A Journey Begins, Chapt 12a, part two

[windwailing]

Chapter 12a, part one

A/N: Passages in italiacs come from The Hobbit chapter "The Gathering of Clouds" and as it is J.R.R. Tolkien's work (or Bilbo Baggins) clearly it does not belong to me.

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

Tension filled the tent, along with whispers and the sharpening of quills and knives. Tirnion looked up from the map before him to place everyone in the room. Claurion was kneeling on the floor, a large map in front of him, pointing out various landmarks to Bard and having Arodeth write down Bard’s responses. Mithrandir stood next to Thranduil, smoking on his pipe and debating plans of actions. Few others remained in the tent after Thranduil’s long meeting. The sense of official state business had faded into that of military actions and while the occupants no longer stood so stiffly in formal clothes and posture, the urgent need to form a plan which involved the least number of casualties for both sides dogged everybody inside.

Tirnion looked back to the table and studied the borders on the map. Glovien had placed a dark cloud over the drawing of the Lonely Mountain and it was not the only ominous thing about the land before them. The narrow pass up to the mountain and the many opportunities for trapped entrances and exits meant a dangerous and treacherous ground to cover. Their archers could only do so much.

“We are going to lose elves,” Tirnion murmured more to himself than anyone else.

“We will,” Thranduil agreed from the other end of the table. “The men will lose men; the dwarves will lose dwarves; the wizard...”

“The wizard will lose nothing,” Mithrandir said. “Not this time.”

Tirnion smiled and raised his gaze to Mithrandir. “You cleared my woods out?” Tirnion asked.

“I did,” Mithrandir answered with a jaunty nod.

“Do you not mean my woods?” Thranduil asked.

Mithrandir laughed and put some more of that vile smoking weed in his pipe. He looked up at the two elves and said, “I know an Ent or two would object to the wood being claimed by any elf, much less you two.”

“Better elf than dwarf,” Arodeth called from Claurion's side.

“Yes, we rarely if ever cut down living trees and always apologize when we must put nails and hooks in the living ones,” Claurion said.

“And for that the elves are beloved to all the trees,” Mithrandir said.

Bard studied the occupants of the tent with a confused gaze. “You speak as if the trees can talk back to you.”

Arodeth scoffed, “Of course the trees talk back.” She shook her head and took up her quill again, “Silly mortal man, thinking the trees cannot talk.”

Claurion patted Bard’s leg and said, “I understand it is no longer a common thing for your people to communicate with all the living beings around you, but I assure you the trees do talk and not only to us. This is why you must always be careful of what you say. Someone or something is always listening and watching. It is not just the birds of the wolves, but the trees, the winds, the water.”

“Everything has a voice,” Mithrandir agreed, “few can hear them. Elves are only so good at it because they live so long in this world and need to find something other than themselves with whom to talk. I dread to think what would happen if they were left all to their own.”

Tirnion watched as Bard studied Mithrandir for a moment, trying to discern whether or not the wizard spoke the truth. Bard must have come to a fitting conclusion because he merely nodded and went back to studying the map in front of him.

Thranduil shook his head at the group. “Bard, Claurion, Arodeth, everyone please come around the time.” He paused only long enough for everyone to gather.“After tomorrow’s day of rest, we will move at night. The elves will move the camp first, because we are used to walking under the cover of night. Therefore, we will take the people of Lake-town during the daylight,” Thranduil gestured to Bard, “and hide you within our elven tents which blend in with the nature around us. We ask you to please stay in these tents until we arrive. We do not want to reveal our location before it is necessary.”

“You want us to stay in tents for hours on end?” Bard asked.

“The tents will connect to each other and you will be allowed to make small trips on the side not facing the Lonely Mountain,” Tirnion said.

“If you plan to reveal our location before we fight, why must we stay hidden?” Boyd, one of the Lake-town men asked from Bard’s side.

