Chapter 1. Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost.

Lasgalen. Narbeleth, 3002; Third Age.  

Sámid tripped on a twisted, knotty tree-root. He staggered, stumbled, flailed and finally rolled down the hill, unable to stop his fall. Scratched and bruised, he got to his feet and lost no time in checking for wounds. He secured the precious bundle on his back and resumed his flight, crashing madly through the woods, waving his arms clumsily to fend off attacks from branches and vines, which seemed intent on hindering his progress.  

He stopped, breathless, when he reached a clearing. Or at least a place where the rays of the sun managed to pierce the dense, suffocating canopy. He uncorked his waterskin and drank down in anxious gulps. The gurgling reminded him of his dead companion, and he had to stop drinking as memories of last night rushed back unbidden. Awoken around midnight by terrified, muffled cries, Sámid had found his companion ten paces from where they had made camp, lying in a pool of his own blood and with half of his neck and face missing. He had died even as Sámid looked at him uncomprehendingly. As he gasped against a tree trunk, fighting to regain control of his revolted stomach, a scratching noise and a mocking hiss had made him look up. A pair of bright eyes in a pale, bloodstained, ferociously scowling face had met his searching glance.  

His cry had startled the creature as well. Sámid remembered the sharp teeth, the patches of wild white hair on a balding skull, the long, sharp-clawed, almost webbed paws that might have once been hands…It was not a bird, though, for it had growled savagely and had then run away on all four across the trees. As it fled, Sámid had glimpsed a wrinkled, pale, bony, slippery body that resembled that of a child in size, and a couple of furry feet that looked like anything else he had ever seen. With barely the wits to retrieve the precious pack, the only remainder of their ill-fated hunt, Sámid had fled as well, and had not stopped running since then.

He hated the forest, he decided as he ate up some pieces of way bread. It was unbearably dark and sombre and full of dangerous and traitorous creatures. Were it not for the renown that his deed was supposed to earn him among his peers when he finally returned to the wide desert plains of Harad -a renown that might eventually allow him to marry his chosen one- he would have never risked those dreadful lands full of evil spirits, no matter what riches the Blue Wizard might have offered.

The road cannot be very far, he told himself encouragingly as he gathered his strength to resume his flight. A tingling feeling down his spine made him start. Quickly, he unslung his pack and threw it to the ground, where it stopped squirming. Scowling, he unfastened his cloak, enveloped the bundle tightly and fixed it with a spare bowstring from his belt pouch. Fighting an extreme reluctance, he shouldered the pack again and strapped it securely to his back. As he studied his surroundings trying to decide the shortest path, he let escape a dismayed groan.

The demon had found him! There it was, on top of the hill he had just rolled down, scanning the ground in search of his tracks. Shivering, Sámid slipped back deeper into the hated forest, starting as long, mossy fingers reached out to him. Of all the evils they had been warned about, the undead spirits with two faces were the most fearsome. “They are undead, condemned to wander those dark forests until they get hold of a living body and take possession of it!” the Blue Wizard had cautioned them darkly. “They are called elves, which in their language means doomed. No one will save you if they get hold of you!”

Sámid had almost run into the undead creature by a singing creek at dawn. It stood tall and sinister, with deep eyes and long, flowing dark hair that covered its second face, the one that looked backwards and ate down your spirit after drinking your blood. Panicking, Sámid had let out a strangled cry that alerted the evil forest demon –and now it was after him.

“I cannot run forever,” he panted, scrambling up a broken ground littered with loose stones to another moss-and-stone covered knoll. A large boulder slipped under his hand as he reached out for a surer handhold. A slow grin spread across his tired face then. He gave a tentative push and felt the boulder slid a bit more, dislodging more stones. With luck, I might cause an avalanche large enough to stop that demon for a while. Gasping, he sat down behind the boulder and pressed against it with his back and shoulders, until he felt it coming almost loose. He stopped then, and waited in tense expectation as the tall spirit, wrapped in a dark cloak, started climbing the knoll.

It worked better than Sámid had expected. He waited until the last moment, when he was sure that the creature was too close to escape and then pushed with all his strength. The boulder dislodged a growing bed of smaller rocks as it went down, gaining speed as it slid down the hill, and soon the whole side of the knoll was a mass of sliding, rolling stones. The undead creature slipped, tripped and then fell under the mass of the larger boulder and all the rubble it had dragged in its descent. When the avalanche stopped and the dust settled there was only silence.

Cautiously, Sámid descended towards the boulder. A long, leather-covered arm protruded from under the pile of stones. He gave it a tentative kick first; then, as the creature did not move, three more delivered with cruel delight born from previous panic. Reason told Sámid that he would need more than a pile of rocks to stop a death spirit forever, but he was out of his wits with relief.

“You will not haunt me, nor drank my blood,” he boasted, letting out a nervous chortle and kicking the boulder in desperate rage. The pain made him come back to his senses. “Not anymore!” he sighed as he adjusted his pack and began to drag himself up the broken ground, stumbling on the same bed of rubble that had just saved his life. As he reached the top of the hill he stopped briefly to regain his breathing and cast a last glance behind, just to make sure. Down there he could still distinguish the dark shape of the arm, unmoving. “And there you stay until the stone turns to sand,” he panted, spitting aside to stress the curse. He was safe for now, except for the dangerous burden that he carried on his back. As he looked around to check his way, he allowed a thin spark of hope glimmer through his fear and exhaustion. Not very far away, the earthen-coloured strip of the road glistened in the midday sun.

“I’m almost there!” he shouted, and almost immediately cowered under an overgrown juniper bush, scanning his surroundings in tense expectation –like a grouse hiding from the desert hawk. In the ominous silence that followed his cry he heard soft footsteps and the creaking of boiled leather. To his dismay a tall figure wrapped in a dark cloak emerged from the trees at the western base of the hill and looked up straight at him: fiery eyes, long dark hair flowing, covering the second face, the one that looked backwards and ate down your spirit… “But I…I buried you in stones!”  Sámid sobbed in incredulous despair. All of a sudden the strength that fear had sipped from his limbs returned to him. Shouting like a madman he ran out of cover and crashed wildly into the forest, not daring to look back, hoping against hope that he would finally made it to the road…

                                                                       ~*~*~*~

Somewhere close to the Enchanted River.

“What kind of creature did this? Not a spider, that is clear.”

The patrol was gathered around the brutally mutilated corpse of a fawn. A snowy white one, which was an ill omen. The elves exchanged worried glances while the trees grieved and worried in sad murmur. The scout shrugged. “I had never seen something like this before, Captain,” he admitted, pushing the dead fawn’s head with his boot to hide the gruesome hole in the side of its neck from sight. “A small creature, by its tracks, but with vicious teeth and claws…”

“Would you say it was the same creature that slaughtered those piglets that Cûrion found the other day, or are we suffering a plague?”

“Difficult to say, Captain. The tracks are ruined. We will have to wait…”

“…For more bloodless and faceless corpses to appear, before asking Lord Mallereg if he thinks it possible that perchance some strange and murderous creatures from the dark south might have slipped unnoticed through the watchful and most effective ranks of his Southern patrol, I know…” Legolas groaned tiredly. It was always the same: trouble arose when it was time to go back home after a few months of mostly uneventful patrol.  “Burn it before it attracts spiders,” he sighed, shaking his head at the sad remains. A soft call dragged his attention to the tree tops and a moment later he saw his second and two scouts approaching them across half-naked branches, just returned from a long scouting trip along the eastern border and beyond.

“Greetings, Penalag, what *good* news from the East?” he asked, stressing the word with a warning frown. The expression on Penalag’s usually unconcerned face was not promising.

“I have not yet lost that grey-owl feathered arrow that you so much covet, that is good news for you,” his friend informed as he jumped down to Legolas’ side with his casual flair. “The rest is not so encouraging…watch that!” he interrupted himself, pushing another warrior aside and squatting by the bloodied remains.  “An overgrown bloodsucker? Is this what they are throwing at us from Dol Guldur now?” He sounded mildly disappointed to Legolas’ stunned ear.

“What are you talking about?”

“Bloodsuckers… the villagers in Laketown have a dozen different names for them and will give you a hundred ways of finishing them if you ask…” his friend informed with mild exasperation, as if that were a commonly known fact that only Legolas ignored. For a long time Penalag had served as one of the diesgal, the veiled ones, elves who lived beyond the borders of Lasgalen and travelled far and in secrecy, gathering information about the doings of Men –and other creatures- and feeding it to Thranduil’s closest advisors. Legolas envied his friend’s deep knowledge of the ways of men –even down to far Harad- and his bagful of tales, most of which he suspected were colourful exaggerations –but entertaining ones, all the same. So he could easily forgive Penalag’s patronizing manners when he spoke of what he knew so well.

“Unfortunately, none of their methods are practicable,” his friend continued, “for they will invariably involve a very rare herb, a disgusting concoction with several impossible-to-find ingredients, the concurrence of unlikely circumstances…and a wooden stake. But this...Let me see… How strange!”

“Report, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind,” Legolas growled, aiming without conviction for Thranduil’s unmistakably menacing tone. It worked, much to his surprise, for his best friend suddenly remembered that he was also a lieutenant in the king’s second son’s patrol, and snapped quickly to attention.

“There are several intruders in the Greenwood, Captain,” he began, grimacing at the dismayed look on Legolas’ eyes. So much for arriving home in time for the festival indeed. “Three foreigners were seen in Laketown lately, and they left the town separately through the western gate. None of our watch posts reported them, but I suspect that they are within our borders…”

Seeing the annoyed glances on the faces of several of his warriors, Legolas raised a hand to stall Penalag’s report and signalled for the rest of the patrol to continue with their tasks. “You can tell me the rest while you refresh yourselves,” he suggested, leading the three tired elves to a mound of fallen leaves piled against the bole of a very old oak tree by the playful autumn winds. “You made amazing speed,” he commented, as he passed his leather water skin to his friend, who took a long swig while his companions fished in their thinned packs and pooled their meagre findings.

“We borrowed horses from the foresters and returned them with the East patrol,” Penalag admitted, stretching his longs legs and reclining against the tree trunk. He studied the waterskin critically and then passed it on to his companions. “Bad luck, my friends,” he shrugged. “Apparently only Lord Mallereg enjoys unrestricted access to the king’s cellars…”

“Is that true?” Legolas asked; his curiosity piqued as every time he heard that piece of gossip.

“About those trespassers?” His friend deliberately ignored his point with an innocent smile. “We found their tracks. They travel separately, two and one. At least two of them are surely rangers, we got a glimpse of them before we lost them…”

“We did not lose them as such, Captain. The trees rustled about another intruder, and one more dangerous, so we let them go,” the tracker hurried to point out with wounded pride, mistaking the outraged expression that had clouded briefly Legolas’ face.

Resigned, Legolas abandoned the wine issue and turned his attention to the news. “Another man?”

“We know not,” Penalag picked up the thread before his fellow warriors could introduce Legolas to the assorted display of mythical lore they had gathered from the very respectable and somewhat frightened folks of Esgaroth. “No oak-stakes, mithril daggers or wolfsbane, if you please,” he warned his companions, much to Legolas’ confusion. “There are rumours,” he admitted, settling more comfortably against the trunk, “of an unnamed predator that hunts randomly and cuts its victims’ throats and drinks their blood. Or else freezes them in blinding, numbing fear, or casts a powerful light that turns darkness to shreds, depending on the reports. Some would say it is a rider cloaked in black, others an old man in grey rags, others a bald frog with hairy feet, others a giant bloodsucker in different forms…”

“You have been chasing a figment, a fabrication of the Men of Esgaroth, for half a moon?”

“I would not say a figment, judging by the neck of that fawn,” Penalag retorted more seriously, nodding to the fire that was already roaring and wrinkling his nose wistfully at the tasty smell that wafted towards them.

And there is the forest song to take into account too, Legolas reminded himself; the trees sounded anxious, frightened as he had seldom heard them so far north.

“There is more, Captain,” the third scout chimed in between mouthfuls of a piece of cram that looked certainly stale, Legolas observed.  “We got news from a group of woodcutters about a couple of swarthy men who entered the Greenwood by the Old Forest Road about a moon ago, boasting that they were hunting dark creatures. They met them again not three days ago, north of the Dark Mountains, speaking of unnamed horrors  –ghosts, they said- that were spreading from the south… and pressing spiders northwards,” he finished hurriedly, freezing Legolas’ shrug. That there was unnamed horror dwelling in the southernmost marches of the Greenwood was not fresh news, but the fact that this horror was on the move and scaring the spiders north was certainly a disturbing new state of affairs.

“You are telling me that three rangers, two Southrons and a band of woodcutters…not to mention these murderous creature or creatures, spirits or not, with sharp teeth and claws, are loose in the Greenwood?” Legolas finally managed, keeping the score with his fingers so as to be sure that he would forget nothing.  “I do not believe that the king is going to be impressed, my friends,” he concluded warningly.

“The woodcutters at least are surely back in Esgaroth, and most probably surrendered themselves to the justiciar there,” Penalag offered with an optimistic wink. “We managed to impress the fear of Thranduil upon them quite convincingly…”

“Actually, they were frightened by those dark creatures that chased the spiders out of their dens and northwards,” the scout corrected with poisoned accuracy.

“It’s all the same; they are not returning anytime soon and I made sure Belmagor will be more alert next time… What are you planning, Legolas?”

“There is a dwarven caravan in the Path with goods for their distant halls in the Blue Mountains…and they have paid an outrageous fare, if you believe their driver, for a safe crossing. We cannot allow anything to happen upon them, be it rangers, spiders, Southrons or mythical creatures…” He grimaced at the resigned expressions on his three companions and shrugged apologetically: they had all been looking forward to the upcoming leave…and the festival. With resigned faces, two of them stood up, saluted and went to join the rest of the patrol and spread the news. Penalag, though, took his time.

“No Narbeleth festival, then? Your daughter will have your hide, Legolas! She was adamant that we were all to be there. I wonder what she has in mind?”

Legolas sighed. “If we manage to lay hands on those southrons, and those rangers, and the old man in grey rags, and the fantastic creature or creatures that are scaring the spiders northwards perhaps we might even get home in time to taste my father’s Dorwinion this year while we learn what she has got in store…”

“We might as well go ask Radagast for help,” his friend muttered with unwarranted hopelessness. Legolas cast him a sharp look.

“That is not a bad idea. He knows everything that happens in the forest…”

“When he is not distracted by a wounded wolf or a passing butterfly!”

“Well, at least he might tell us what kind of creature kills in that strange manner!” All of a sudden Legolas understood his friend’s lack of enthusiasm. “Oh, but fear not, Penalag! I am not sending you to Rhosgobel!” he laughed, as his friend bowed low with plain relief.

“Anyone I know, then?” his second chuckled as they walked to where their patrol had finished cutting up the skin and the meat from the young deer and were wrapping it in nets of woven bark. Legolas cast a last look at the puzzling set of tracks and the burning carcass and sighed.

