All Roads Lead Home

[chrysophalax]

It was nearly sunset and Eldarin paced restlessly in the small, bare room the sherriff normally reserved for interrogation. The elf had been told that Goran's master would be arriving shortly and to mind his manners if he wanted to keep his looks. Eldarin had merely glared and turned away. His thoughts had grown ever darker since his injury and even the light-hearted Haluin had not been able to draw him out of late.

What was Eru thinking when He sang into being the Secondborn? Were we not enough for Him to toy with? Just as the desire to smash something was becoming an obsession, he heard the sound of footsteps just outside. The door opened and a man nearly Eldarin's height entered the room.

Torgard's presence was commanding and he knew it. However, he was as good a judge of men as he was of horses and the "man" he now found before him gave him pause. There was no fear in the elf's eyes nor was his demeanour overtly threatening. Rather, he gave the impression of a powerful animal weighing its options and liking its chances.

As they stood assessing each other, the sherriff brought in two chairs, then left with a word, closing the door unceremoniously behind him.

"I want to ask you some questions and I want the truth, Elf."

"As I am not in the habit of lying, you will have it." replied Eldarin acidly.

"Good. I am a busy man and will not have my time wasted. Is it true my horsemaster Goran had...thoughts regarding my daughter?"

Eldarin's eyebrows went up. This was not what he had expected. "I cannot say for certain, but I never cared for the man. His character seemed unsavoury."

Torgard sighed deeply, his thoughts torn between friendship and what was just. His next words were heavily weighted with care and sorrow. "My daughter has told me this day of his advances toward her and of how Merrill, despite his wastrel appearance, sought in his own misguided way to rescue her, though it was from the wrong man."

The proud man stood , his shoulders bowed. "She lied to Merrill, telling him how she hated me and how badly I treated her. She made him think she cared for him and the poor, blind fool believed her. Now...if I can trust in what she has told me is the truth, you have done me a service and I stand in your debt."

He held out his hand and Eldarin stared at it for a moment, bewildered. Slowly he stood, clasped Torgard's arm and said, "A debt easily repaid. Let my friends and I continue on our way west and you will be troubled by us no more. Winter waits for no one and we have many leagues to travel yet before journey's end."

"As you say, easily repaid. Done and done. I will ask the Pony's landlord to give you supplies enough to last at least until you reach...where is it you're bound?"

Eldarin smiled for the first time in days. "In truth, I have no clear idea. You must ask the dwarf, Jokim. It is his journey, after all. I am a mere follower."

Torgard looked at him searchingly, then chuckled. "Very well. I will talk with your friend and again...I thank you." As he turned to leave the room, he felt a strong hand grip his shoulder and turned back. "What-?" "One thing further, Torgard. Do not despair of your daughter. She will be well, as long as she knows beyond doubt that you care for her." With that, Eldarin released his grip and slipped out of the room and vanished into the gathering gloom, eager to rejoin his companions.

He let out a glad cry, throwing wide his arms as he inhaled the crisp, apple-scented air of autumn. The stars seemed to shine brighter than he could ever recall seeing them shine before and he felt the cloying web of imprisonment and pain fall away from him as he strode quickly toward the Pony, the faces of his friends appearing before him as though guiding the way in his mind. Now, he could look forward to the Road and savour all the adventures it could throw at them and his heart filled with anticipation.

Overhead, a moon nearly at the full, watched as the elf hurried toward the inn and bats flew on soft, silent wings, seeking their supper. Below, Eldarin heard their cries and smiled to himself. An excellent idea, small ones! Prison food has hardly agreed with me and a flagon of wine will not go amiss!

 

[Ghorim]

A grim mood had settled over Jokim, like a great hand that laid heavily upon his shoulder. He could feel the winter nipping at their heels now. Gusts of frost, flecks of snow, early darkness and dim mornings... all things he did not trust. It was as though he could not imagine spring, and only foresaw the days growing shorter and shorter, until naught but shadow remained.