Thranduil answered, “It is much better to reveal the size of our army with a complete camp than with the scrambling construction of one. The flying spies, which we all know are taking news to the dwarves, do not fly at night and that is why we must construct the camp during these hours. We see much better in the night and we need little light to work. For your safety alone we must move you during the daylight, though we will welcome all of your help as we work through the night.” Thranduil looked around the room and asked, “Any questions?” At the silence which met him and nodded to Tirnion and left the tent, Mithrandir and Arodeth following behind.

Tirnion gestured to both Bard and Glauverior and said, “Please, inform your people and rest for the night. We will set out again in the morning.” Tirnion watched the tent empty out until only Claurion stood beside him.

“Do you think it a good plan?” Claurion asked.

“I think it is the best plan we can conceive with all the unknown variables concerning the dwarves. We will have a better plan once the first contingent rides out to speak with them,” Tirnion said. He walked over to the lamps and began to douse the lights.

“The men of Lake-town will feel insulted by this plan, as if we are coddling them,” Claurion said.

“They may soon come to realize the wisdom in not revealing all at once. I feel that the first visit to the dwarves will change many minds,” Tirnion said.

Claurion held the flap to the tent open as Tirnion doused the final flame.

“We shall see in two days hence,” Claurion murmured into the night.

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

Two days passed and the new camp set up, despite the discontent rumblings of the people from Lake-town. Thranduil ordered a small group of elves and men to approach the Lonely Mountain and attempt a negation for a meeting with the dwarves.

Claurion noted that the men who marched with them as if prepared for an armed fight but most of the elves heeded Thranduil’s order to only carry light arms.

“Is this wise?” Bard asked.

“We have no other choice,” Lothon said, tightening his grip on his bow.

It took two hours to reach the start of the mountain pass from their camp. They kept a sedate and formal pace, made even slower but the Lake-town men unfamiliar with an elven march. Claurion halted the group and studied the area, Bard at his side. Bard surveyed the mountain before them and turned to Claurion with a nod.

“Let us take a closer look,” Claurion suggested.

The group walked forward but their progress stopped as they stared down into the pool at the base of the mountain, staring in shock at the Front Gate.

“It’s,” Bard stared, “it’s blocked. How is it blocked? Was it blocked when you were last here?”

“Is this some sort of elvish joke?” One of the men, Reeve, asked as he pointed at the sight before them.

“I assure you, it is not,” Glovien said. “This is new work.”

“They have blocked off the gate; quite a good tactical move,” Glauverior noted.

“But how could they do it so fast?” Lothon asked.

Glovien shook her head in disgust and replied in elvish, “Did you miss that whole discussion, march, and planning meeting where we talked about fighting a group of dwarves?”

“What did she say?” Reeve asked

“She made a biting remark on Lothon’s lack of intelligence in regard to the fact that we are fighting dwarves who if, nothing else, are great builders,” Claurion said.

“Claurion,” Glovien called, “look up into that opening in the mountain.”

Claurion laughed softly as he looked at the mountain then turned back to the group. He said, “On your best honor, everyone, we are being watched.”

“Suggestions?” Bard asked, squinting his eyes to discern just what the elves were gesturing at.

Claurion smiled at him and said, “We are being watched from the inside. They most likely watched our progress since we revealed the camp last night. I suggest we wait here until they make a move.” Claurion walked over to Bard and adjusted his gaze. Gesturing with the eyesight of his bow he said, “If you had elf eyes you would see the gap in the wall there, where they watch us.”

“Should you be revealing the knowledge of such a fact through telling gestures?” Bard asked while he gave the elf an incredulous look.

“They know we are here, we know they are inside there, nothing for either one of us to give away,” Claurion replied. His voice remained calm and smooth but there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

A loud voice carried out from the rock in the Common Tongue, “Who are you, that come as if in war to the gates of Thorin son of Thrain, King under the Mountain, and what do you desire?”

Glauverior gestured for a majority of the party to fall back, ignoring the whispers from both the men and elves who did not understand the words of the dwarf. It had to be a dwarf, as few other creatures on Arda held such guttural tones to their voices.