“I am sure that Mallereg will volunteer for the task, finding it preferable to the prospect of explaining to the king why all these uninvited guests –not to mention spiders- are allowed to roam his woods freely,” he observed dryly, retrieving his bow and quiver from the hands of one of his warriors.

“We might end up having all of them around the stronghold for the festival!” Penalag snorted. “The king would love that!”

Knowing that his friend was unaffected by withering glares Legolas just ignored the muffled chuckles that rippled across the ranks. “We shall escort the dwarves’ wagon until we are sure that no danger lies before them,” he informed his company. “We all want to be home for the end-of-Narbeleth festival,” he added, seeing the disappointed faces, “but Penalag has brought worrying news, and something is pressing the spiders north, so perhaps the Southern patrol will need our help as well. Keep your eyes open and your bows ready!”

“To the trees!” Penalag added, and soon the clearing was empty as if they had never been there.

“What on Arda is the South Patrol doing?” Legolas wondered as he followed his warriors across willing trees that swayed gracefully in a cold autumn breeze.

                                                                         ~*~*~*~

Somewhere south of the Elf-Path.

“What on Arda are they doing?” Thalaûr ranted as he crossed the clearing where they had set up camp at last, after five days of almost uninterrupted chase. He grunted and scowled and jerked his head stiffly in return to tired salutes, knowing winks and pointing fingers that directed him unfailingly towards his unsuspecting target.

The camp was unusually subdued, he could not help noticing, but that was no surprise. It was five days since they had last slept properly, and they had travelled so far in pursuit of a host of stirred, ferocious spiders, that right now their Southern patrol was at the brink of becoming the Northern one. The warriors were exhausted and they had the right - no, the obligation- to feel that way. So why on Arda the captain and his second were not resting, and instead were holding a very secret and animated council at some distance from the camp?

Had he been prone to mistrust, Thalaûr might have found their behaviour highly suspicious –choosing to hold their conversation well away from the place where they –and Thalaûr- had left their packs.

Being an old oak familiar with all kind of bug tricks instead, he lost no time with suspicions, knowing for a given fact that the captain and his second were plotting some folly they considered safer to keep from the captain’s bodyguard’s ears –that is, his very own. For that reason alone, Thalaûr was particularly interested in ruining their clumsy attempts at secrecy. Much to his exasperation, none of the squatting elves noticed his approach, deeply engaged as they seemed in animated discussion over a piece of parchment hastily spread on a thick log. He had the pleasure to see them jump at the sound of his voice.

“A blind spider might have had you for dinner, for all the attention that you are paying to your surroundings! What on Arda are you doing?” he boomed, leaning over their bent heads to see what they were studying with such concentration. 

“Oh, Thalaûr!” The golden-haired captain scrambled hurriedly to his feet, scattering away a collection of arrows carefully laid out before them and looking only mildly chagrined.  “I… everything is in place!” he hurried to explain. “I set the watches myself and checked the perimeter, and Gelirben…”

“All the wounded have been cared for and everybody has had some food, and I sent a small patrol hunting,” the second added while he carefully gathered the arrows and wrapped them in a piece of cloth. “We thought you would be sleeping…”

Though amused that the two young officers felt that they owed him explanations, Thalaûr was not about to let it show. “I know,” he grunted. “I double-checked myself…and I expected that you two would be catching up with some sleep too. What is that?” he asked, nodding towards the roughly sketched map. “That is not our position…or else you two have lost your tracking abilities. Mallereg?”

The two officers exchanged wary glances. After a brief contest the captain gave in and opened his arms as if in apology. “Whatever stirred the spiders northwards, has apparently stirred other creatures that are usually hidden,” he began cautiously.

“That I know,” Thalaûr interrupted. “But you already have scouts out there. What are you two planning?”

“The scouts have…scouted…”

“That’s what they do, yes.”

“Thalaûr…”

“A white buck, Thalaûr!” Gelirben chimed in eagerly, placing the arrows back in a quiver. “They got a glimpse of it twice, coming north. They say it is a large, shinning white deer with fourteen-point antlers!”

“And?” the guard cast an incredulous look from one to the other innocent-looking warriors. “Wait, let me guess! You thought you could hunt it while we are fighting an incursion of spiders and an unknown threat that has stirred them?”

“Ah, but think of it!” Mallereg charged again, unaffected by the open disapproval in his guard’s tone. “A white stag to adorn my grandfather’s Great Hall… Don’t you think the king would be glad to receive such a present?”

“I bet the king would prefer to know that he has a level-headed, dependable, responsible offspring,” Thalaûr grunted, though he knew the futility of his efforts. The irrepressible prince dismissed his point with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Oh, he has enough of those already!” He lifted long, calloused fingers with a mischievous smile. “See, two over-responsible sons and daughters-in-law, one over-responsible grandson, granddaughter and even grandson-in-law…And no white deer rug or a fourteen-point antler crown that I know of… We’ll be away for just a couple of days, Thalaûr,” the prince added more seriously. “And I want to check the safety of the forest for myself…There is a feeling of urgency in the trees that I do not recognize. You can keep things under control around here and follow us in two day’s time, when all of the patrol joins up…”

“The last scouts are expected between today and tomorrow,” Gelirben added helpfully. “And the rest of the patrol should arrive soon too, after they finish cleaning the path towards the Forest Gate…”

“You propose to chase the buck into Legolas’ territory?” Thalaûr asked his charge without lifting his eyes from the rough map.

“Uncle will not mind…”

“Of course not, he must be very busy fighting the unexpected increase of spiders and explaining to the foresters why the Southern patrol allowed them to break through their lines on the first place…”

“That was not our fault, and this is not a leisurely hunting party, Thalaûr,” Gelirben hurried to chime in before prince and guard locked horns yet one more time, he noticed with hidden amusement. “We intend to check the safety of the way east, and see if we can find traces of what stirred the spiders there…At the same time we will be covering the area….

“No, you will not,” Thalaûr interrupted, while Mallereg folded his arms over his chest and glared at him defiantly. “You will remain here, in charge of the patrol,  and I will escort His Highness as he checks what ails the forest,” he grumbled warningly, knowing that Gelirben knew better than to contend with him about his duty as the captain’s keeper. “I will bring our horses and our packs,” he added after a tense pause in which no one spoke, feeling magnanimous as he usually did once he had got his way.

"A royal white buck!” Mallereg’s excited voice floated after him as he walked to the area where their mounts grazed peacefully. “With the blessing of the forest I’ll down that buck, and we will be home for the last festival of the season, Gelirben!” he promised his friend with a confident laugh. “I cannot wait to see the look on my grandfather’s face! Last time a white buck was seen in the forest, the Dragon was slain and the Shadow was chased from Dol Guldur…Who knows what portents this one may bring to the Greenwood?”

Thalaûr turned to spit some bitter witticism to his over-enthusiastic charge. He wanted to remind Mallereg that nobody had actually seen that legendary white buck back then when twelve dwarves and a perian had blundered into the king’s hunting party, but just a white fawn; and that short after that they had fought a terrible battle, in which many elves had died. And the Shadow had returned to Dol Guldur, despite their efforts! But instead he stood there gaping. A ray of sun had finally pierced the pewter lid of that autumn sky and slanted steeply into the clearing, bathing the prince in a golden haze while the trees swayed lightly in a cold breeze, bowing obligingly before him and crowning him with their golden-red leaves. “He is blessed by the forest indeed,” he had to admit with a reluctant smile, suddenly reminded of Oropher and his bold, stubborn, fierce optimism that had earned him his special connection to the Greenwood and the wild loyalty of his Avari subjects. “Come, ladies,” he urged the pair of chestnut mares. “The forest awaits its prince!”

                                                                      ~*~*~*~ 

Somewhere along the Elf Path - Westbound.

A day ago Bilbo would have fervently welcome an early stop for the night. Their wagon bumped on the not so well-maintained Elf Path, and each wrinkle on the road was heavily felt on his old bones. Besides, Narbeleth had covered dark, sombre Mirkwood with a gaily-coloured mantle that was beautiful to behold. The sunlight sparkled on rich browns and golds and reds and aging greens, bringing a feast of warm colour to the grey, shabby woods. To Bilbo’s surprised eye, Mirkwood had felt almost snug and welcoming in that season.

But that had been before that stranger joined their group early in the morning, crashing through the bushes as if chased by a herd of Oliphaunts and crying about undead creatures that hunted him. Now, a feeling of unrest had descended upon him and he watched the gathering shadows with growing suspicion.

“Safer, they said. Ha! For the Elven King’s treasure, no doubt!”

“And the King of Dale’s?”

“Of course! That pompous rat is deep into it, I’d swear…”

Bilbo had got used to the dwarves’ grumbling, which had started the moment their wagon entered the Mirkwood. More precisely, the moment a group of Elves dropped from the trees before the wagon and the tallest of them, bowing courteously as manners required in such occasions, had requested the owed fare.

Due to the increased restlessness along the Old Forest Road, the kings of Dale and the Lonely Mountain had asked leave from Thranduil for the few trade caravans travelling West to use the safer Elf Path. The Elven King had agreed, but had in turn requested what Dáin and Bain had grudgingly acknowledged as a fair toll for the use of his path, the safety provided by his patrols and the keeping of the ferry that crossed the Enchanted River. The ferry, in Bilbo’s opinion, had proved a better way of crossing the dangerous stream than the previous boat, but his companions disagreed. Vexed by the -as he claimed- shockingly high fare that he had been forced to pay, Grerin, the oldest and more experienced of the two dwarves, only grumbled and complained about the path, about the trees, about the crossing and about the dark, unending forest.

“Safe, they said! Ask him!” he insisted, nodding towards their unexpected passenger, who had collapsed in a heap of rags between two large boxes and fallen into a restless sleep.

“Well, he doesn’t look like the kind who would pay the fare,”  Borin, the youngest of the two, objected, studying the newcomer’s bloodstained clothes. “And he doesn’t resemble the Men of Dale or Esgaroth to me…”

“Of course he doesn’t, he is a Southron, can’t you see his clothes?” Grerin grunted, encouraging the ponies with a shake of the reins. “Did you know, Master Hobbit?”

Bilbo shook his head. He had guessed, but he was not sure. He had seen a picture in a book in old King Bard’s library but had never thought of meeting one of those strange people in his life. And yet he was more interested in the man’s pack. From the moment the stranger appeared in the middle of the path right before their wagon, shouting about a spirit that chased him and that had killed his companion, he had clung to his pack as if to his own life. Despite their grumbling and complaining, Bilbo knew that dwarves had a good heart deeply buried under layers of leather, bushy beards and smouldering tempers, and these two were not an exception.

They had stopped and offered help; tended to the man’s bruises and cuts, and offered food, which had been refused. Then after a somewhat halted and stilted conversation -for the man did not speak Westron very fluently- they had agreed to take him with them at least to the Carrock, where he was bound to find some other caravan aimed south.

The man had climbed into the wagon and had burrowed a place for himself amidst wooden boxes and crates. For some time he had been muttering to himself and casting fearful glances to the forest, but then tiredness had crushed him and he had fallen asleep with his pack now tightly tied to his chest.

“What would a Southron be doing in Mirkwood?” Bilbo asked curiously. Twice now he had had the impression that the bundle squirmed, but he could not be sure.

“That would no doubt make a good story for your book, Master Baggins,” Grerin chuckled.

“And I would like to hear more about that spirit that chased him,” Borin added with a trill of horrified interest in his voice. “Did you know that there were undead spirits in Mirkwood, Grerin?”

“I would not be surprised, lad,” the older dwarf grunted. “There are all kind of dark creatures deep down there; black spiders, black squirrels, black rabbits, black whatnots…And they say this is safer! Ha!”

Bracing for another stretch of annoyed mumbling, Bilbo turned his attention again to the forest. A last ray of sun gilded the path ahead of them, but beyond it the gathering shadows were now ominous. The leaves rustled sombrely and the forest felt again tense, threatening –dark. Shaking off glum thoughts, Bilbo returned to an earlier line of thought, namely planning the chapters of his book. His days of travelling were over, he knew. He felt it in his bones and had felt it in his heart after this last trip. He had enjoyed seeing old friends and meeting new ones, but he had not felt the thrill that he remembered from past days of adventuring. He was old. Worse, he felt old. Adventures were fine for a youngster, like this distant cousin of Glóin, Borin, who was travelling west for the first time and was full of enthusiasm, or for Frodo, back in the Shire. He, in turn, longed for Elrond’s library, and his well-supplied cellar and larder, and for a cosy room with a tame fire and a large desk…Maybe I can talk Lord Glorfindel into helping me settle the account of the Battle of Fornost he reminded himself with a wry grin, remembering the antics in which he had found himself involved in his two previous visits to the Last Homely House.

“What do you say, Master Baggins?”

“What do I say to what?”

“That we make an early stop for the night. That clearing beyond the bend looks perfect, and there is plenty of pasture for the ponies…”

Bilbo cast worried glances around. A sudden cold gripped him. The forest felt funny, watchful, tense. A couple of trees swayed suddenly and dropped red leaves over them. The ponies crunched them with restless hooves and snorted, stamped impatiently. Bilbo shivered. He did not like the feeling in the forest that night, but he knew Grerin would not pay attention to such things as cold shivers and dark omens.

“Do you think it wise to abandon the path?” he asked nonetheless, still remembering his own experiences. For the last nights they had made camp by the path, and Bilbo really saw no reason why they should do otherwise, not when their passenger had been so shaken about strange and dangerous creatures hiding in the woods. But the patch of grass in the clearing was not too far away from the path and it looked welcoming enough, he had to agree, and the trees were not too tightly packed around it.

“And those elves said it was safe!” Borin reminded him with a conniving wink. Bilbo shrugged and returned a resigned smile.

Thankfully, the grumpy elder dwarf did not react to the provocation. “Wake up our passenger,” he ordered as he led the ponies out of the path and towards the promising glade. “We will need wood for a fire, and then he can entertain us with his frightening tales.”

Bilbo froze as he leant back to pat the sleeping man’s shoulder, blinking in surprise.

There was no doubt. The pack wriggled and twisted as if something struggled in there.

TBC.

A/N:

Thanks to Daw for the canon detail about white deer in The Hobbit, and to Redheredh for the diesgal, the word for Thranduil’s secret information officers, aka spies.

Narbeleth is the last part of autumn, when the trees lose their leaves (a wonderful sight I am told…)

Most OCs are from “What’s Left Behind.”

Bilbo’s adventures in Rivendell are told in “Mathom” and “All that is gold…”

Happy Birthday, Dot

Chapter 2. A Light From the Shadows Shall Spring.

Somewhere south of the Elf Path, to the west.

The buck appeared quite abruptly from the trees in the other side of the stream. It stood taller than a tall man and its great, forested antlers gave it an imposing, rather menacing air. Casting nervous looks around, it twitched its blunt black muzzle and tasted the breeze. Snorted. Pawed the earth with one massive hoof. Snorted again.

The old man in brown rags stopped drinking and lifted his head. He cast a quizzical look at the white, glistening beast, got to his feet tiredly and leaned on a slender alder.

