency, and also a matter of pride and entitlement. All of us have things we will defend to our last breath, outside of our land and family,” Thranduil said.

“Will it be worth the cost in the end, I wonder?” Tirnion mused.

Thranduil threw an arm around his shoulder. “You know it will in so ways and will not in so many others. Now let us rest for the night. I feel more news will come with the night.”

*******

A night-and-a-half in the temporary camp and Bard had spent it all discussing maps and strategies with the elves. The hand signals designed by Glauverior were coming along nicely but most of the elves and men were reduced to pointing and shouting, as if exaggerating their gestures or raising their voices would make them better understood. It was difficult, trying to reach an understanding between people whose native tongues were old dialects of much greater languages. Most had a basic grasp of the main words and phrases of the Common Tongue, but the elves did not seem to know much of Lake-town’s language and Arodeth had informed Bard that the little elvish his people knew was so antiquated it would only be recognized by the lore lovers and scholars among her people.

“Bard, you are summoned to King Thranduil’s tent,” Arodeth said. She gestured in the direction of the tent before moving to another, her arms laden down with books and parcels.

Bard would have offered his aid to her, but Arodeth made it very clear that she was more than capable of carrying items on her own. Or, at least, that’s what Bard assumed after the long tirade she gave on the view of males towards any female who does not regularly carry a bow or a sword as a professional warrior. Bard was not brave enough to inform her that among his people, no woman ever did such a thing.

As Bard made his way through the camp, he spied an old man sitting by one of the Elvenking’s tents. Bard approached the old fellow, wondering who let one of the elders come through on the march.

“My dear sir,” Bard said, “should you not be back at the village site?”

The old man shrugged, his dusty grey robe swaying with the movement. “Young lad,” the old man’s weary voice rang out, “I assure you I am right where I need to be at this time. Though a visit to your village site does not lie outside the realm of my future possibilities.”

Bard gave the man a closer study, noting his walking stick, wide-brimmed hat and long grey beard. “You are not from Lake-town,” Bard surmised.

“Good to know some members of the youth of Men are able to make logical deductions.” The old man raised his head and gave Bard a smile. “Do not worry yourself so, young Bard, I promise I am expected. By more than one person here, I should say.”

“Who are you?” Bard asked.

“A very complex and difficult question not to be shared so late an hour. Who I am, alas, is not the question you truly ask. You wish to know what I am called, an equally difficult though less complex question. In this camp most will refer to me as Mithrandir, a general elvish term meaning ‘grey pilgrim,’ but you may know me as the Men of the North call me.”

“And that is?”

“Gandalf the Grey.”

“You,” Bard looked at the frail man in front of him, “you are the Grey Wanderer?”

Gandalf stood and tipped his hat at Bard. “Young Bard, appearances can be, and often are, deceiving. Never rely are just what your eyes tell you, especially when you are surrounded by mischievous wood elves.”

**************

chapter 12a, part two