“Shall we reply?” Bard asked.

Claurion shook his head in the negative and answered, “We do not have the time, and I do not have the patience, to list all of King Thranduil’s titles in a proper response to that declaration. They are waiting for a fight but we must first take this new-found information of the ground layout back to the King and Mithrandir before we make a move. Let us observe for some time more though, before we head back to the camp.”

“Why?” Reeve asked.

Claurion turned to the man and smirked. “To give them something to talk about, of course. It must be dreadfully born stuck inside that mountain, with the damp and the lack of warmth or food.”

“You elves are planning something more, aren’t you?” Bard asked.

“Bard,” Claurion said as he placed an arm around his shoulder’s, “elves are always planning something.”

Bard exchanged bewildered glances with Reeve before shrugging at Claurion’s antics and the laughter that seemed to overtake all the elves. They waited outside for a few hours more, returning to the camps and smaller and smaller numbers before Claurion finally called the last group to gather and return. The march back went much quicker, with the smaller numbers and the lack of a formal pace. Some of the elves took to a swift run, as if a dark one was on their heels.

“Do not be so worried,” Glovien said as she spied Bard’s face, “it is a long-standing contest between Glauverior and Lothon to see who could manage to reach home first.”

“Who is winning?” Reeve asked.

“Lothon by three races,” Glovien answered.

As they approached the camp, Lothon increased his winnings by one more and the men of Lake-town were quite amused by the antics of the elves. Glovien gestured for Bard to follow her, so her bid goodnight to Reeve and walked behind the elves in the ever complex set of cloth tunnels that was the tent of the camps.

Glovien pulled back the flap of an indiscriminate tent and Bard was surprised to see that King Thranduil and some of his advisors stood inside, as did Mithrandir. Tirnion was also there, some twigs in his hair and fallen leaves clinging to the russet colored uniform her wore. He turned from his conversation with King Thranduil as Bard and Glovien entered and signaled them to come forward.

“I suggest we move the camp east of the river as it allow us easier entry to the mountain,” Mithrandir said.

“I concur,” Thranduil said.

“As do I,” Bard agreed. He studied the group before him in confusion, “Is that why Claurion sent the groups back in intervals, so you could form a strategy?”

“Partly,” Tirnion admitted, “but Claurion was relaying information to us from the moment you set foot out of the camp. The older and gifted elves among us have special ways of communicating in times such as these.”

Bard nodding in understanding, though he really did not, and waited until King Thranduil asked him for his own feelings about the situation. He only hoped the call would come soon as it had been a long day and Bard was eager for his bedroll.

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

Thranduil watched Bard leave the tent before he turned to his elves. “Now, would you all like to inform me of the additional things you observed?”

“It will not be easy for less agile creatures to attempt a run on the mountain,” Glovien said, “elves and a few of the more graceful men may be able to fight there but the dwarves have settled in for a long while.”

“They way they are positioned provides them with access to water, and with the birds on their side, they have creatures able to deliver them some sustenance,” Claurion said.

“Still, it must be cold and damp in there, even for dwarves,” Lothon said, “I think it might be best to draw them out, or at least make the attempt.”

Thranduil smiled and said, “Lothon, I do believe you are correct.”
*********

Tirnion tried to bite back his laughter as he decided the countenances of the people from Lake-town. Thranduil had discarded the stealth strategy of before and encouraged his elves to make as much as spectacle of themselves as possible. Even if the men of Lake-town did not understand the words, Tirnion was sure they recognized a drunken rendition of a bawdy song when they heard one.

“In all my years of walking Arda, I do not think I have ever seen someone attempt to sing an enemy out,” Mithrandir said, his pipe clenched between his teeth.

Tirnion shrugged. “We already know the dwarves are attracted to our music and song due to their actions as they traveled the Old Forest Road; this seemed a logical choice.”