“I need some rest,” he wheezed, wiping water that dribbled to his beard. “And some food as well.” He searched his bag and scrapped a few morsels. With a sigh of relief he sat down with his back against the trunk.

The buck was nervous; casting about for intruders, always looking north. Finally, it splashed back into the shallow stream towards the man and urged him again.

“I know you have other worries,” the old man smiled in a drowsy voice. “But I cannot keep your pace. You’ve already done enough, my friend,” he added, patting the wet muzzle and meeting a big, searching eye that so much resembled a man’s. “Go, go to your duties. I’ll follow through. The King’s patrols cannot be too far away now.”

With a last snort the white buck gave in and blundered off into the forest, raking the ferns with its mighty antlers as it disappeared into the woods.

The old man let escape a weary sigh and closed his eyes. “Only a moment,” he promised himself –or the restless trees above him- then drifted off into a deep, unconcerned slumber.

The rough voice jolted him out of troubled dreams. “Well, well, well! So it is true that no forest creature would dare eat you for fear of losing its teeth!”

He stirred and stretched and opened his eyes. He had ended up resting on a bed of fallen leaves by the alder. Before his eyes he saw well-worn calf skin boots and the dusty, muddy hem of a threadbare grey cloak. Craning his neck, he met sparkling, amused eyes. Smiling, he grabbed the proffered hand and hauled himself to a sitting position.

“Mithrandir!” he greeted, as if being woken up by old friends in the middle of the forest were the most natural event. “How fortunate! What are you doing here?”

“I looked for you in Rhosgobel…and then feared for you, my friend,” the newcomer said anxiously. “Until I found your tracks and those of your...guide? What happened?”

Radagast shivered and cast an involuntary glance southwards, towards his abandoned forest home. “The Three that hold Dol Guldur on behalf of Sauron have been restless in the last two years,” he began in a low voice. “But things got worse in the last months. They are gathering orcs and wargs and all dark creatures around them, and disturbing even the spiders. The Old Forest Road is no longer safe and even the Beornings have a rough time keeping Darkness at bay and the Ford and the High Pass open…Orcs are multiplying there, and around Moria…But the Three came forth less than half a moon ago in the shape of black riders... I felt the stir in the forest, and then the spiders started moving north, pushing dark creatures ahead of them and frightening the few remaining forest dwellers away from their hiding places, but still I held my ground… Until five nights ago, when that white buck rapped at my door and I knew I had to run for my life!” He sighed and shrugged. “They were on my heels. I have been running since then, hoping to bump into one of Thranduil’s patrols, but as I fled north I found that darkness is spreading with more strength than before and even beyond the Mountains of Mirkwood…”

“Thranduil’s patrols seldom come close to the Mountains, and the Southern patrol must be very busy now coping with this sudden onslaught of spiders,” Mithrandir mused, opening his battered pack and passing some waybread to his friend. “Take this, the lady gave them to me a few moons ago… ”

Radagast munched eagerly and then asked between mouthfuls. “What happened to my house?” He winced at the pain that flashed in the eyes of the Grey Pilgrim.

“They uprooted several of the oldest beeches and razed your place,” the other said quietly. “It is my guess that they are trying to gain complete control of the Forest Road, so the Elven realms are absolutely cut off. Some dark evil has turned Moria impracticable, and the High Pass is more dangerous than ever…”

“And there is little we can do to oppose them,” Radagast agreed, silently mourning his beloved trees. “What is the lady doing, anyway?” he asked, and did not manage to keep all bitterness from his voice. But his friend understood his grief and took no offence.

“She is busy enough keeping Darkness from her own forest, my friend,” Mithrandir reminded him softly. “The strength of the elves is waning and the Dark Lord is slowly but steadily gathering all things bent to evil around him, nursing his strength for a last assault…”

“What are we doing here, I wonder,” he sighed sadly. Birds still sung in the trees that far north from Dol Guldur, but he knew that darkness would soon swallow the beauty of the forest, and there was nothing that he, or the brave Woodland king, could do to stop it. If he closed his eyes he could already feel the echoes of the dark, menacing presences at the edge of his consciousness; lurking, watching, searching…

“We were sent precisely to prevent that,” Mithrandir reminded him in his calm, matter-of-factly manner. “And as to what are you and I doing here… Well, you know your own businesses. I was expecting that you could give me some information about the peoples who used to lived in the banks of Anduin early in this Age, and to ask you to keep an eye for a strange creature that might be lurking in the forest…”

“Now that would be a task!” Radagast chuckled mirthlessly. “Mirkwood is boiling with strange creatures these days.. What kind of particularly strange creature are you looking for? You can tell me as we walk on, my friend,” he added as he forced himself to his feet and dragged Mithrandir along. “I want to reach the Elf Path before night comes. I expect we might run into a patrol before that, but still I deem the path safer… Strange creatures, let’s see… apart from orcs and wargs and black riders, you mean? I’ve seen bloodsuckers of all sizes, dryads, shapeshifters…And now that you mention it, a raven brought word of dark-haired strange men south of the mountains…What do you think Southrons might be looking for in Mirkwood?” he chattered along as he led their way, not noticing Mithrandir’s annoyed gaze as he followed into his steps.

                                                                                       ~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Not far from them, to the East.

“Stop fussing, Aragorn! I can walk, let go of me!”

“I would, gladly, if only you were capable of walking for some length without stumbling on tree roots…We’ll go faster this way.”

Halbarad grumbled, but stopped complaining and concentrated on walking without faltering. He was in pain, Aragorn knew. Fortunately the boulder had just trapped him, but still had bruised his chest and side nastily and broken his upper right arm, though it was a clean fracture at least –apart from the mild concussion. And whatever that panicked southron had been running from, it was still after them, though cautiously.

“Whatever it is, it doesn’t feel half as dangerous as those black-cloaked creatures,” Halbarad sighed, reading his thoughts. “What were those things, anyway?” he asked not for the first time since that terrible encounter. “Their screeches drove the blood from my veins and the strength from my knees,” he admitted in a low voice. Aragorn shivered, remembering the black panic that had blinded them in that encounter.

“Some creature of Darkness, to be sure. I’ll ask Master Elrond as soon as we get you to Imladris…”

“That is going to be some time next year then, if we keep this pace on foot,” his friend chuckled through greeted teeth. Aragorn scowled. This had been an ill-fated trip from the very beginning.

“I should have heeded Mithrandir’s summons and went back straight to Bree,” he complained. “There, let us rest for a while,” he added, directing their steps to a knotty, wide chestnut tree. Halbarad was now breathing in short, rapid gasps, and he allowed himself to be all but dragged. The pain had to be intense, for he did not complain as Aragorn stopped by the welcoming tree but slipped from his friends’ support to lie on the ground breathing heavily. Quickly, Aragorn unfastened his friend’s cloak and leather jerkin and checked the makeshift bandages on his chest and arm, then uncorked his waterskin and helped Halbarad drink.

“You were already this side of the mountains,” his friend murmured with his eyes closed. “There was no reason for abandoning the trip, and I was curious as well... Besides, there is always one or two of our people watching the borders of the Shire, and also the Guardian…”

Aragorn nodded, grateful for the comfort, and patted his friend’s unhurt side. “Not that we learned anything we did not already know,” he sighed. “Whatever horror has taken residence in Dol Guldur, it is stirring again; and its power is so dark that even you and I, seasoned Dunedain of many battles, gave way before it…”

“That’s because you insisted on buying horses in Laketown,” Halbarad chuckled and then grunted in pain, “instead of in Rohan! I bet they are back in their stalls and their owner the happier for it! And who would have thought that a frightened southron would take us for ghosts and drop a mountain over me?”

Aragorn chuckled grimly in turn. By the time the cloaked riders in black steeds had burst from the trees into the Old Forest Road a few days ago, their horses had long been in panic, attuned to the feeling of dread that breathed across the forest. Fortunately, the dark riders had ignored them, and they had only felt in passing the brush of dread and despair that they spread around them like a mantle of darkness. Mad with fear, their horses had bolted, dropped them and fled away, leaving the two rangers on foot in the middle of a spider-infested Old Forest Road. The cloaked riders were heading east, they had noticed, but the spiders had also fled before them, hastening north in terrified swarm. It had taken all his strength of will to stop themselves from fleeing madly as well. Whatever power those riders wielded, it was stronger and more evil than anything he had ever faced. Still, he had insisted that they continued into the forest to look for any clue or trace of their passing instead of making it back to Esgaroth, and that had taken them to the southrons: the bloodless corpse first, and later his panicked companion.

“How long to the Elf Path now, Aragorn?”

His friend’s voice jolted him from glum thoughts. He cast a look north and shrugged. “I am not sure. We should have met one of Thranduil’s patrols by now…But if I am not mistaken, the path takes a long bend not far from here… If we keep to the forest, we might come upon the wagon that picked up the Southron by night,” he hazarded. His trained ear had caught the creaking of wheels on the not so distant path as he tended to his wounded friend, and for a while he had wondered whether to leave Halbarad behind and try to reach the wagon and ask for help or try and make it to the road on their own. Now he was not sure his decision had been the wisest.

“We’d better get going, then…”

Something in Halbarad’s tone caught his attention. Following his friend’s glance, he discovered that they had been sitting right under a large ball of spider webbing, tangled across the tallest branches of the chestnut. Parts of it dangled in the wind, but there were no traces of spiders around. He shivered. “They are moving fast,” he observed, leaning to help Halbarad to his feet. Ignoring his friend’s protests, he passed Halbarad’s uninjured arm over his shoulders and wrapped his right arm around his friend’s waist. “No wonder we didn’t find the patrols,” he sighed. “They are surely spreading fast to the north, after the creatures... Let us keep an eye on the trees, I wouldn’t want to be caught by surprise by a wandering spider.” We wouldn’t stand a chance, he thought but refrained from stating aloud. Halbarad was impeded by his wounds and he doubted he would be able to drop his friend and unsheathe his sword fast enough in case of a sudden attack.

They trudged on stubbornly, keeping an eye around them, looking out for more webbing or the strange, slightly webbed tracks they had found around the corpse of the southron. They had stopped to study a long, thick trail of floating tendrils of spider silk tangled between two large trees when the tense silence that blanketed the forest was suddenly broken by a distant bellow, as from a big deer. A ruffle of feathers and wings startled them then, as a murder of crows came flying and cawing under the canopy and disappeared behind them, deeper into the forest.

“Carrion?” Halbarad grunted, as he fought to ease some weight off his captain.

“To the south,” Aragorn confirmed, resuming their halting progress. “And a large piece, since the hawks are after it as well, it seems, or else why would the crows be flying so low?”

“I don’t want to know. I’d much prefer to find the path –and that wagon- even if the Southron keeps thinking that we are ghosts…and a single one as well,” his friend grunted and chuckled despite the pain. “We might be able to convince them that we are not spirits, do you think?”

Aragon snorted. “Whatever was chasing the Southron was not a hooded rider, nor a ghost. It was more likely a large squirrel…or a stray warg cub. I heard the thing hiss but I failed to catch it at dawn, while you were following the man… Do not fret. I suspect there were dwarves in that wagon. Dwarves are not afraid of such things as ghosts or spirits. They do not dig for mithril, after all…”

                                                                                   ~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Coming from the West.

“You heard that? It came from the east.” Without being told, Mallereg’s mare stopped and turned her beautiful head, her ears twitching and turning in alert. Thalaûr sighed.

“You cannot possibly tell a white deer from a hart just by their bellowing,” he groaned warningly.

“Of course not,” his charge chuckled. “But bucks tend to gather together in large clearings in this season, as you well know, to knock themselves into deciding who is the next king of the forest... so it would not be foolish to think that where a deer bellows others are to be found, perhaps even a large white one… Let us go faster, I cannot make sense of the trees here…”

“Isn’t that worrying?”

Mallereg shrugged, urging his mare on to a brisk trot. “The trees are worried. They sing of trouble in the south, more deeply than usual, so we know that things are still bad down there, since the echo reaches us here…They are disturbed by the many burning spider carcasses, but no word about uncontrolled fires as far as I can discern.”

“Thankfully,” Thalaûr interrupted, “Or else Pador would have your hide for putting his trees to fire imprudently!”  

“And you would have to protect me from the Warden’s wrath,” his charge reminded him playfully. “Also, there are still some spiders at large, but they are being more careful and their scent doesn’t reach the trees here, that’s why I assume that it would be safe if we stop craning our necks and allow our mares a gallop…But there is still that strange rumor that I cannot identify about some very strange hunter... It comes from the east too, so all in all, moving ahead is our best course… Have I convinced you?”

“Absolutely, my lord,” Thalaûr answered with a half-mocking bow, urging his mount to side up with the prince’s. “You’ve made up such a convincing case that were we to run into that white deer with the fabulous rack of antlers, I could not honestly say that you were pursuing your personal interests…”

His charge cast him a strange glance and then looked ahead. “Don’t you think that Lendiell would look beautiful in a cloak and gown hemmed with white deer fur?” he asked seriously. That rang sleeping alarms in Thalaûr’s head.

“My daughter looks beautiful even in rags,” he stated woodenly, and then felt the urge to bang his head against a passing branch at the knowing, teasing glance in the prince’s eyes.

“Granted.”

They rode in silence after that, with Thalaûr boiling and his charge cruelly ignoring him. The forest was too dense to allow them a full gallop, but still they were making a good pace. Suddenly, Mallereg pointed to his right and his mare slowed down obediently and doubled back towards a copse of pine trees. The sweet smell of sap was intense there, Thalaûr noticed. “See, a large deer passed this way not long ago!” the prince announced, pointing at the still bleeding scratches on a trunk and a piece of antler pressed into the ground by a large hoof.  “We might be close to the place where they are holding their antler-clashing match,” he guessed with sparkling eyes. “Wouldn’t that be fortunate? With just one of these large bucks we could have presents for everyone… What are you doing? I saw it first!”

Thalaûr had dismounted and squatted beside the hoof print. Then he had pocketed the piece of antler with an impish grin. “It will make a beautiful knife hilt,” he observed. “Why! You have set your eyes on a fourteen point antler, what use could you possibly have for this poor substitute? And what is so special about this Narbeleth festival that you are so intent on bringing presents to everybody?”

Mallereg shrugged and pulled out an innocent expression, as convincing to Thalaûr’s suspicious eyes as a wolf pretending to strike up casual conversation would be to a rabbit’s. “It is the custom, to bring presents from the forest before it goes to the deep winter slumber, isn’t it?”

“But I have never before seen you so devoted to fulfilling a tradition… And Legolas’ daughter insisted that we should all be home for the last festival… What is this all about?” Thalaûr firmly hoped that his voice did not sound whiny. He had been troubled since rumors that some important announcement would be made in the last Narbeleth festival of the season spread among the patrols. But Mallereg seemed oblivious of his doubts and worries. Perversely oblivious, come to think of it.

“You should ask Sûlgalen, I hear she is in charge of the preparations,” he shrugged again most annoyingly, patting his mare’s neck and murmuring something into her twitching ears. Thalaûr groped for the remnants of his authority.