He felt a dull longing beginning to take flame in his breast: for halls of stone, and warm hearths, old friends and stout drinks... safety, security, stability. He wished to shut out the wide world of the plains, with its snake trickery and uncertain paths. Long had he trod its grounds, always seeking and never finding, and he had grown weary of it all. These adventures and dalliances that amounted to nothing in the end. He viewed Druri’s flowery enthusiasm for the road only with bewilderment.

So when Eldarin announced his freedom to the party, Jokim wasted little time in following up with a declaration of his own: they would depart Bree on the morrow, pre-dawn.

It deflated the room. To Druri and the Elves, it seemed that Jokim had turned his back on the spirit of adventure that had bonded them together. No more mystery, no more discovery, only itinerary. With his instructions given, Jokim went downstairs to have a drink alone. But Haluin followed.

He found the dwarf in the darkest corner of the Prancing Pony’s dining room, almost hidden in a recessed booth, nursing a mug of stout.

“What moves a heart of stone?” Haluin leaned on the booth’s outside frame and gazed into the shadow at Jokim, whose eyes hid beneath his traveling hood. “I have often pondered this riddle, Jokim, when I have pondered you. But yours is not a hard heart, I do not think.”

Jokim glanced up, and his eyes gave that distant lightning flash. “Oh?” He measured the syllable out, tensed it, brandished it as a warning.

“Just earlier today I saw it, that mirth which you keep tucked away in a drawer somewhere in there.” Haluin tapped at his own chest. “It lives on, in spite of your best attempts to snuff it out!”

Now he sat across from Jokim, watching the dwarf lower his gaze again and return to tending his ale. “Ah, but the business with Druri’s lessons the other night, and your speech upstairs a moment ago give me doubt. Now is the time when we ought to be lifted in gay spirits, but you sink deeper into yourself.”

“I might well rejoice for Eldarin’s freedom.” Jokim gave a sip of his drink and watched Haluin. “But this entire business with the urchins — which you instigated at every turn, I might add — has left a bitter taste in my mouth. The road is no longer for me, and I am no longer for it. I seek only a speedy and safe journey home.”

Haluin stared at his friend for a spell, almost uncomprehending of this backhanded strike. But that ancient Eldar spirit suddenly took wing in his eyes, and he spoke in a tone unfamiliar in its severity. “No, not a hard heart. But a heart that can grow blinded by its pride! That remark about our encounters with the young thieves I shall leave untested: it is sunk by its own folly. Yet even without it, your words wound me.”

He stopped, taking a deep breath to collect his thoughts and his wits. “You see much, Jokim, far more than you let on, I imagine.”

The dwarf had made no visible reaction to any of this talk.

“But,” Haluin continued, “You also possess a gift for overlooking the obvious. So pray let me speak bluntly: I cannot bear the thought of our parting. Even with a companion so faithful as Eldarin at my side, the years of our wandering shall be long and fallow.”

The Elf clasped his hands, steeling himself in forced composure. “These are your final days of adventure, or so you say, and in a sense they are mine as well.” But no, this was too much. Haluin’s thoughts began to fracture. “I... I have always thought us bonded in some fashion, Jokim. Bonded by some design beyond our reckoning. That we should be shoved together again, by happenstance... a greater meaning lies behind it.” A pause. Outside the booth, revelry and music bloomed in the air. But a heavy silence seemed to reign within the shadowy alcove. “Have you... not thought the same?”

Haluin stared intently into Jokim’s eyes, but the dwarf had drawn that grey veil about them again. Jokim leaned back into his seat, and ignored his drink for the moment. His hands rested in fists on the table.

“What do you fear to lose in me, Haluin?” Jokim glanced to the floor. “We are bonded, perhaps, but all bonds must break.”

“I fear to lose a brother!” Haluin whispered these words, but with a terrible grief and intensity. “Brothers we called ourselves in the Rohan, or do you not recall? And a brother I have always counted you, even in our years spent apart. Even when you have pulled yourself away from me.”