“Do you honestly believe they will come out of their fortress?” Mithrandir asked.

“I doubt it,” Tirnion said, “but it is worth an effort and at least people in our camp will find some solace in an uncertain night.”

Mithrandir nodded at his words and sat back, leaning against a tree. “Why did you not go on the march up there?” Mithrandir asked.

“Thranduil thought it best for me to stay down here,” Tirnion answered.

“He thought it best for you to stay hidden, you mean. You and Legolas followed them did you not? Swift run and hide through the trees, I take it?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny such assumptions. I will only say that yes, I have taken a swift run and hide through those trees before,” Tirnion answered, his gaze falling on the King’s youngest son. Legolas led Arodeth in a rousing dance and Tirnion was glad to see his sister forget her duty if only for a moment. A harsh sound pulled Tirnion out of his thoughts. “Do you hear that?” he asked Mithrandir.

Mithrandir tilted his head to the side. “Dwarven song, an acquired taste,” Mithrandir said.

Tirnion sighed and stood up, brushing off the dirt from his leggings. “I must report this. I bid you a goodnight, Mithrandir,” Tirnion said.

“Tirnion,” Mithrandir called.

“Yes?”

Mithrandir studied him for a moment and blew out a puff of smoke. “It will be a long journey for you yet, my boy, but never forget that once found certain things should not be let go. No matter how long they take.”

“Your words of advice are always welcomed,” Tirnion said. With one final nod he went out into the gathering to locate Thranduil. He found him far removed from the campfires and the dancing, towards the trees and the darkness of the forest.

“The dwarves have started to sing in response, King Thranduil,” Tirnion reported.

Thranduil took in the information with a dark smile on his face. “Oh, the pride of the dwarves,” he said in an amused tone. “Tirnion?”

“Yes, Sire?” Tirnion asked.

Thranduil turned from his contemplation of the forest. “Take a company in the morning, full regalia, and parlay,” he ordered.

Tirnion nodded, “Shall I take some of Bard’s people as well?” he asked.

“Yes, have Bard do the talking. The options may sound better coming from him than from us.” Thranduil paused for a moment to listen to the sounds of elvish merrymaking. “You may want to pull your best warriors now, before they get too deep into their cups.”

“It may yet be too late for that,” Tirnion confessed, “but I may be able to stop it before it gets any worse.”

“See to it you do then,” Thranduil said. “Is Mithrandir still out there?”

“I last left him smoking his pipe and speaking in riddles not a moment ago,” Tirnion said.

“Life as ever normal then,” Thranduil murmured and turned back to the forest.

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

Morning came with bright light and more than a few headaches for both men and elves. The entrance of the camp was filled with the members of the march, though many were still a-bed in the early light of dawn.

Bard looked around at the company of elves. Archers, spearman and regular infantry stood, all bearing the green and browns of Mirkwood. The standard bearers stood tall, and if he hadn’t witnessed their arming, he never would have guessed knives and daggers hid under their ceremonial clothes. His own people from Lake-town and the surrounding areas of Esgaroth tried to measure up, but clearly lacked in comparison.

“Do not look so distraught,” Claurion said, “we do have centuries of experience over you.”

“How are we to lead this march?” Bard asked.

“Right up the front gate,” Tirnion said, stepping out of the King’s tent in his full regalia.

“And I am to do the speaking?” Bard asked, still uncertain of the orders King Thranduil gave him in the earliest hours of the morning.

“It might sound better coming from you,” Tirnion said, “as you have a more valid grievance. Do not worry, we will be with you the whole way.”

Bard nodded and motioned his own standard bearer forward.

“Ready?” Claurion asked.

Bard nodded his assent.

“March!” Tirnion ordered. The call repeated many times over in more than one language.

Bard did his best to focus on the mountain before him. He did not pass judgment or observance on the elves to his side or the men behind him. He knew the elves walked at a pace far too slow for their comfort but slow enough to let the mortals keep a steady stride. It was a shorter march since yesterday but it still took time due to the full regalia. They climbed over the rocks and obstacles blocking the way until Tirnion motioned for a halt at the front of the Gate. The only movement in the whole rank came from the wind wiping the green banner of Mirkwood and the blue banner of Lake-town.