“Anything that I should know in advance, Mallereg?” he thundered. Uselessly, for his charge gave him a mischievous, smug glance.

“Not for now, Thalaûr, not for now. I race you to the path!” the vexing prince shouted then, at the same time nudging his mare onwards and laughing as he sped recklessly among the tightly packed trees.

                                                                                      ~*~  ~*~  ~*~

In the clearing.

When the Southron ended his tale a heavy silence hung over the makeshift camp. Only the occasional snort of the ponies and the merry crackle of the flames could be heard for some time. In his halted Common, the man had woven an almost incredible story for them. Even Grerin, who had the looks of a dwarf who had travelled far and seen many things -and not wholly believed all of them-seemed unsettled.

“Soul-eating ghosts?” he wondered, and cast an involuntary glance to the quiet trees at their backs. Borin gulped down from their mithril-inlaid leather flask which contained, Bilbo knew, a belly-warming, strong liquor.

“Elves,” the Southron supplied darkly. “Undead. Eat your soul to continue undead, our sand-gazer says...”

“Undead? They did not seem undead at all to me when they collected the toll,” Borin chuckled. Grerin nodded vigorously in assent.

“Indeed. They are immortal, that’s what they are. Undead can be a bad translation… and I assure you that they are goldsuckers, not bloodsuckers!”

“And what about that murderous squirrel you mentioned? Was it in league with the riders? How did it escape the spiders? How big was it?” Bilbo chimed in curiously while the dwarves laughed at their own joke.

“Squirrel large…” the Southron cast an appraising glance at the dwarves and then pointed at Bilbo. “Size like you,” he said, and there was such certainty in his voice that the two dwarves stopped laughing and cast incredulous glances at them.

“Black-hooded riders that utter blood-freezing screeches, undead, blood-drinking elves and now murderous giant squirrels? Perhaps it was a Halfling what ate your friend?” Grerin laughed, elbowing his companion and passing around the leather flask. “Try this, Sámid,” he urged the man good-naturedly, “and perhaps we will all see those awful creatures of yours before dawn!” he chuckled, and then shook his head and drank again after the man refused politely but firmly.

“No… not Halfling, I think,” the Southron finally pronounced and then fell into a brooding silence.

Feeling his intense, still dubious look fixed on him, Bilbo shivered as a memory hit him. According to Gandalf, Gollum had almost assuredly been descended from a long-lost Stoor ancestry, perhaps a group that had never left the banks of the Great River. Could it be that there were others like him, corrupted by darkness, dwelling deep in Mirkwood, stalking small animals and hiding from spiders or even stealing their prizes? It was too terrible to contemplate, so he shook himself and cast a curious glance at the man, who still studied him with deep interest. “What were you doing in Mirkwood? Did you find spiders?” he asked.

It was almost imperceptible, but the man first cast a quick glance to his pack, safe by his side, then hastened to shake his head, avoiding Bilbo’s searching glance. “No spiders. Heard rumors, but no spiders!” And with that he shrouded himself in a glum silence, while Grerin picked up the thread and started recounting horrifying tales about the spider nests he had once met in his travels, and how Balin had once told him about being caught in one of those webbings when he was escorting Thorin, and how Bilbo had saved them all from ending up as spiders midday and nighttime meal.

“I have never seen one of those awful creatures myself, and I don’t rue it,” Grerin stated at last, stretching his arms and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I am glad it is your turn for first watch, Master Baggins; it is said that you know all about those leggy creatures. Keep that elven blade of yours at hand. I do not like how the forest feels tonight,” he warned, much to Bilbo’s surprise. “Come, Sámid, help us unload the wagon!”  

Perhaps it was the stories what made Grerin nervous, Bilbo told himself as the Southron helped the dwarves unload some of the barrels and crates to make room for their rolls and blankets. The unloading proceeded with much grunting, cursing and complaining, since the load was heavy, until one of the barrels almost rolled down from the wagon and its lid slipped open and the load was almost scattered.

Silent, fast work ensued amidst storm-charged glares.

The forest did look unfriendly that night, Bilbo thought as he hastened to put some distance between himself and the tense dwarves and took a tentative turn of their small camp, looking for the best place to stand his watch. All considered, he was grateful that they were still some twenty paces from the closest thicket of trees, and the path was close at hand. Unable to find a better auspicious-looking place, he sat again by the fire and tightened the cloak around his body, shivering in the cold night wind. Surely adventures outweigh comfort, he thought unhappily, except when one is an old tired hobbit or a cat.

“Elven? From the Doomed?”

The soft, halted voice of the Southron brought him from his musings. Once done with their customary squabbling about their preferred sleeping places, the dwarves had gone to sleep almost immediately, and Sámid was studying the ornate sheath of Sting -which he had carelessly left beside him because it hindered his movements- with open curiosity. Bilbo shook his head and loosened the elven blade in its scabbard. “Not doomed. Elves means people of the stars; they are not doomed…Look,” he said, offering it to the man’s inspection. To his surprise, the man recoiled with a hiss. He smiled uneasily at Bilbo’s reassuring gesture and extended a cautious hand. 

“Powerful magic here,” he said at last, barely touching the hilt.

“Good magic,” Bilbo agreed, unsheathing it a few inches so he could check the telltale glimmer that spoke of enemies. “It shines when orcs are at hand…”

“Orcs? Mean ogres? Undead?”

Bilbo rolled his eyes and shook his head and soon they embarked in an animated discussion of myths and tales from the east and the west.

“The forest big and dark. Could hide anything. Something killed my friend and drank his blood,” the man sentenced, still convinced, despite Bilbo’s explanations, that Mirkwood of course harboured screeching dead riders, undead ogre-elves with two faces and definitely worst things. “Dark things hide from the stars!” he added softly, casting a wistful look to the clouded sky.

“Don’t you have trees in your lands?”

“Few. Scattered. The Haradrim ride openly under the sky, have nothing to hide…The wide horizon is ours. You can ride undisturbed for days without end, and hunt with the desert hawk and drink in the hidden springs…”

Despite his present misgivings towards horses, wagons and long trips, Bilbo could not help being moved by the emotion that beat in the man’s words. A sudden longing for those distant, new lands as pictured by the Southron gripped him. He shook the longing off firmly and then turned his curiosity to more practical matters.

“So what are you doing here in Mirkwood, so far from your homeland?”

The man cast him a long, thoughtful glance and then turned his eyes to the fire. With a sigh, he shrugged and nodded towards his pack. “My bride-price,” he confessed with a bashful smile. At Bilbo’s puzzled expression he chuckled. “Medicine. Our sand-gazer says medicine for wounds in dark forest, make us immortal, he says. But forest very dangerous, elves… the doomed, will chase us and drink our souls… No one dares come, but Sámid had to…” a brief smile softened his features and only then Bilbo noticed that he was very young. “She is very beautiful,” he continued. “Worth a hundred horses and five white camels and more. Sámid poor, but the Blue Wizard said he gives riches and honors…”

“The Blue Wizard?”

“The sand-gazer, the one who ties and unties the future…He is powerful and wise, and knows what is hidden. Medicine will make Haradrim  stronger…and Sámid will be rich,” he added with a wide, confident smile that made Bilbo grin in understanding.

“So what kind of herb is there?” he asked, pointing at the man’s pack, remembering how it had struggled and twisted. The man’s face closed immediately.

“No herb.” He cast worried glances around and then seemed to make up his mind. sighed. “I’ll show you,” he said then in a whisper, handling the pack with utmost care. Fighting dread and curiosity, Bilbo craned his neck while trying to keep himself at safe distance of what might be in there, as the Southron carefully untied the bow string that tightened the pack.

“Ready?”

Bilbo nodded in expectation.

“Well-met, travelers in the Greenwood.” A deep voice blew not ten paces behind them, frightening them out of their wits. With a swift move he would have sworn himself incapable of performing, Bilbo found himself standing up with Sting in his hands, unfortunately still in its sheath, facing the intruders, while Sámid jumped backwards and out of his sight. He relaxed almost immediately as he met two pairs of starlit eyes that could only belong to a couple of elves. Then heard the stomping and whinnying of the ponies, almost as if they greeted strangers as well.

“Well met, fair folk!” he greeted, trying to distinguish the beautiful faces under the hoods and dropping the heavy sword with relief. “Come share our fire for the night. What…?” but he could not finish his question.

Metal scrapped against leather as a blade was unsheathed.

In answer, yew creaked softly as, faster than the eye, two bows were drawn and trained in his direction.

He turned slowly to see the Southron wielding his curved blade towards the newcomers, fear and decision warring for the upper hand on his face. Slowly, Bilbo took two steps to stand between him and the elven arrows.

“Stay away, Master Halfling,” a stern voice said not unkindly.

“Lower your sword!” another commanded, harsher than Bilbo had ever heard and elven voice sound. He turned again to the Southron and extended his hands pleadingly.

“They are friends, Sámid, you can sheathe your sword…”

“Elves! They are ogres!” the man grunted through clenched teeth, casting dark glances at the two intruders who had silently changed their positions and now had him under threat from two different angles. He pointed his blade at them alternatively and then looked at Bilbo, who by now was at a loss as to how to get out of this situation. The two elves exchanged quick glances and one of them shrugged.

“I am Mallereg, captain of the Southern Patrol of the Woodland Realm, and this is Thalaûr,” the other said. “Now state your name and your business quickly, and surrender your weapons in the name of the King… Yours are well-known and respected throughout the Greenwood, Master Baggins,” the elf stopped him with an amused chuckle as Bilbo readied to introduce himself. He bowed courteously in return. The name of the king’s grandson was also known to him.

“Well met again, Lord Captain,” he said nervously. “As for my company, let me explain…”

“Master Grerin from the Kingdom Under the Mountain. We already paid our fee, Elf, what does this mean? Sámid, careful with that barrel!” a grumpy, harsh voice came from the wagon. As he drew back cautiously step by step, the Southron had hit against one of the barrels and the lid had again slid open and fell to the ground, Bilbo noticed. That sound must have awakened the dwarves, he surmised, whom would have, otherwise, slept peacefully through their ordeal.

“It is us who make the questions here, Master Dwarf,” the other elf snapped. To their credit, the two elves had not even started as the voice came from their backs. The captain continued facing the Southron while the other turned to train his arrow towards the wagon. “Who else is there?”

“They are elves, Sámid!” Borin chuckled, standing behind Grerin. “Beware they don’t eat you alive! Master Borin at your service, Master Elf...”

“Let me explain, Lord Captain,” Bilbo pleaded, fearing that the two elves were close to losing their patience. “Better, would you please just turn around and show your back to us?”

“Mallereg…” the other elf grunted warningly. But the king’s grandson was curious.

“Why would I do that, Master Bilbo?”

“To show your back teeth, of course!” Borin chuckled with untimely glee. “Umpfff!” he said then, surely painfully and efficiently warned by his elder companion to keep his mouth shut, Bilbo thought in relief. He pulled on his most matter-of-factly expression and pointed at the tense Southron.

“Sámid here comes from the South, and they have legends there about two-mouthed forest ogres who eat the souls of incautious travelers after drinking their blood…and he fears you might be one of those…”

The two elves exchanged wary glances.

“What part of the south, Man? You do not look like the men of Gondor or Rhûn…” the one called Thalaûr asked abruptly, forgetting the dwarves and turning his keen attention on the Southron, who still wielded his short curved blade.

“Wait, Thalaûr,” the king’s grandson said. “We are wood-elves, Sámid,” he explained seriously, lowering his bow. “We do not stand strangers in the forest gladly, but we do them no harm, except if they are creatures of darkness that we fight to keep at bay…”

“Indeed,” Grerin snorted to one in particular. “That is why we had to forsake the Old Forest Road and pay a toll to the clever Woodland King to use his Elf Path…Ask him about your safe forest!”

“Keep your tongue, Master Dwarf, or I will take it as a present to our King!”

“Peace, Thalaûr. Cover me.” With sudden decision, Mallereg put away his arrow, shouldered his bow and then pulled back his hood. Amidst a tense silence, he slowly turned his back to Bilbo and Sámid. Bilbo bent to pick up a stick form the fire and handed it to the Southron, so he could have a better look at the elf’s back. The light of the torch tinged red the golden braids as the elf pulled them from his neck to show the back of his head to the Man. “Satisfied?” he asked, fixing Sámid in a stern, unwavering glance. For all answer Sámid sheathed his blade. Bilbo sighed in relief.

“Come take a seat, masters…”

“Now tell us when and where you entered the Greenwood. It stands from the dwarf’s words that you did not come here together…” Thalaûr prompted sternly, still studying the Southron through narrowed eyes while the captain took seat by the fire and nodded to Bilbo to do the same. Still suspicious, Sámid remained where he was.

“Wish I had met him sooner!” Grerin blurted angrily as he climbed down the wagon and approached the fire, followed by Borin. “I would have then refuse to pay that outrageous fare your king has set, pretending that the crossing is safe! What a theft! But you know how elves are,” he continued, unawares of the thunderous expressions on both elves’ faces.

“We are wild and quick to anger,” the captain whispered angrily. “Now, master dwarf, stop insulting my king and tell me exactly what problems you encountered on your trip through the Greenwood,” he added in a dangerously soft voice.

“Where to begin?” Grerin sighed dramatically, taking seat at the other side of the fire and as far from the now openly angry captain as he could.

“Spiders, perhaps?” Thalaûr pointed out merrily. Again Bilbo caught the minute start that shook Sámid, and how he unconsciously patted his pack.

“If only!” Grerin chose whining. “To believe this poor man, spiders are the less dangerous creatures that infest Mirkwood,” he began, intentionally using the name that everyone except the brave wood elves had long ago bestowed on former Lasgalen. Bilbo winced at the sad look that crossed the captain’s eyes.

“He says he’s met dark riders that spread a wave of terror upon all creatures,” he began in his best storytelling voice. “That was around the Old Forest Road if I am not mistaken,” he added, casting a quick glance at Sámid for confirmation. “Then a large, four-legged bloodsucker that killed his companion and drank his blood…”

“Hence the ogres?” Thalaûr interrupted, then tilted his head sharply and exchanged a quick glance with his captain, who nodded briefly.

“Continue, Master Bilbo,” the captain said kindly as Thalaûr left his side and slid silently as a shadow towards the path.

“He met the ogre later, he said, as he ran from the bloodsucker… it was standing by a creek and turned his back face to him.. and started chasing him… he managed to bury it under a pile of rocks, but still the creature released itself and chased him to the road, where we picked him up…”

“Can you describe said ogre? I wouldn’t want to learn that you attacked one of my warriors,” Mallereg then addressed the man, but Bilbo could tell that his attention was focused on the shadows towards the path.

“That would be us, I fear,” a tired voice stated from their backs. Startled, all except the elf stood up and searched for their weapons, then released them. Thalaûr appeared in the circle of light cast by their fire escorting two tall men with long flowing dark hair and pale faces. One of them was wounded, and leaned heavily on the other. But for the bandages around the chest and right arm of one of them, the two would have been as undistinguishable as twins in Bilbo’s eyes.