Haluin did not know why, but these last words seemed to produce a shudder in Jokim. A true chord had rang somewhere within him.

“I have pulled myself away. Yes.” Jokim pondered the words. “Many times. From you, and from others. And I have always thought it sensible... for the best.” His eyes drifted to the careless gaiety of the Prancing Pony. “But...”

The Elf watched Jokim’s eyes haze over again, and felt himself lunge in sympathy toward his friend. “You are thinking of your sister.”

“I...” Jokim was disarmed. He hid his gaze, straightened his beard, and then glanced up. His eyes were frank and open. “What do you wish of me, Haluin?”

“Only that you savor the final days of this journey, just as you did with the first. For the sun’s setting is surely as brilliant as its rise, no?”

Jokim made a puffing snort that ruffled his entire mustache and sent ripples through his beard. “Poetry. At a time like this.”

“Poetry at any time makes the heart sing.” Haluin wagged a finger. “And do not tell me that dwarves are ignorant of such things! For I have heard the little rhymes you teach Druri when he tires along the trail, and there is music in them... even the Khuzdul ones!”

The dwarf’s expression relaxed, and a little curve of his mustache indicated a half-smile brewing. He looked wily in that moment, like a faded echo of the young brawler Haluin once knew. Unchanged, but grown dusty from disuse.

In truth, Jokim was sharpening a little barb in his mind, but stopped short of speaking it when he spotted Druri and Eldarin approaching. The young dwarf led the way, hopping between the chairs, tables and patrons that barred his path.

“Uncle!” He called several feet out from the table, even though he clearly had Jokim’s attention. “Uncle.” He spoke again, now standing at Jokim’s feet, making his earnest imitation of an adult’s voice. “Eldarin and I have discussed the matter of our departure, and we agree that...”

“You wish to stay up late and celebrate, eh?” Jokim gave Eldarin a wry look first, then Druri. The lad’s plain expression had gone muddled, showing his uncle’s guess had proved correct. “Well.” One last glance to all three of his companions. If Haluin didn’t know any better, he might have imagined that Jokim enjoyed all of this attention. “We leave at dawn. But not a minute after.”

Druri whooped and clapped his hands. “Drinks for all, then! Come, Eldarin!”

The Elvish smith shook his head as Druri whipped past, but gave a quiet bow of respect to Jokim before chasing after the lad.

“Hmm. Is that more to your liking, Haluin?” Jokim kept a careful watch over Druri’s progress across the room. “Now I shall have a sleepy sluggard to drag out of bed tomorrow.”

“You err as I err, Jokim: we both look too far ahead.” Haluin smiled, and the dwarf gave him a questioning look. “There is only tonight to cherish. Damn tomorrow.”

“Damn tomorrow!” Jokim’s brows rose, and he gave an admonishing little chuckle. “Well. I suppose I shall drink to that... for tonight, anyway.”

And he raised his glass high, where the lamplight caught it, and lit the dark liquid to a dull gold.

 

[Ghorim]

But tomorrow came. Frigid and hard, sorrowful and blue. The west wind shifted, whispering promises of worse to come. A punishing winter and a late spring.

The first fires of day had not yet stirred as Jokim descended the stairs into the tavern hall. A cauldron of song and mirth last night, today a tomb. The day clerk had slumped forward on the bar, fast asleep. The dwarf smacked the countertop as he walked past, not looking back to see the fellow’s reaction. He was headed out: too antsy to sleep and hungry for a jog.

He remembered days when he dreaded the early infantry jog. The darkness of the barracks as the call to rise went along the bunks, fumbling for boots, blank and sleepy faces, the slap of mountain air as he went past the gates of Erebor, the raspy barks of sergeants: “Knees up!”

But now he cherished his little morning trots as a perfection of solitude: just the chugging rhythm of his body at work, the lazy roll of passing scenery, and quiet thoughts. That morning, as Jokim took to the snowy tracks that ringed the village, he thought of Haluin. Some old memories, but primarily thoughts of the future.