Bard stood aligned with Tirnion, not uttering a word. Tirnion motioned for all to stand still and quiet. Only a short moment later, the harsh voice from yesterday called out again.

“Who are you that come armed for war to the gates of Thorin son of Thrain, King Under the Mountain?”

At Tirnion’s gesture, Bard moved forward. He took a deep breath and answered in a resolute voice, “Hail Thorin! Why do you fence yourself like a robber in this hold? We are not yet foes, and we rejoice that you are alive beyond our hope. We came expecting to find none living here; yet now that we are met there is matter for a parley and a council.

No answer came and Bard passed a glance back to Tirnion who motioned for him to wait.

“Who are you, and of what would you parley?” the voice asked.

Bard held his head high and answered, “I am Bard, and by my hand was the dragon slain and your treasure delivered. Is that not a matter that concerns you? Moreover I am by right descent heir of Girion of Dale, and in your hoard is mingled much of the wealth of his halls and towns, which of old Smaug stole. Is not that a matter of which we may speak? Further in his last battle, Smaug destroyed the dwellings of the men of Esgaroth, and I am yet the servant of their Master. I would speak for him and ask whether you have no thought for the sorrow or misery for the people. They aided you in your distress, and in recompense you have thus far brought ruin only, though doubtless undersigned?”

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

“And how did the dwarf reply to that little speech of yours?” Thranduil asked after the company returned to the camp.

“Despite our rights of inheritance and our grievances we have no claim on Smaug’s treasure and because we threatened force they do not feel the need to justly compensate the people of Lake-town for their earlier aid,” Bard answered.

Thranduil turned to Tirnion, “Yet people still view me as the worst of all evils in this area.”

“You do have a tendency to threaten people by stating you will close your large stone doors on them,” Tirnion said.

“That was only once and that mortal deserved it,” Thranduil sighed in disgust, “honestly, trying to present the ‘true word of the Valar.’ If that child every saw a Vala in his life he’d wet himself. Wake me up from my first peaceful rest in ages to spout some drivel about the ‘true path,’ I have hair ties older than that…”

“My King, your face is turning red,” Arodeth cautioned.

“Sorry,” Thranduil said. He waved his wine glass at Bard. “Continue, please.”

“The dwarves also refuse to dealing with us because we associated ourselves with you and your people. They then threatened us with arrows which, unless I can misinterpret the sound of laughter, I believe your people found quite humorous. We gave him an ultimatum and stated that we will return later and give them some time to think over their words.”

“The dwarves will not concede to defeat, in that I must offer some respect as they are a worthy adversary. I will send some of my men tonight to receive the dwarves’ answer,” Thranduil said.

“Should some of my men not go as well?” Bard asked.

“No offense is meant by my next statement, Bard, but your men cannot see a shot in the dark and I will be sending my elves with shields,” Thranduil answered.

“Would they really fire on a messenger?” Reeve asked from Bard’s side.

“If they perceive the messenger as a threat? Of course. Civilized rules of combat disappeared after the defeat of Sauron. Little is sacred on the battlefield anymore and we must find and uphold honor wherever we can. Even if they shoot on my elves tonight, we will not shoot back. Can I say the same for your people, if I send them in?” Thranduil asked.

“No; not if they cannot see where the threat is coming from,” Bard admitted and Reeve nodded in agreement.

“Therefore it is better to send my elves, who will make sure no blood is shed this night and that we can proceed ahead with this battle with some form of honor still intact.”

******

Bard sat in his tent, sharpening his arrow points. King Thranduil’s contingent apparently returned less than an hour previous and yet no one had updated the men of Lake-town with the response of the dwarves.

“Bard,” Arodeth said, pulling aside the flap of his tent, “King Thranduil wishes to speak with you.”