“I thought you were headed to Rhosgobel,” the captain began, amusement bubbling under his apparently serious tone. Just then Sámid lost it.

“Djinn!” the Southron shouted, wielding his torch to the newcomers and looking around for an escape. “The two-bodied djinn!”

“Calm down, Sámid!”

“They are men, and they are our guests!”

“He took us for ghosts… Restrain him till he calms down…”

“Watch out, crazy Southron! My barrel! Nooooo!”

Panicked, the Southron stepped back blindly and stumbled against the open barrel. Waving madly to prevent a fall, he lost his torch into the loaded cask.

Bilbo heard a hiss, and a well known, pungent smell hit his nose a moment before the sky of Mirkwood turned into day.

“My fireworks!” Grerin moaned as thousands of new stars burst and crackled open oven before their heads in a mighty din. “What have you done!”

“Fireworks! Better than the dragon! I bet they can see this from the stronghold!” he heard the captain said in an awed, amused voice.

“Mallereg…”

The warning in Thalaûr’s hiss caught Bilbo’s attention.

“Tauron help us!” the captain said, quickly unslinging his bow. Behind Bilbo, the two men who had so frightened the Southron unsheathed their blades.

“Under the wagon, Master Bilbo,” the captain whispered, signaling the positions without taking his eyes from the closest thicket of trees. There, shrunk into hairy black balls, their long legs hidden under their bodies, dozens of spiders watched them in tense, frightened expectation, paralyzed by the changing light and the sounds of the fireworks. For a moment the clearing stood as if frozen, and then hell broke loose.

TBC

A/N Regarding the references to folkloric mythical creatures I am using in this tale, I’m not making use of vampires in the Hollywoodian sense here, but rather referring to that phenomenon in popular –mainly rural- cultures of explaining strange happenings through magic and mystery and legends and fables.

So we are dealing here with the way Men in Esgaroth and Dale would construct their own common knowledge about the ominous dark forest drawing from their experiences, traditions, superstitions and old tales.

In a world in which there are orcs, wargs, shape-shifters as Beorn, trolls of the caverns, the Old Man Willow and the River Daughter, krakens and a Balrog in Moria, the Nazgul and their winged steeds, large, talking spiders, dragons and talking eagles, the sudden appearance of an unknown predator that attacked cattle or people and drank their blood would no doubt cause frightened peasants to create an explanation about such creature. So bloodsucker here is used in a very wide sense, meaning any blood-drinking creature that is attacking indiscriminately and in a frenzy, perhaps for magical reasons, but not necessarily a bat or a vampire.

The tale of immortal, soul-consuming spirits could perfectly derive from the oldest tales from the First Age about elves captured by Morgoth and then released when broken and tied to his will, to wander the lands forever as ghosts of themselves. Mix these tales with those about the Houseless Ones, both of which would have come to men’s ears completely distorted by ages and the superficial knowledge of non elven sources, and you have a very frightening background explanation for a tale of wandering, malicious spirits hiding forever in dark Mirkwood and attacking unwitting travelers.

The myth of two-faced, man-eating ogres is found in many cultures, from Europe to Africa to the Amazonian rainforest to the Omaha Indians, to cite a few. Since I found that, I had been dying to use that image in a story about intercultural traditions in Mirkwood. 

Twins are seen either as portenders of either good or evil, depending on the cultures.

Regarding dryads, as mentioned by Radagast…  Well, I am taking advantage of Tolkien’s own slip of the pen, when describing Ithilien he compares the disheveled look of the beautiful garden of Gondor wit a dryad’s wild hair. So if that comparison was acceptable in his canon, it would mean that there were such mythological creatures –or such processes of myth creation or absorption of foreign myths- in the folk-lore of those lands.

I also made use of this type of mythical creation by popular tale telling versus truth in the story of Gildor in “Do not Meddle...”

And since I am at it, I should say that the inspiration came from reading DrummerWench’s wonderful adaptations of traditional northwestern European fairy tales to Middle-earth, here at SoA.

Many thanks to Redheredh and Dot for pointing about this in their reviews and allowing me to put forth one of my obnoxious author’s notes. It was some time! J

Chapter 3. The Old That Is Strong Does Not Wither.            

Arrows rained down like hailstones.  

And from the wrong side too, Bilbo noticed in surprise as he awaited the onslaught with feet slightly apart, Sting tightly gripped in clammy hands. Under the dying light of the fireworks he could see spiders dropping from the trees to their left, hitting the ground like large, ripened fruits. The unexpected carnage was decimating the spiders on the trees, and causing a panicked, riotous flight to the forest floor.

Which was most fortunate, since otherwise it would have been very dangerous for their two elven archers to try and force them to the ground on their own, Bilbo thought as he wielded his blade, keeping a nasty creature at bay. All around him the fighting spread, as spiders poured down from the trees and were welcomed by elven, dwarven, Southron or newcomers’ blades, all joined into the slaughtering on unspoken accord and, for the time being, untroubled by whence those timely arrows had come.

The Shire! he cried, pushing Sting into the approaching creature with a bold move.

Which proved insufficient. With more strength than he had anticipated, or perhaps carried away by its own speed, the spider continued its skittering motion, pushing Bilbo backwards with irresistible force.

“There!” A long blade pierced the spider’s side and stopped its advance. “Watch out, little master, the ichors will give you a nasty rash!”

Looking up in relief Bilbo saw the pale face of the wounded man, who wielded his blade awkwardly with his left hand but still with deadly accuracy.  “My thanks,” he managed to gasp while he struggled to dislodge Sting from the hairy body. He saw then warning on the man’s face as he again lifted his sword, and he turned around quickly, to face a rushing hairy ball empty-handed.

“Under the wagon, Halfling! Cover!” Sámid gasped as he surged behind the spider and slashed it open with an up thrust.

 “A Halfling? Here?” the wounded man rasped, squinting to gain a better sight in the dwindling, multicolored light. “Let me!” he urged, putting his blade under his wounded arm –which he had freed from a makeshift sling- and pulling Sting effortlessly from the dead spider. “Move!” he shouted then, pushing Bilbo aside with his body and sending Sting into another approaching creature.

“Halbarad! Torches!” the other tall man shouted as he danced around two large ones, looking around frantically as the light died out. His voice thundered over the fireworks in the otherwise strangely silent battlefield.

“Help me, Halfling!” the wounded man commanded. Forgetting his blade, Bilbo scrambled after the wounded man’s tall shape to the fire, keeping an eye on the dark forms of the spiders that scurried everywhere around him and the nimble, agile figures jumping from the trees, blades glistening red, after them.

“More elves?” he wondered, and stopped on his tracks mesmerized by the skilled swings and cuts of their angry blades.

“Light, Master Bilbo!” Grerin called out, sounding urgent.

Forget the elves, Bilbo! he berated himself, hurrying to their fire. He picked up a flaming branch and looked around wildly for the owner of the strained voice.  

And found him. Grerin was playing hide and seek behind one of his barrels, chased by a particularly big spider. With the silent, light feet of his kin, Bilbo tried to circle around the creature to gain its back, only to find himself suddenly faced with the creature’s undivided attention. He had never suspected that spiders could jump like that! Fazed by this unexpected development, he hesitated for the blink of an eye. Then his Took side awoke and, without thinking, he plunged the fiery branch into the creature’s many eyes and jumped back. The spider skittered and scurried and skipped sideways, until a well-aimed axe blow ended its dance.

“Not so close to my barrels!” the dwarf grunted, wiping sweat from his forehead while all around them the fighting peaked and the fireworks died out. The spider had caught fire and now flamed merrily, casting an uncanny glow on the battlefield.

“More fireworks?” Bilbo chuckled, as he checked the field for his blade.

“Pork fat. Hold on, Borin, I’m coming!”

Exhausted by his surge of warlike spirit, Bilbo decided to leave the dwarf to help his kinsman and chose a safer course. The wounded man was again engaged in spider-killing and no one had given more thought to lighting up the battlefield, if only to see how many enemies were left. So he took the task upon himself. Picking up flaming branches and sticks, he spiked them to the ground in a wide circle around the fire but still apart from the combatants, who now faced a new threat. A fresh wave of spiders, just arrived from deeper in the forest, watched them from the tree tops. To Bilbo it suddenly seemed as if they were pondering how to reach the path while avoiding the ranks of warriors that were arranged before them.

“Well, I can now take a seat,” Bilbo told himself in relief, retreating to the other side of the clearing to the path, behind the line of fighters. The bows sang again, and the first crop fell from the trees. He counted at least eight archers now, fanned before the dwarves and the newcomer, who wielded their irons with careless ease. “What use do so many powerful warriors have for a Halfling’s trembling hand? I might as well start looking for our ponies!” he sighed, scanning the darkness towards the path and the forest half-heartedly as the battle regained its frantic rhythm.

“Your knife, master Halfling,” the other Man, the wounded one, half called and half gasped, waving to him. He was sitting on the ground, also well behind the line of fight, with his sword on his knees and his wounded arm nursed against his chest.

“Apparently I am not the only one who thinks himself useless now,” he said cheerfully. He picked his way carefully among the foul-smelling corpses, which resembled small mounds in the flickering light. “Where is Sámid?” he wondered as he reached the man’s side and bent to pick up his dagger from the ground.

Even as he asked, he felt -rather than saw- movement from the corner of his eye. A spider he had deemed dead suddenly stood on its spindly legs and scuttled angrily towards the unsuspecting man. Instinct took over again, and without thinking Bilbo reached for the man’s sword, somehow managed to lift it without beheading him, and succeeded in landing it on the spider’s hard-to-miss large body.

“Watch out!” he managed at last, tossed this way and that and dragged by the spider’s death dance. Even as he clung to the sword and struggled to wrench it from the spider’s body, he saw two more creatures that had managed to circle the ranks of warriors and now scuttled towards them – or perhaps the path- in panic. “Watch out!” he cried again, seeing that the wounded man had finally succumbed to pain and now lay flat on the ground.

“Halbarad!” he panicked, remembering the name he had heard the other man shout. Pressing with both feet against the unpleasantly soft body of the spider he managed to yank the sword free. Unbalanced, he fell backwards and rolled clumsily, entangling himself in the folds of his cloak and impeded by the cumbersome blade he was not about to drop.  

“Little-one…” one of the approaching creatures hissed almost mournfully.

Bilbo froze. He had forgotten the unnatural sound of those raspy, hairy voices. “Sámid!” he cried in relief, seeing the Southron running their way. Sweeping with his curved short sword, the man cleared a path for himself that sent the spiders closer to the lying man, who stirred feebly and groped for his sword blindly, snatching Sting instead.

“Sámid!” Bilbo cried now in outrage as the Southron ran away without looking back. With a last effort, Bilbo stood to his feet and swung the blade on a flat arc that managed to cut three legs from the closest spider.  Allowing himself to be carried away by the weight of the sword, Bilbo spun on his heels. The man grunted and gasped laboriously behind him. When he came again to face the spider, Bilbo took advantage of his impulse to raise the blade and then let it fall with all his might against the creature, slicing it up neatly.  Dragged by his drive, he fell to his knees and then let go of the blade and tried to roll away, but was not fast enough to avoid the spider’s body collapsing on him.

Just as he struggled to crawl from under the dead creature while keeping an eye out for the second spider -which had been approaching Halbarad- he heard a wild cry and saw a flash of white crashing from among the trees towards him and something large stomped past him. When he opened his eyes again, he noticed a pair of bright, wild-looking eyes in a balding skull spying from the undergrowth beyond.   

“Halfling!”  It was the wounded man, somewhere above him. Weakly now, he tried to drag himself from under the undead, hairy, sticky, exceedingly legged weight, sure that Halbarad needed his help. As he struggled, he again met the eyes of the creature hiding by the trees some thirty paces from him, the light of the torches sparkling strangely on a pale, sunken face. As the creature fixed him in a glare and then ran away with an angry hiss, Bilbo’s hand closed tightly on something smooth and cold.

“But that was in Gollum’s cave,” he murmured, as darkness and exhaustion crept upon him. “When I found the ring…”

Naur! Naur dan I ungolhoth!

The voices roared mightily over the silvery, hurried Sindarin commands and the more earth-bound dwarven curses, but Bilbo heard them all in the distance. He saw the flash of white, blinding light as he drifted away and then something heavy fell on him and he knew no more.

                                                                                                          ~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Unlikely as it might have seemed –after all, the Southern Patrol was supposed to patrol the southern reaches- Legolas had somehow expected to find his eldest nephew caught up in whatever was happening in the forest that involved fireworks. As soon as the first sparks and coloured stars appeared in the autumn sky, he barked an annoyed command for his patrol to move on in all haste.

But he was not prepared to find him, attended only by his guard, standing on the ground and facing what at first glance looked like a cloud of at least two dozen spiders tightly packed on a small grove that ended right over Mallereg’s head.  The odds were so uneven that for a brief moment he told himself this was just a ruse intended to lure the spiders into the clearing. A worried shake of Penalag’s head confirmed what he had feared. His adventuresome nephew had managed to step into that dangerous situation on his own.

Even in his state of utter bewilderment he noticed approvingly how his warriors had spread in a long line, the better to reach the vanguard and rearguard of the colony with their arrows at the same time. That way they expected to create enough confusion to give Mallereg and Thalaûr time enough to unsheathe before the spiders at the front poured into the ground in panic. He nodded grimly. Under the unsteady light and thunder of fireworks both sides seemed mesmerized, but the enchantment would not last long, and then those on the ground would get the worst part.

The first volley flew away even before he had lowered his hand completely. Then came a second, and a third; all followed by the satisfying dull sound of plump bodies hitting the ground. Out of practice, half of the patrol followed him to the ground after just the barest signal, while the rest jumped to the trees closest to the spiders and scanned the thicket before dropping from the opposite side and effectively encircling the creatures. As he hacked and plunged and thrust and slashed, Legolas tried to keep an eye on his nephew and his assorted company, mulling an irritation that had multiple sources.

“Spiders this north!” he groaned as he looked for more creatures. “And he on his own…Watch out, Thalaûr!” he warned.

A timely shot by one of his warriors finished the creature that loomed over Mallereg’s guard. Grunting in exasperation, Legolas turned to the task at hand. “As soon as Bôrgalas hears of this he will post Mallereg to guard the river…from the trap door inside the cellars,” he muttered with mean relish, cutting viciously at a spider that was harassing a dwarf while savouring the thought of his brother’s wrath quenching Mallereg’s recklessness for an ennin or two. “Master Dwarf,” he acknowledged guiltily with a quick dip of his chin, wincing at the contemptuous glance the dwarf managed to throw him before turning his back on him to engage another creature.

“Halbarad, torches!” he heard one of the men shout in Common. “Rangers,” he hoped, remembering the troubling account of unnumbered strangers roaming the Greenwood that Penalag had brought with him.