Jokim had failed in his mission to find his old friend a haven among the Elves. He had not expressed his disappointment aloud to the others — he could never allow Haluin to imagine that he cared so much — but it gnawed at him in a slow and torturous fashion. For even though Eldarin had spoken grand words about he and Haluin being “home to each other,” Jokim saw through such talk. He had felt the weight of Haluin’s spirit last night... the true weight of exile.

Part of him had hoped that he could disengage himself from Haluin — cleanly, to send the Elf on his way without regret. But it would not work out so easily; Jokim saw that now. As Haluin had said, they were bonded, somehow... and neither quite understood it.

So the dwarf continued to wrestle with his thoughts as he returned to the gates of Bree, with the first hint of orange dawn taking flame in the east. Within the village, lights were stirring, and the first morning folk had taken to the streets. Jokim did not slow his gait, still rumbling through the streets like a miniature oliphaunt on the loose. Every villager he passed stopped to stare. They had seen many dwarves pass through these walls, but none quite like this one.

He finally halted once he returned to the Prancing Pony, making a few finishing stretches outside the front entrance. It was there that a voice spoke from behind him: “Jokim, is it?”

“And who wishes to know?” The dwarf turned, and exhaled a full gust of winter steam from his nostrils.

“I am called Torgard.” He stood in a thick greatcoat, tall and shadowed in deep blue beneath the inn’s hanging sign. “You arrested my daughter, Mirina, on Amon Sûl.”

“Indeed, I did.” Now Jokim recognized those eyes... those of the severe man who had stormed into Eldarin’s room a few days before. “And never have I met a child more deserving of punishment.”

“I agree.” Torgard stepped into the light, such as it was. “And I wished to thank you for the service.”

Jokim paused, making a quick read on the man and his intentions. “Let us step inside and speak... briefly.”

Torgard nodded and smiled agreeably, but his eyes said nothing. Jokim stayed wary.

---

The day clerk was firing a salvo of dirty looks Jokim’s way as the dwarf and Torgard sat down to their conference. As he and the stablemaster made small talk, the dwarf did his best to ignore the onslaught. But finally, he forced himself to turn and give the barman a glare that sent the fellow scuttling in the opposite direction.

“You were saying?” He glanced back to Torgard.

The man had been explaining the circumstances of his daughter’s disappearance, and the hunt of Goran... the anxiety he felt at Mirina’s flight, the agony of Goran’s betrayal. At first, Jokim attempted to close his ears to such talk. The matter of the young brigands was already closed, sealed, packed away and forgotten in his heart.

But as the stablemaster’s stern composure began to draw thin, as his words gained urgency with each passing sentence, like a boulder tumbling down the mountainside, Jokim began to realize that Torgard had to speak these things aloud. This was a confession. And the man seemed to think that Jokim would understand his plight more than anyone else.

So the dwarf softened his front somewhat. Even as the hour of dawn came and went, and the Elves descended into the main room, appearing ready to depart, Jokim listened. Finally, after a deep sigh, it appeared that Torgard had nothing more to say.

“And what now?” Jokim heard himself speak the words, but did not quite believe them. “How do you discipline the children?”

Torgard shifted in his chair, appearing distant. “My heart is at war with itself, I fear. And until the tide turns one way or another, I can make no final judgment. But at this moment, I find myself drawn away from wrath, and toward mercy. There have been enough tears shed over this affair, I think.”

Jokim leaned forward. “Be wise. Push sentiment aside, and make a prudent decision. That is all the counsel I can offer.” Now he rose, standing about as tall as Torgard seated in his chair. “And with that, my companions and I must be off.”

“I wish to offer you one of my finest geldings as repayment for your deeds.” Torgard spoke with a sharp cadence, making his offer sound like a demand.

Jokim shook his head. “What deeds? I happened upon two thieves in the night and treated them as I saw just. As for the gelding, I can ride with competence, but nothing greater. I could not fully appreciate such a gift. I apologize, but I must decline.” He bowed.