Bard nodded to Reeve and Thatcher, putting his sharpening tools aside. He followed Arodeth across the camp to one of the larger tents. Thranduil stood inside with his son, Legolas, carrying a shield with an arrow stuck in the middle.

“He shot at you then?” Bard asked.

“I did my level best to be polite,” Legolas said.

Bard shook his head and asked, “So do we march to war tomorrow?”

Thranduil stood up from his seat and approached Bard. “Yes and no, Legolas declared the mountain besieged, but this does not mean bloodshed is yet required.”

“There are many tactics with which a full on battle can be delayed,” Legolas said. He turned to his father and asked, “Shall I send word back to Berenon?”

“Please do,” Thranduil said. He then spoke something else to Legolas in their native tongue which made both elves smile and laugh. Bard watch as Legolas heaved up his shield and left the tent, whistling some sort of elvish tune.

“I do not know if I could let my child fight,” Bard admitted.

Thranduil patted his shoulder before going back to the make-shift desk in the tent. Thranduil took up a quill and said, “He is my youngest, which makes it a bit more difficult, but Legolas has a way of making friends with many a creature. He holds much innocence in his heart, which some may mistake for a weakness. Still, I would not delight in becoming his enemy and I admire his ability to still feel wonder at the world.”

“How old are you?” Bard asked.

“Older than the first foundations of your home,” Thranduil said, “So old I stopped counting an Age ago.”

Bard for once took a moment to study the tent. It was not the type Bard would expect for the well-known ostentatious Elvenking. Grass and dirt served as the ground, no furs covering or warming the way from the entrance to the simple cloth roll of a bed. Banners were hung inside the tent, though their colors were faded and their edges worn. A testimony to their years, perhaps. Bard studied the elf before him and said, “For as long as Lake-town has stood there has always been an Elvenking on the throne. That has always been you?”

Thranduil paused in his writing. “My father, ruled in the Second Age but fell during the Battle of the Last Alliance. I have ruled since then,” he answered.

“You are ancient,” Bard marveled.

Thranduil laughed in reply. “There are beings far more older than I who still reside on Middle Earth.”

“Elrond?” Bard asked.

“He is only a few years older than me. Of the elves, Cirdan is the oldest, there is a man who lives between the coast and Rivendell by the name of Tom Bombadil who has resided in that area for time untold. Then there are the Ents,” Thranduil said.

Bard scoffed, “Ents are a myth.”

“Are they?” Thranduil asked. “In an age or so, I believe people will say that elves are a myth. Just because the numbers dwindled does not mean the race is gone.” Thranduil studied the flames in his lanterns for some time. “More of my kind leave each day but our numbers are still quite large. We will not leave these shores until we are ready and that is still some time off yet. With each new century we become more isolated, Elrond being the only one who will never close his borders to the weary traveler. There will come a time when even the doors of that great home will close forever, but this is all talk for another time. Such heavy words at not needed with an uncertain dawn.”

Bard nodded. “I thank you for your willingness to answer my question. May you have a good night.”

“And you as well,” Thranduil replied.

Bard left him to his writings and made his way back to his men. Everyone had placed themselves around the campfire, enjoying the elvish rations of meat and vegetables for dinner. Bard took his share of the food and sat down next to Reeve around the fire.

“That old Elvenking is up to something,” Thatcher said, shaking his spoon.

“I know they gave us supplies, but do you think it right to trust them in this battle? Elves can survive what we can’t, they say,” Old Bookbinder remarked from his place around the fire.

“The elves have seen more war and battle than we have,” Reeve said.

“The elves have seen more of everything than we have,” Bard replied, “but I do not think they go to war lightly. They live so long, with so much memory, that I think they value life even more than we know.”

Old Bookbinder nodded and said, “Lad may have a point there.”

Bard smiled and went back to his meal in silent contemplation of all he had learned about elves and dwarves over the past few days.

Chapter 12, Part B