Legolas cast a look around. The fireworks dwindled out slowly, and in the diminishing light he thought he glimpsed an onrush across the farthest trees. He crossed the clearing then, taking out two fleeing spiders as he went, to position himself as far from the wagon and the fire as he could, to avoid being blinded by the flames. When he found a suitable spot he sheathed his long knives and waited, bow aimed at the trees, while all around him his patrol disposed of the creatures with grim efficiency. “How on Arda did they all get here, and all around Mallereg?” he sighed, affronted as usual by his nephew’s ability to find trouble, or, worse, to allow trouble find him. “I will send him to Rhosgobel!” he decided, stepping back before an angry spider that had suddenly dropped before him. Lowering his bow and letting go of one of his favourite arrows, he fingered his long blades carefully, giving way before the spider slowly, luring it away from its comrades. “They are trying to escape!” he suddenly understood, noticing how the spider advanced cautiously instead of charging against an enemy that showed apparent weakness. “The Path, Penalag!” he called out to his second, even as he plunged his long knife into the creature and winced at the stench. “They are trying to reach the Path!”

“More coming, Captain!” another voice shouted, and before he could answer Mallereg started issuing commands.

“Spread out before them, we will shoot them down as they come! Legolas, watch out for strays!”

“When he is returned from Rhosgobel I will send him to watch the Northern border…winter, knee-deep into the Forest River,” he vowed under his breath, acknowledging the wisdom of his nephew’s strategy though annoyed that he dared take command of his patrol. Mulling revenge, he turned to scan the area as Mallereg had suggested, and then his heart jumped wildly to his throat.

The Halfling dangled from a sword hilt nailed to the body of a large spider, which stumbled around wildly. The wound was no doubt mortal, but the Halfling would not let go of the sword and called out in panic to the man, who had fallen to the ground, most probably bitten. Two more spiders scuttled towards them after breaching through Mallereg’s ranks, while others tried to follow.

“Watch your left flank, Mallereg!” he shouted in warning, slashing at two smaller ones that  tried to slid unnoticed through the unguarded gap. Thankfully, two of his warriors quickly rushed to protect that area and he was free to run into the Halfling’s aid.

“Sámid!” the Halfling was shouting. Legolas saw a third man, strangely dressed in dust-and-stone coloured clothes wielding a short curved blade and cutting a path towards the Halfling. Then the man suddenly changed course and charged wildly right towards the forest. Unexpectedly, he slashed at Legolas as he ran past him. Out of instinct he raised his long knife enough to turn the blade aside, so it only grazed his forearm. Without looking back the man disappeared into the forest. While Legolas debated whether running after him, he heard a strange hiss, a cry of panic and a mighty bellow. A large white deer charged past him out of the undergrowth and into the clearing, and with a single thrust of its mighty racket of antlers gutted the large spider that was attacking the wounded man. Shaking itself free of the spider, the stag raised its powerful head, scanned its surroundings and trotted away in search of more enemies.

Naur! Naur dan I ungolhoth!

Legolas heard the voices as he frantically scanned the ground for the Halfling. And then a new fire brightened the sky as two shinning figures entered the clearing and cast sparks of flaming white radiance at the less than dozen remaining spiders, which scuttled madly everywhere, trying to flee the elven blades and the flying sparks.

“So much for sending Mallereg to Rhosgobel,” he sighed as he recognized Radagast. He squatted then by the wounded, unconscious man and turned him gently around, while all around them the battle ended as it had started. In fire.

                                                                                        ~*~  ~*~  ~*~

Bilbo opened sticky eyelids to a grey patch of dawn. “When did I go to sleep?” he wondered aloud, shaking his head to put order in disjointed waves of strange images that assaulted him. It worked, as a wave of dizziness swept his mind clean of any thought. The sound of angry bickering puzzled him again soon, since he could not make out a word of what was being said.

“Easy, Master Halfling,” someone croaked to his side. Carefully this time, he turned his head slowly towards the voice.

“Master…Halbarad?” with the name, the bulk of memories returned to him clamoring. He frowned then, looking at two squabbling elves in the limit of his field of vision. “Was I hit on the head?”

The man followed his gaze and chuckled, then grunted in pain. “Your friend would have panicked again. Another double-bodied djinn indeed…” he gasped.

Not far from where he lay, Bilbo could see Mallereg chatting with his mirror image, or rather allowing himself to be thoroughly tongue-lashed by his reflection, while his companion, the one called Thalaûr, waited two steps behind him wearing an odd expression than suddenly reminded Bilbo of Otho’s when Lobelia got started on one of her favourite subjects.

“The young one is right, I think,” another voice chimed in. “Drink this, Master Halfling!”

Too befuddled to argue, Bilbo drank down gladly and then poured water over his head to get rid of the sticky filth that covered him. He returned the water skin to the second man with a grateful nod. “My thanks, master...”

“Aragorn,” the man said soberly. “I believe the spiders were fleeing our wizards and that was how they landed in your camp…”

“My thanks, Aragorn!” Mallereg called out in Westron in a slightly vexed voice, gesturing towards them. “That was exactly my point!”

“I do not recall asking for your opinions, Master Ranger,” the second elf put in icily, then returned to Sindarin to continue his tirade. Bilbo recognized then Thranduil’s youngest son and thought it wiser to remain silent. All of a sudden, the conversation had all the marks of a family argument rather than a military one.

“Do not meddle in the affairs of the House of Oropher, my foster father always says,” the man called Aragorn muttered, lowering his head and pretending to check Bilbo for wounds, while he struggled to hide his amusement. “Here is your blade, Master Halfling,” he said, handing Sting back to Bilbo. “A noble knife in brave hands…”

But something in the man’s previous words had caught his attention. “Wizards, you said?”

“Indeed, Bilbo, and well-met, although I thought you would be feasting in Imladris by now!” a warm, well-known voice greeted him.

“Gandalf! What are you doing here?”

“I could ask the same of you, my good friend, and not just of you!” the wizard chuckled, stepping into his field of vision and leaning forth to study him. He looked tired and careworn, bus his eyes twinkled in merriment. “But there is time for traveler’s tales while Aragorn here takes good care of your battered friend Halbarad,” he added, grasping Bilbo’s hand and pulling him to a sitting position. A memory hit Bilbo then, and he turned to the wounded man.

“You saved my life! From that last spider, didn’t you?”

The man chuckled and shrugged painfully while his companion inspected his bandages. “Since I apparently failed in crushing or suffocating you I think that yes, you could say that I saved you…but just to return you the favor. Those were mighty strokes with my blade, Master Halfling,” he added with a grateful nod. “Not bad for an old Halfling….or an old wizard, Mithrandir, that was most impressive...”

“The old that is strong does not wither,” Bilbo muttered while Mithrandir acknowledged the compliment with a friendly nod. “That doesn’t sound half bad,” he mused. “Where is Sámid?” he remembered then suddenly, scrambling to his feet to inspect their ruined camp.

A group of elves clad in green and brown were disposing of the carcasses, piling them up in the middle of the clearing, where they would surely burn them. The dwarves, helped by a man in brown rags that resembled Gandalf as if they were kinsmen, were slowly returning their load to the cart, sullen looks on their bearded faces.

“He ran away when we needed him most,” Halbarad grunted. “Ouch! If I wanted my arm yanked from its socket I would go looking for another Southron, Aragorn!”

“You said he took you for ghosts?” Bilbo asked.

“You heard him,” Aragorn explained in a calm, deep voice.  “He believed us to be a  two-bodied djin… We ran into him in the forest and thought he was a spy, so we chased him…But he panicked and tried to bury Halbarad under a pile of rocks… Then he ran into me and I cannot see why he thought I was Halbarad…”

“I am offended,” the wounded man snorted from the ground.

“... and he bolted, shouting nonsense about spirits and crying in panic…I am telling the tale, Halbarad…”

“He was frightened by legends about two-mouthed ogres and soul-eating, undead spirits that he heard in his homeland,” Bilbo chimed in, smiling in spite of his aches. So these were the men Sámid had ran into before he broke into the path crying that he was being chased by ghosts! He shook his head. “He told us all kinds of tales about horrible creatures, and then thought that Mallereg and his guard were ogres, and they had to show him the backs of their heads…well, Mallereg did. But he was not a spy, he was looking for a medicine…”

“That must have been a sight,” Aragorn chuckled, but Gandalf was more interested in what the Southron had been after.

“Medicine? What kind of medicine?”

Bilbo shrugged. He had quite liked the Southron, his quiet ways and longing for his lands and his beloved. He did not want to think that he had been a spy. “I don’t know. He kept it in his pack…He was about to show it to me when Mallereg and Thalaûr turned up…He said his people would grant him honors and the Blue Wizard would give him riches…” He saw the quick glance exchanged between Aragorn and Gandalf and was about to ask for an explanation when a beautiful voice interrupted him.

“I hope you are not wounded, Master Bilbo. I am deeply sorry that you ran into this incident!” Thranduil’s youngest son was before him, clutching at a bandaged right forearm. Mallereg and his guard had lost the argument, apparently, and had been dispatched to help the rest of the patrol with cleaning duty.

Bilbo bowed deeply. “It was not your fault, Lord Legolas. Although I suppose it will take you some time to convince Master Grerin of that.”

“Leave that to my talented nephew,” the elf grimaced. “But he must have been right about those spiders fleeing something….It is courteous of guests to inform the king about their presence in the Greenwood, Mithrandir.”

“We were hoping to run into one of Lord Mallereg’s patrols, but apparently they were too busy chasing spiders…”

“Spiders that were sent north by an unnamed threat, in such numbers as to overcome our lines. I will take your word that it was not one of your tricks what caused a stampede and sent spiders swarming into our realm,” the prince remarked dryly.

Mithrandir nodded mildly for all answer.

“We met Lord Mallereg and informed him of our intentions not five days ago…and he told us that the spiders had been stirred most probably by something around Dol Guldur, my lord,” the man called Aragorn hastened to explain respectfully. And no wonder, because the elf looked daunting now, Bilbo thought, his face unreadable as he studied them impassively.

“Yet you were about to leave the Greenwood without reporting your findings,” Legolas finally stated calmly. “Not that you have any new insight to share, we have long known that the Old Forest Road is lost, although some will not yield it gladly,” he finally sighed. “But those news about blood-drinking creatures and screeching riders frightening spiders, and Southrons roaming the woods, are all worrying enough. It is my wish that you come to the stronghold to inform the king, Mithrandir.”

“Radagast was going there when I ran into him. He has fresh news about the movements around Dol Guldur that he intended to discuss with Thranduil…”

“He also tells me that you inquired about a particularly strange creature, and made it sound important. I insist that these news should be conveyed to the king by yourself.”

Gandalf sighed and studied the two men for a while. Bilbo looked at them curiously. He could sense power there, of different kinds. But he was most intrigued by the men. They were obviously dour warriors, hardened in hundred battles, but there was more to them than that. Their guarded countenances and manners seemed to conceal some hidden power, like the one he at times had glimpsed in the wizard. He watched in silence as decisions were made with a quick glance or a slight nod.

“I think you are right, Legolas,” Gandalf finally admitted. “I will go. There are some things I need to tell the king about. And perhaps I can convince your brother that the Old Forest Road is definitely lost…”

“That feat is even beyond your powers, I fear,” the elf chuckled. “But you are welcome to try. What about you, Aragorn? Your friend would benefit from our hospitality…” It seemed to Bilbo that the man sought agreement with the wizard before answering.

“I have an urgent errand to the west, and I am already late, Legolas. Mithrandir will convey my apologies to the king, and you have already heard our tale: The dread  of Dol Guldur runs now freely as far north as the Mountains of Mirkwood. Those riders are most possibly clearing the way for orc-hosts to cross unmolested, since the Beornings are no longer capable of holding the passes safe… The situation is difficult, both sides of the Anduin, and it gets worse to the south. Tell Thranduil that he will have to strengthen his alliances with Dain and Bain, lest the Greenwood becomes completely isolated…”

“The King already knows that,” the elf said evenly. He pierced them with his clear, unwavering gaze for a brief while and then nodded his agreement. “I will send Maegolf to you, then. You are going to need herbs and bandages for your comrade, if he is to travel in that state…

“I am fit for travelling, thanks,” Halbarad grunted from the ground. “What happened to that white stag, Lord Legolas?” he asked then. “It saved my life.. and Master Bilbo’s.”

A sudden memory of a white flash charging past him hit Bilbo. He had seen that, hadn’t he? A white stag! And then he remembered too the wild face spying from the undergrowth, and the hissing and…On its own accord its hand moved into his pocket and fingered a smooth, cold piece of metal. His fingers had closed then on that, but it was not round. It was not a ring. And it had not been a dream, then. Should he tell them about the lurking creature? Legolas’ laughter dragged him from his confused thoughts.

“..And Lord Mallereg left his patrol to chase it, apparently,” he was saying. “I hope that the scouts I sent after the Southron may also find its tracks…”

“I would ask that his life was spared, since it saved ours,” Halbarad asked softly. The elf nodded in understanding.

“I will tell him that is your wish. I would like to hear more stories about two-mouthed ogres, Master Bilbo! Rest now, my friends, we will all be on our way by noon.”

Bilbo bowed low as the prince walked away and then turned to Gandalf.

“Who is the Blue Wizard?”

                                                                                          ~*~   ~*~   ~*~

“He is no longer a child, Legolas, and he is not a reckless, careless warrior but as capable and reliable a captain as yourself.”

Legolas scowled as he pushed a stinking carcass towards the pile. Had he been given a grey-owl feather every time he had heard Thalaûr complain about Mallereg’s excessive enthusiasm, or lack of precautions, he would be by now the proud owner of at least a dozen quivers full of the most silent arrows in the Woodland Realm.

But complaining was apparently a guard’s privilege.

And yet he surely owed an apology to Thalaûr. Questioning his judgment before Mallereg had not been a wise move. “I might have overreacted, Thalaûr,” he admitted and then chuckled at the dirty look his brother’s best friend shot him. “I did, I did! And I am sorry! But you must admit that the situation was grim!”

Thalaûr sighed and looked at the piled carcasses, as the warriors in Legolas’ patrol gathered wood and finished cleaning the battlefield. “They had not been there when we arrived, Legolas, so this meant that they were on the move…and unexpectedly ran into us. And they were paralyzed by the fireworks. They were fleeing. Even as they dropped down, they were trying to make for the path, you surely saw that. Had you not arrived…and forced them down on us,” he remarked wryly, “we might have got away with killing a few and moving away from them. We wouldn’t have engaged them all on our own! Our patrol is less than half a day to the West, we could have finished them safely later…”

Legolas shook his head and released a deep sigh. “I panicked,” he admitted. The guard chuckled and pointed at a last corpse at the edge of the clearing.

“So did I. Look. That one almost made it to the path! It is the last one in our side. But these spiders shouldn’t have been here,” he continued softly as they grabbed that last body. “We had been chasing and cleansing the area for five days! It was unpredictable, Legolas, as war at times is…”

“And we were fortunate. But how long will fortune hold?”

“Well, Mallereg seemed to think that white stag portended good omens for the Greenwood…Hold there, this one is very heavy…”

“You have to credit the young ones for their optimism…” Legolas scowled as they dragged the foul creature back to the pile. “We found a mutilated white fawn to the east. Some strange creature cut its throat open and drank its blood…and from what the Halfling said, the Southron claimed that his companion died the same way…”

“A two-mouthed ogre, perhaps?” Thalaûr snorted, as they reached the pile with their stinking burden.

