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…”