“The offer shall stand, should you ever reconsider.” Torgard's voice quieted, as he drew back into his cold reserve. “In the meantime, take my heartfelt thanks with you to the Blue Mountains. Oh yes... and my daughter wished to pass along a message.”

Jokim had begun to march to the inn’s staircase, but paused to listen.

“She wishes to thank your nephew for his kindnesses.”

“Hmm.” A slight frown, concealed beneath his beard. “Thank you.” And with that curt salutation, Jokim was heading up the stairs.

Torgard sat alone for a spell, considering his conversation with the dwarf. Then he noticed the Elves glancing his way, and gathered up his things before departing the Prancing Pony. Outside, the rising sun did little to warm the land. Torgard walked alone.

---

“Five more minutes...” Druri groaned and rolled away from his uncle’s prodding, drawing the covers about him in a tight cocoon.

“Five more minutes!” Jokim roared, sending Druri tumbling over the far side of the bed in fright. “You’ve only slept in this late by luck and my mercy! Now up with you, lazybones. Clear your wits and prepare for the march!”

Up the lad scrambled, predictably terrified. “Yes, sir, uncle sir! Where are my boots, sir?”

Jokim smirked and held up his nephew’s boots, both clutched in his right hand. “Here. Now settle down, lad. I only bellowed so as to wake you up for good. And none of this ‘sir’ nonsense. You are not infantry just yet. And I am your uncle, not a commander.”

Jokim felt a refreshing wave of warmth and affection wash over him as he watched Druri slap on his boots, unwittingly sticking out his tongue as he tied the laces. When it was just the two of them, uncle and nephew, life was simple.

“What took you so long to wake me, uncle?” Druri glanced up from a half-finished loop on his left boot.

“Hmm. I was waylaid by a long-winded fellow. Torgard, the father of the female brigand.”

Druri’s face lit up, and suddenly Jokim wished he had held his tongue.

“What did he say?”

“They are returning to their village, and that is all there is to know. Now hurry up.”

But Druri persisted. “Did he say anything about Mirina?”

Jokim scowled at the lad for a moment. “No.”

Druri sank a bit, but his elder gave him a quick smack on the shoulder to bring him back to life. “Come, hop to. I shall not have any further delays. We are leaving!”

The lad obeyed, but his thoughts appeared to lie elsewhere.

 

[chrysophalax]

Druri's pensive mood matched the watery sunlight which greeted their return to the Road. The normally effusive young dwarf remained withdrawn even into midday, when stomachs began their urgent rumblings and thoughts were growing dull from lack of conversation...at least between the dwarves. Eldarin, glad beyond measure at being able to stretch his legs and breathe the clean air again, found himself commenting on everything from a flock of birds winging threir belated way south, to the grim hills rolling away to their left and the mist that seemed to cling shroud-like about them.

Noting Druri's unaccustomed silence, the elf nudged Haluin, who had been listening avidly to Eldarin's ramblings. "What troubles the youngling? Never have I yet known him to be this quiet, this long. You know him better than I, tor-nin. What ails him?"

"Despite all appearances, I am no expert in the ways of dwarf-kind, mellon-nin, " replied Haluin. "Although...my shrewdest guess would be that it was something Jokim has said to him. He has no idea how much the youngling hangs on his every word and many times I have seen their effects." A sly grin slowly made its way across Haluin's face as he pondered the many vagaries of dwarvishness.

"I think I may have a remedy." he whispered. Eldarin quirked an eyebrow in question, but his friend merely held a finger to his lips, grin still firmly in place. Raising his voice, he asked, "Now tell me again, Eldarin, my thoughts were straying earlier..." A snort from Jokim told the elf that, as he had anticipated, they were being listened to. "You say those hills to our left are haunted? By what, or should I say, by whom?"