“Aragorn says they saw strange tracks around the corpse of that Southron, and he glimpsed a strange creature by the river…And I do not like those stories about black riders and spiders frightened into our borders. We will need to go down there and see what is going on…Radagast’s news are not encouraging,” he added, noticing how Thalaûr had fell silent. He did not much like the idea of a scouting trip to the south either. “We will wait to burn them until they have vacated the clearing, Radagast!” he told the wizard. “I do not want the dwarves to claim that I smoked them out of the forest…” He winced when he noticed he had spoken in Westron.

“You need not push us, Master Elf,” the eldest dwarf retorted angrily. He was apparently busy checking his ponies, which had returned with dawn in a nonchalant trot, following the elven horses. Wise creatures, they had slipped away when the fighting started. Apparently, dwarves could pay attention to conversations not addressed to them while busy with other tasks, Legolas thought glumly. “We are eager to leave your dark woods as soon as possible!”

“The sooner the better, then. How is the ranger?” he called out to Maegolf, the healer in his patrol.

"In pain,” Maegolf reported. “But strong enough to take the trip. He…”

 “Good. Get ready then. Radagast and Mithrandir are going to the stronghold, choose someone to join you as an escort…the rest of us will accompany the wagon to the Forest Gate, to avoid more unpleasant encounters…”

 “Legolas…” his nephew walked up to him with a set look on his face.

 “Look around you, Mallereg. I happen to command the largest patrol here, so I give the orders….”

 “Scout coming!” someone called. Inwardly, Legolas thanked the timing, for he was spared the confrontation with his annoyed nephew. They all turned to greet the scout, who turned out to be Penalag. Emboldened by the audience, he dropped to the ground and crossed the clearing in his casual, flaunting stride, a bloodied pack on one hand and what looked like a large piece of deer antler over his shoulder. Even Mithrandir and the ranger abandoned they hushed conversation to have a look at the newcomer.

“Look, lad! The Southron’s prize!” he called out showing the pack to Mallereg, who could not drag his eyes from the antler.

“Where did you get that?”

“Why! The stag left it for us in the forest!” Legolas growled in warning and his friend turned his attention to him. “The Southron is gone. But he is wounded, and I think that the bloodsucker is after him. What a strange creature, Legolas! It hissed like a spider, and had claws as warg cub’s but then loped away jumping and scrambling like a large squirrel! I found its tracks here, and then after the Southron’s… Do you think they are in league?”

“That creature killed the Southron’s companion…”

“Then perhaps it was after the Southron’s pack. Anyway, I sent Labothal and Megorlas to track them.”

“And you found the antlers with the pack?” Mallereg could not drag his eyes from the rack, apparently. It was magnificent, apparently the whole left side of the creature’s crown. Penalag smiled and shrugged in mocking apology. It was a wonderful prize indeed, Legolas thought, seeing his nephew’s disappointed scowl. And then he remembered the white fawn they had burnt the day before who would never grow to boast such a crown. The whole forest was dying, being killed before their eyes, he sighed sadly, and there was little they could do.

“What is in the pack? He would not part from it even asleep,” the elder dwarf asked curiously. Looking around, Legolas noticed that Aragon, Mithrandir, Radagast and the Halfling all had come to hear Penalag’s report and were eyeing the pack in expectation.

“A medicine. Bilbo says the man claimed to be looking for a medicine.” Mithrandir said. “Let us see what it is that the Southrons are looking for in Mirkwood…Greenwood, I mean.”

“It was his bride-price,” Bilbo chimed in worriedly. “And how did he get wounded?” Apparently, the Halfling had got attached to the Southron, even if he had run away in the middle of the fight, Legolas thought in surprise.

“A bride-price?” Penalag asked. Legolas knew the glimmer in his friend’s eyes and smiled. These two were a good match at mischief making, and surely they all needed to release the lingering tension. “There is someone here who might make good use of a bride-pride, I think,” his friend chuckled maliciously. “Here, lad!” he added, tossing it to Mallereg. All their fellow warriors who were within earshot laughed and crowed good-naturedly, and Legolas almost choked in laughter at Thalaûr’s obvious frown. The rumour had reached even the Southern Patrol, it seemed.

“Perhaps we can exchange our prizes, Penalag,” Mallereg observed merrily as he carefully unpacked the parcel.

“Why should I, lad? I already have a wife!”

“Then perhaps whatever is in here will be more appropriate for a wife than a horned crown…Tauron!” his nephew cried, and dropped the pack angrily. Thinking it was part of the jesting, everybody chuckled except for Thalaûr, who hastened to kneel down to examine the contents of the pack.

“Did it bite you?” he asked tensely to his charge. Only then did Legolas notice that it was not a joke and squatted beside Thalaûr, immediately followed by the rest.

“By Elbereth, what is this?” he gasped. Two very young spiders twisted their legs weakly, trapped in a large cloud of webbing in which a ball of eggs was wrapped as well. Unsheathing his knife, he finished the two creatures quickly. Then, with extreme reluctance, he turned the parcel upside down and emptied its contents. Another soft ball of eggs fell to the ground. He lifted worried eyes to Mithrandir as those watching stepped back hurriedly in shared disgust. “Medicine?” he wondered.

“From the webbing?” Radagast pointed out. Everybody living in the Greenwood knew that spider webbing was even better than yarrow leaves for closing a bleeding wound, but it had never occurred to them to  breed spiders as domestic animals for their webbing. It was sheer folly.

“There is another possibility,” Penalag said slowly, as if dreading what he was about to say. “The Southrons use the venom in the sting of their little desert dragon to poison their blades…and also as part of the antidote…” He shrugged and refused to elaborate, but it was more than enough.

Legolas took a deep breath. Suddenly his playful mood had vanished. Surely the Southrons were not looking for spiders out of good will. Scowling, he replaced the grim contents in the pack and sighed tiredly. “The king will have to be informed of this… make ready to leave immediately,” he barked to his warriors.  He straightened up and watched as everybody returned to their tasks, still shaken by the discovery.

“A nasty surprise…I should have checked first.” Penalag sighed, standing beside him. “Did it bite you, Mallereg?”

“They were almost suffocated, poor creatures. Legolas, listen…”

“I am sending you to the stronghold, to escort Mithrandir and Radagast and inform your adar and mine. Tell them that I am escorting the dwarves to the Forest Gate and explain to them all that you have gathered here. They will no doubt want to strengthen the border patrols to the south and…”

“I will not. My patrol is one day from here, we have been chasing spiders for six days on row now and I am not leaving them and going home just because the captain of the Home Guard suddenly decides that I have to. The Southern Patrol is escorting the dwarves to the Forest Gate. By the way, I have managed to convince Grerin not to demand retribution for his losses…Besides, your daughter insisted that you had to be home for the festival! So you take your warriors, Captain, and go home with the wizards and the baby spiders...and that beautiful cut on your arm. It will need stitching, I think…”

Legolas frowned and cast annoyed glances from Thalaûr to Penalag, who failed miserably at concealing their amusement. “But you cannot miss the festival, I have heard that you are the guest of honor as an important announcement is made!” he retorted evilly, enjoying how suddenly Thalaûr’s laughter froze.

But his nephew was too much for him. He chuckled and patted Legolas’ back condescendingly. “Do not believe all that you hear, Uncle. My brother will understand. I suspect that my father has finally decided to give him a full command… and that is why Sûlgalen wanted all of us to be there. Tell Borgil that we will celebrate conveniently in another occasion, as I introduce him into the finest features of command. For now, I am too busy showing my future father-in-law what a level-headed, dependable, responsible husband I will make one day for his little daughter, though not for now,” he added with an impish grin, casting a soft, amused smile at his guard, who seemed about to explode.

Defeated, Legolas had to chuckle. “I think he already knows, nephew. Go then with your dwarves and rangers and Halfling, and may Elbereth shine over your path!”

“The same to you, Legolas. At your leisure, Thalaûr! Come, master Grerin!” he called then in his friendly manner, striding towards where the grumpy dwarf waited, arms crossed on his chest, while Aragorn, Mithrandir and Maegolf carefully helped the wounded ranger onto the wagon. “How about you give us those few remaining fireworks? I am sure that the king will really appreciate them!”

“He is good!” Penalag acknowledged with a soft whistle when the dwarf shrugged, shook his head and finally scrambled on a crate to rummage inside the ruined barrel.

“You mean insufferable,” Legolas grunted, still annoyed by how Mallereg had managed to manoeuvre him with the slightest effort.

“You were the same when you were his age, Legolas, or else where do you think your daughter got her weird sense of humour?” Thalaûr grunted. “Tell Sûlgalen to expect revenge. She will not know when or how. I am patient…”

“Come on, Thalaûr, it was your own doing! You chose to believe that the rumours about a great announcement at Narbeleth festival were about Mallereg and Lendiell’s betrothal. He would never do that without asking you first! And after all, where would you find a better son-in-law?” Legolas pointed out sagely, watching in grudging admiration as his nephew came to them with a handful of fireworks under his arm.

“Give these to Borgil, Legolas. He will know what to do with them. Oh, and tell my grandfather that I offered the dwarf a return trip free of charge on his behalf! Come, Thalaûr, we are all ready to go!”

Still laughing, Legolas bowed in goodbye to the excited Halfling as the wagon bumped towards the path and then turned to his patrol and the wizards.

                                                                              ~*~  ~*~   ~*~

Bilbo had been sorry to say goodbye to Gandalf so soon. There were so many questions he had not got to ask the wizard! And he would have really liked to meet Gandalf’s companion, who had talked about the white stag as if they had been fast friends! But his disappointment was tempered by the merry presence of the Greenwood warriors, and he could always look forward to raiding Elrond’s library in search of answers.

Mallereg had led them to his camp and there they had feasted on boar and venison as if they were honoured guests in Thranduil’s halls. Why, they had even savoured the king’s prized Dorwinion!

“I did not know that the patrols enjoyed this most wonderful vintage, Mallereg,” he observed approvingly after savouring a second goblet. “Thranduil is certainly more generous with his wine than Elrond!”

“Thank you, Master Bilbo!  am sure that my grandfather will appreciate the compliment!” Mallereg replied in all seriousness, while Thalaûr and Aragorn choked in their goblets, shaking in irrepressible fits of laughter.

Bilbo did not answer. He loved the elves’ lightness and playful spirit, even if he did not understand all their jokes. That night they sang and played music and told stories under the stars. By the time the moon was going home, even the dwarves were mollified, plied with food and wine to the point that Grerin even accepted to drink to the Elven King’s health and the forest’s.

Next day Mallereg sent part of his patrol ahead to clear the path, while the rest escorted them at a slower pace to the Forest Gate.

“I hope the rest of your trip will be duller from now on, but safer too. May Elbereth’s stars shine on your path, Master Bilbo,” the king’s grandson said when the time for leave taking came, bowing low before him. “You have brought many blessings to the Greenwood, and you will always be a welcome guest here. And I will make sure that a special delivery from the king’s cellars is included in our next consignment to Imladris,” he added with a conniving wink.

Bilbo was moved, as every time he was made aware that his adventures had left a mark on the people he had met, and that they, too, would think of him when they reminisced about those times. It was comforting in a way, to know that he would be part of those people’s thoughts and memories as they would surely be part of his, even if they never met again under the sun. Their lives would go on for long, but he would always be part of them, and that helped ease the pain of the parting.

“May the Greenwood stay strong and prevail before the Shadow, and may your people thrive long under its leaves, Lord Mallereg!” he returned bow and blessings with deeply felt sentiment that was met with grave approval by the elven troops. And with that they rode away, and Bilbo said goodbye to Mirkwood for ever.

“They are strong people, and resilient. The Shadow has taken so much from them,” Halbarad observed softly as the wagon bumped south to the Ford. He and Bilbo travelled with the load, while Aragorn walked behind them and the two dwarves shared the driver’s seat. The joggling and jostling were surely jarring the ranger’s wounds, but he did not complain. Bilbo offered him some water and nodded.

“And still they are merry like children, under that serious and dangerous front…” he said thoughtfully.

“All that is gold does not glitter,” the ranger called Aragorn said almost casually as he caught up with them and grabbed Bilbo’s water skin from Halbarad’s hands. He cast an impish grin at Bilbo and then trotted up to exchange indications about the road with the dwarves.

Shaken by a sudden memory, Bilbo cast a quick glance at the shabby, aged-looking man and then carefully searched his pockets and brought out the gold brooch he had casually found on the ground in the clearing while he struggled to get from under the dead spider. It was a very old, eagle-shaped cloak pin that looked exactly as the one he had once given in token of friendship to an elven child in the Last Homely House.

When they reached Beorn’s place Bilbo had not yet found an answer to the riddle that puzzled him. How had that brooch reached the hands –the cloak- of that ragged, scruffy old man who seemed to have a fast friendship with Gandalf? And how had he known the tale that went with the brooch? He stood there wondering, while the dwarves busied themselves unpacking their load and distributing it on the backs of the ponies and a couple of mules. Beorn’s place had become a crossroads for travelers and traders now two stables, a warehouse and a guest house stood scattered on the green area close to the river. The dwarves would leave their wagon there until their return -and the barrels of pork fat in payment-  and continue their trip on ponies.

“We are remaining here for a while, Master Bilbo. Halbarad is not yet ready to try the Cirith Forn…” There he was again, that strange ranger, looking at him with the fond, mischievous, challenging expression that so confused Bilbo.

“I hope he recovers soon. I owe him my life…”

“And we owe you his, and we rangers do not forget lightly. Have a safe trip, Master Bilbo, and may you find Elrond’s cellars welcoming!” the man chuckled, and with a brief bow and a warm smile he turned his back on Bilbo and went to help his wounded comrade into the guest house.

“Are your ready Master Bilbo? We want to cross the Ford today!”

With a last glance at the house, Bilbo nodded and joined the dwarves. For many days he trudged on in cold, early winter sunny days, all thoughts banned from his mind except those about the road and the joy of being abroad, until one cold morning they entered a valley where the air was limpid and the winds blew softly and the trees still had leaves on their branches, and he knew he had got home.

To Be Finished in the Epilogue.

A/N

Naur! Naur dan I ungolhoth!: Fire, Fire against the spider host!

Epilogue. All That Is Gold Does Not Glitter.

Imladris, mid Spring 3003.  

“Tra-la-la-lally; the valley is jolly,

Tra-la-la-lally; jolly is the valley.  

Wielding elven blade, boldest of the Shire,

Master Bilbo Baggins went killing spiders…

The deep tenor preceded the soft steps through the open door.

“There were lots of other people there, Tuluniben,” Bilbo called out without looking up from his parchment.  

“Give us time, Master Bilbo, there are more verses coming,”  

“I feared that…Lindir will have a fit. I am certain that you will win again this year, young one. That rhyming is promisingly awful, a good match for the original one!”  

“I am glad you like it! Oh, look! You finished it?”  

