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