Eldarin's eyes flashed in amusement and he eagerly followed Haluin's lead. "Haluin, Haluin...very well, I will tell you the tale again, though why I should bother to waste my breath-" "A thousand pardons! I am all attention now. Please continue!"

Sighing dramatically, the smith began to speak. "Once, not very far from this spot, stood a great kingdom of Men, Angmar, it was called. Fearsome it was, for it was ruled by the Witch-King in direct opposition to the ancestors of our Ranger friends who dwelt hereabouts. His magick was cruel, and it is said, he trapped the souls of Men beneath those very mist-covered hills, where they lie to this day, their bodies heaped in ill-gotten riches, moldering, howling, hungry, jealous...yearning for life and hating all those that yet walk with the sun on their faces."

"Riches?", rumbled Jokim.

"Souls of Men?", quavered Druri.

The elves grinned at each other. A captive audience!

"Indeed, my good dwarves! Treacherous riches. Treasures locked away for centuries along with the corpses of those who longed for wealth and power, only to find death their only lasting reward."

Jokim snorted. "A truly elvish sentiment! Wealth and the finding of it can be an art."

"Ah, yes. So I've heard it said among the dwarves of Khazad-Dum, though Mithrandir has heard otherwise and keeps his own council on that subject."

"Ha! Wizards! What have they ever forged of note? They speak of signs and portents, wind and waves, nothing of any substance to we mortal folk."

Both elves became silent, their thoughts filled with one being in particular and they shuddered. "You know not of what you speak, old friend." said Haluin quietly, but before Jokim could utter the retort burning on his lips, Druri piped up, "Can we go and see them? The-the hills, I mean."

All eyes turned to Jokim, who glared at Haluin as though it were all his fault. "By all means! What's another day wasted, after all?" he spat grumpily. Admonished by his uncle's sudden change in mood, the lad attempted to apologise, but it was Jokim who spoke first. "Nay, Druri. I-I have been in a foul temper of late. It is nothing. Of course we will go and explore if you wish. And you!" He stabbed a stubby finger up at Eldarin. "You may lead the way, Master Elf...and no detours to look at some "delightful acorns" or what-have-you, is that clear? "

"Quite." replied Eldarin calmly. "But listen to me carefully. We must not camp on the barrows overnight. I say this not for our sakes, but for the two of you. There are things that dwell amid the tombs that can do you harm, so we must be on our guard."

"Elvish superstition." mumbled Jokim as they turned off the Road and began to wend their way across the brown fields toward the ominous hills ahead.

 

[Ghorim]

Druri started awake from a cold sleep on the ground. All he could remember was the fog.

It had swept upon them like a great wave, first cresting overhead and then crashing down into their midst, throwing all that lay before and behind them into grey confusion. They had stuck close together at first, but then... but then... what had happened?

The lad rolled to his side and swept his gaze across the sea of mist, eyes wide and searching. At the same time, he wandered through his memory, attempting to piece together the chain of events that had led him here. The trail... and they broke from it... Eldarin was talking... something about men and ghosts.

Ghosts! Druri’s right hand crept to the dagger at his side. He sat up slowly, as if moving too fast would alert the fog to his presence. It pressed down upon him, heavy and wet, draping over and pressing against his body like the hand of a giant. He brought forth the dagger, but it made him feel no safer.

“Uncle?” There was no echo. The fog swallowed his words, as if he had never spoken them at all.

“Uncle!” He called out now, with all the boldness he could muster, but silence still reigned over the downs. Druri bit his lip, hard, and his next cries were contorted with pain: “Haluin! Eldarin!”

No answers.

The fog swirled and shifted before him, disorienting his sense of place. Was he high or low? What time of day was it? Where was the path? He could not tell.

Druri took a step forward, tensing in expectation of a blow... but nothing came. Now he moved forward again, eyes shifting back and forth between his own feet and the mists ahead. He held the dagger out ahead of him like a divining rod, gripping it tight with both hands to control his shakes.

He had to be brave, as Uncle would have wanted. If he kept his wits clear, he could escape unharmed. The fog would lift. It had to.