Bilbo coughed modestly and blew over the drying ink. “An Account Of The Strangest Creatures Found In The Greenwood, by Bilbo Baggins,” he read aloud. “It is not a definite treatise, of course. But I intend to send it as a present to King Thranduil in return for his hospitality, when Grerin comes back from the Blue Mountains…What do you think?”  

“Look at that! I did not know that they had blood-suckers in Mirkwood,” the young butler nodded towards one of the artistically illustrated parchments laid out to dry. With great care he placed a plate with pastries on the cluttered desk.“Cook sends these to you with his best regards…”  

Bilbo cast a suspicious glance at the only too merry face. “And surely he sent something to soak them in as well?”  

“You cannot be deceived, Master Perian,” the elf laughed, revealing a goblet he had kept hidden behind his back and setting it beside the plate. “Lord Elrond’s most prized Dorwinion for his most appreciated guest.”  

“You sure you are not getting in trouble, lad?”  

“Why would I? It reached the lord’s ears that even Thranduil’s patrols have access to the king’s wine, so why shouldn’t Imladris’ honoured guests? What is that?”  

“A two-mouthed ogre.” Bilbo accepted the change of subject willingly, wondering, as he had been doing for months, whether his somehow tactless remark about Elrond’s….thriftiness, regarding his cellars had somehow reached the lord of the house. He straightened the parchment Tuluniben was studying and shook his head. “The Southron had heard they hid in Mirkwood.”  

“They look frightening…and that spider is gruesome!”  

“Lord Glorfindel did me the kindness of drawing it. He claims it is the spawn of Ungoliant, who once killed the Two Trees of Valinor!” He had been most impressed by that tale, and had spent many weeks searching the library for accounts of those times long past. The Elder Days had turned out a great source of delight for him, which he had decided to keep mostly untapped until he finished his present engagement, and then of course his book, and after he completed his research on wizards, which would prove most interesting if only he managed to trace some parchments Erestor had hinted about. The tale of the Blue Wizard had of course stirred his curiosity…  

“But surely those ogres do not exist? I have never seen them –or heard of them.”  

“Have you travelled far, Tuluniben?”  

“Why would I?”  

Bilbo smiled. Why, indeed. Many of those who lived in the Last Homely House and the surrounding settlements had never left the secluded valley. Others, in turn, had even roamed the drowned lands of Beleriand, of which Bilbo himself had never heard before he came to Imladris and spent time in the Hall of Fire. He was suddenly reminded of his own neighbours, who would only believe, or pay any attention to, matters that were there before their eyes and everybody knew about. Reassuring truths. What was beyond their experience simply did not exist and was not worth wasting their time. “But surely you know about Ungoliant, or Thuringwethil, or Carcaroth…and Elwing sailing the skies as a seabird?”  

“Shape-shifters, like the Guardian of the Towers, yes. But two-faced ogres? Who has ever heard of that?”  

“Well… who knows what hides deep in Mirkwood?” he retorted. “Those woods are twisted and dark enough…”

“So they say,” the young butler nodded seriously. “Why, they say the Dark Lord was hiding down there himself, and was cast away by Mithrandir and Lord Elrond the year the dragon fell!” he added in a conspiratorial whisper. “Perhaps some twisted creatures still dwell there,” he concluded with a last doubtful glance at the menacing picture. “I must go now. Cook will have your midday meal sent here. The lord and his councilors are closeted since early in the morning with Estel, and they will not stop for lunch, I am told… but perhaps we will hear interesting tales tonight. By your leave, Master Bilbo!”  

                                                                                     ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 Midday meal flew by without noticing –roasted capon in its point of crispness with greens and loaves of cook’s best bread washed down with another goblet of Elrond’s wine, followed by honey cakes and a cup of tea. Sighing contentedly, Bilbo sat back against his comfortable armchair, brought out his pipe and puffed up solemnly until he fell asleep.  

He awoke with renewed appetite, ready for a late tea, and braved the stairs to the kitchens. He spent some time there exchanging gossip with Cook’s assistants, and this way he learned that the lord’s youngest son looked careworn and tired, and that he would not remain for long. And Mithrandir even less, they said.  

“Gandalf?” 

“Himself. He came down from the Ettenmoors in the early morning. Scruffy and grumpy as it is his wont and with the appetite of a starved hamlet after a long winter. He said he would be leaving at dawn again!” one of the assistants told him.  

That left Bilbo wondering once he returned to his chambers.  

From wondering he drifted into another well-earned nap.  

Until a warm voice shook him from his meditation.  

“Awake, Bilbo, I’m glad to see you so settled down!”  

“Awake, indeed!” he retorted, squinting at the newcomer. “I was pondering some details for my book, if you must know! But I am glad to see you, Gandalf! Do you come from the Greenwood? Any news of Sámid? And of Halbarad?” he asked eagerly.  

Chuckling, the wizard took seat across him and extended his long legs with a deep sigh of relief. “As eager as always for a good tale, I see!” he smiled fondly. “Let’s see. Your friend Halbarad must by all accounts be healed by now, although I have not seen him. Thranduil was most amused by your adventures in his forest and sent fond regards to you. And one of Legolas’ scouts followed the tracks of your Southron friend deep into the forest, close to the Mountains. There the scout gave up. We guess your friend was trying to catch another bride-price…The watch has been doubled on the forest borders. The trail of the bloodsucker was lost earlier. That was while I was there informing Thranduil. I heard nothing about them as on my way back now,” he added thoughtfully. Where had he been in the meantime he would not say, Bilbo noticed, and suspected he would not tell either if asked directly. “What about you, my friend?” the wizard interrupted his musings while he brought his pipe out and lit it with apparent pleasure.  

“Oh, I’ve been busy, you know how it is here, reading and writing and thinking and listening and eating and sleeping…time does not seem to go by here and still I manage to get almost nothing finished!” he smiled, puffing at his own pipe.  

“Time just is, in Rivendell,” the wizard said cryptically, and it seemed to Bilbo that he cast a quick glance at his own hand and smiled briefly. “Good. You will be safe here, and you will lack nothing. And it will do good to Elrond to have you around to remind him of the daily troubles and cares of Middle-earth,” he chuckled.  

“Safe? From what?”  

“Why, my dear Hobbit! From that uncanny ability of yours to step into unexpected trouble! I have reasons to believe that there are evil creatures out there looking for you, Bilbo. I cannot tell you more for now, but please promise me that you will remain here in Rivendell. I will be coming to visit as much as I can and I will bring you news as well. I fear that Gollum’s ring was more than a magic ring, and that is all I can say for now!”  

“My ring?” Bilbo froze. “But I left it with Frodo!”  

“And he will be all right, Bilbo. The ring is beyond you now. You gave it away, remember? The rangers are watching the Shire, and no evil will reach Frodo there. Trust me, my old friend, as you have done all these years…”  

“But..”  

“Trust me, Bilbo,” Gandalf insisted. “I must leave in the morning and I need to be sure that you will remain here…”  

“Where are you going?”  

“East. I will search for Gollum. I must hear the tale of that ring from him, to begin with…”  

Again Bilbo remembered the wild face he had glimpsed in that clearing, and wondered whether to tell the wizard about it. It still sounded as a delusion to his own ears!  

“Will you remain here?” There was genuine worry in Gandalf’s careworn face. Moved by the concern that showed on the wizard’s face, Bilbo forgot his other worries.  

“Of course. Where would I go, after all? I have had adventures to last me two more lifetimes, and I have still to settle them down in proper accounts,” he joked. “But promise me that you will bring back tales and news form distant lands!”  

“Agreed, my friend. You will not lack tales. And now by your leave, I will search my bed. I fear I must be leaving with dawn…”  

“So soon? I hoped to see Estel…”  

“Oh, you will, I am sure, when he is finished with his present engagement. Anyway, he will remain for some days still. I know he is looking forward to exchanging news and tales with you.”  

“So I am. He was a charming child when I met him…”  

“Indeed,” the wizard chuckled. “You’ll be surprised to see him now, I have no doubt. Pity I will not be around to see your face…”  

“Fare well, Gandalf, and take care of yourself!”  

“The same to you, my good friend. I’ll be back with the end of the year.”  

                                                        ~*~ ~*~ ~*~

 Night was well in and Bilbo still sat at his desk, his back to the window, pouring again over his notes after a quick dinner with Cook.  

When the first apple hit his desk, it almost knocked down the ink bottle and then rolled into the wooden floor. He looked at it with mild surprise, suspecting a well-intentioned teasing on the part of Tuluniben or the other merry youngsters who loved to sing and tell tales under the stars. A second apple, too ripen for such antics, splashed at his feet just as he was getting up to pick up the first one.  

“Bainloth will not take it kindly, you are staining her polished floor!” he warned in a merry voice, walking to the open window. He had to duck now, as something larger flew past him and landed on the soft bed with a thud.

“What…?” he wondered, picking up a leather bag that showed the unmistakable Hornblower marks on it. “Longbottom Leaf!” he wondered aloud even before opening it, as the distinctive smell of the best smoking weed in all the Shire wafted to him. His curiosity aroused, he looked out of the window, searched the darkness and then went out into the terrace that ran before his chambers and walked down to the garden. There he followed the tenuous sweet scent of a lit pipe among the trees, until he saw a dark large shape reclined against a mighty trunk.  

“All that is gold does not glitter, Master Bilbo,” an amused, familiar voice greeted him as the shadow unfolded into a tall man who bowed before him. Under the silver light of the moon that now speared the garden Bilbo saw the sparkling eyes and the honest, open smile of the child he had known long ago. And someone else, too.  

“Estel…Aragorn?”  

The man bowed again. “The same, at your service and your family’s, Master Baggins,” he offered in perfect Hobbit style. But Bilbo was too stunned to return the courtesy properly.  

“But… but…” He studied the clean, rested face and recognized the stern features of the dour ranger he had met in the forest and had teased him on their way to the Ford. “How can it be?"

 “It is my turn now for travellers’ tales, Master Bilbo,” the man said, and as he spoke he made an inviting gesture towards the tree. “I have brought food and wine and pipe weed, and the moon is still young…”  

Accepting the invitation, Bilbo sat down and listened eagerly -while he had a second dinner- as the man began a long tale that unveiled before Bilbo’s thrilled eyes a whole new world of forgotten songs and legends and deeds of valour and a lost people descended from noble kings of old. The man was as good a storyteller as he had been an audience as a child, and Bilbo enjoyed greatly the long account, to the point that at times he forgot to eat or drink.  

“If you are Isildur’s heir, then the ring is surely yours?” he gasped, once he managed to tie the different threads together. The man shrugged.  

“It belongs to the Dark Lord, and it should have been consigned to the fire long ago, before it was lost,” he sighed, and there was a heaviness in his voice that betrayed his light manner. “It was Isildur’s failure, and now perhaps we may find a way to redress that mistake,” he added. “But for now it is safe in Frodo’s hands, and the Dúnedain of the North keep a strict watch over the Shire.”  

“The Dúnedain?” 

“My kin, what is left of the Númenoreans of Arnor, the old kingdom of the north. At times I am also known as the Dúnadan here in Imladris, you will find out…”  

“The man of the many names,” Bilbo chuckled. “And to think that I took you for an elven child!”  

“It was bad enough that I was caught wandering the corridors,” the man recalled with a soft smile on his face. “But I would have been in serious trouble if you had guessed my true identity then. Yet I apologize for so misleading you!” he added most seriously. Bilbo raised a dismissive hand.  

“Forget it. You said nothing. I just assumed that you were an elf.”  

“And I was so proud that I pestered Elrohir for days with that!” the man chuckled. “I so wanted to be an elf when I was a child!”  

“Instead you are a Man of Westernesse and the last heir of a lost kingdom!” Bilbo mused thoughtfully. “All that is gold does not glitter indeed. This absolutely deserves a song, to go with the name and the legend and the great deeds that are yet to come…”  

“It should begin with that verse,” Aragorn suggested. “All that is gold does not glitter. I have treasured those words in my heart since then…”  

“It sounds fitting,” Bilbo admitted unabashedly. “Let me think… All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost…The old that is strong does not wither,”  he added with a smile. “I came up with that for Gandalf after our battle in the clearing, but it surely fits you as well. You are old in mortal years, are you not?”  

“Seventy-two. Still young in Numenorean years! But you could add something like…  Deep roots… Let me see… Deep roots are not reached by the frost?”  

“Excellent!” Bilbo nodded enthusiastically. “It subtly points to that tree in your House’s emblem that you told me about…the White Tree waiting for a new blossom! Now I need something about fires and the mythical blade and the restored kingdom…Ah, my friend! This is going to be the tale of the age! Let me see…From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring;”  

“Provided it is not dwarven fireworks…”  

Bilbo chuckled. “Be silent. You are chasing my inspiration away. Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king. How is that? I must polish it, of course, but I think it gets the basics…I cannot believe that you didn’t have your own verses, you are a character of legend! And I hope to live long enough to write about your crowning, Estel Aragorn Dúnadan!”  

“I hope so too, Bilbo. I am humbled by your talent…”  

“You need not, lad. You are not half-bad at rhyming! What do you say? Should we add or change anything?”  

They sang it softly a couple of times, to weigh the rhythm and the wording, and found no fault.  

“I think it is fine…” Aragorn finally said. “Except if only you could add something about a green stone?”  

“A green stone? Why?”  

The man fell silent again and looked around with a private smile. “That is a tale for another day. I think I have already robbed you of too much time. There will be time in the upcoming days, for I am remaining for some time still… Now by your leave…” Casting quick glances towards the orchard, Aragorn scrambled to his feet, bowed hastily and walked away. Surprised by the abrupt departure, Bilbo stood up to follow the man’s hurried steps, and caught a glimpse of billowing silvery skirts and a dark mass of blue-black hair that surely belonged to Elrond’s daughter.  

“I see,” he told himself and smiled knowingly, sitting down again and lighting his pipe thoroughly. “All that is gold does not glitter,” he mused. “It is going to cause a stir in midsummer’s festival, I bet,” he told himself with a pleased smile. He had barely reclined against the trunk, ready to enjoy that peaceful spring night when he heard soft steps behind him.  

“Master Bilbo…”  

“What is it, lad?” 

“The eagle cloak pin. Halbarad said he saw it in your hands…I must have lost it in the clearing. It earned me my name in Rohan and Gondor and went with me even to the docks of Umbar in the deep south…And I have kept it in fond memory of our meeting…”  

Bilbo laughed and shook his head in agreement. “I have it in my chambers! I’ll give it back only after you tell me about your adventures in the South and what else you know about the Blue Wizard! And now go away. I am trying to fix your green stone in that song!”  

The man walked away chuckling quietly and Bilbo relaxed against the trunk, puffing contentedly and looking up at the night sky, turning the verses in his mind and thinking of all the things he had learnt that night, and the many layers of history that stretched under his feet. And then a sweet voice reached him, singing words in elven tongue that he did not understand but that spoke straight to his heart. Carried in the wings of that silvery voice he drifted off to a peaceful land where the sun shone brighter and darkness had disappeared.  

The End.