And suddenly, absurdly, Druri began whistling to himself. Broken shards of melody between trembling breaths, and strange little bird calls, the kind Jokim had taught him as they entered the shadows of Mirkwood. He imagined his uncle behind him, that solid anchor of support. Behind him... a scurrying noise. A whisper in the dead grass.

Druri spun, dagger pointed toward where he had heard the sound. But where was that? He barely could see past the tip of the weapon, and otherwise his vision was scattered and useless. Again, he mustered himself and held his fear at bay.

“Who’s there?”

That same silence answered, but now it had grown pregnant with a new menace and chill. Druri held his stance, fighting the urge to go barreling into the murk, crying for anyone who might hear him.

Now he heard movement again, this time to his left. He shifted, and caught a glimpse of a shadow darting through the mist. No, this was not his imagination. The figure had left a stream of displaced fog in its wake, which rolled lazily in grey plumes.

“Who’s there?” Druri spoke with more authority now. He had a tangible foe, not just some phantasm of his mind, and knowing this steeled him.

Another movement, this one to the right. And then, mercifully, a voice: “Druri?” It sounded muffled and hollow in the fog.

“Yes!” Druri lowered the dagger and leaned forward in a great exhale of pent up tension. “Yes, it’s me! Who’s there?”

A small shadow now appeared straight ahead in the fog... no taller than Druri himself. “It’s me, Gulvar.”

The dagger fell. “Gul...?” His closest playmate in Erebor. A dusty lad with a nose for mischief and fast little feet. They would explore the mountainside for hours together, collecting and trading the little rocks they found along the way. They played messy pranks on their mutual enemies. One night, they had even snuck into an all-girls home, and barely escaped to tell the tale.

But when the surviving children from Smaug’s descent had gathered in a ring of tents at the feet of the Iron Hills, Gulvar had not appeared. Nor had anyone seen him or his family in the flight from the Lonely Mountain. Druri had never dared to think of what had happened. He imagined that Gulvar had simply vanished. Gone off on one last great adventure alone, never to return.

“It can’t be you.” Druri knew the dagger lay at his feet, but he could not bend to pick it up, lest this apparition fade back into the mists forever.

The shadow laughed, with the same little snort that Gulvar had always made. “Of course it’s me! Who else would it be?”

Druri found himself instantly transported back into his memory. He saw himself and Gulvar standing upon the shores of the Long Lake, skipping stones toward the horizon. The sky shown in a piercing blue, with drowsy white clouds ambling by in flocks overhead. They all reflected perfectly upon the lake’s mirror surface.

The memory glowed like a pale light, cutting through the fog, cutting through the fear. Druri wanted to embrace his old friend, but something held him back.

“What... what are you doing here?”

The response was rapid. “Some of us made it out of Erebor through an old secret hatch in the mountainside. But we got lost on our way to the Blue Mountains. We have to get out of here, Druri, and we need your help.”

“Me?” Druri strained his eyes, trying to discern Gulvar’s familiar features, but the figure was pure black. “I... I don’t know the way.”

“Well you made it in here, didn’t you? Maybe if we retraced your steps...”

“Maybe.” A note of hope sounded in Druri’s voice. “And maybe you can help me find my uncle, and two Elves who were traveling with us. Have you seen them?”

“No, I haven’t. But we should get moving.”

Druri was surprised that Gulvar did not take advantage of the opportunity to make an Elf joke, which he loved almost as much as supper. Nor did he even question why Druri was traveling with Elves in the first place...

“I suppose so.” Druri took a step forward.

“Don’t forget your dagger.” Gulvar’s voice dropped low, and Druri felt a shudder pass through him. “It looks valuable.”

“Oh... yes... one of the Elves made it for me.” Druri bent down to pick up the weapon.

“Good. Follow me.” And then the shadow hastened off into the fog. Druri dashed after, again feeling the fear of losing his friend for a second time.

They went along at a brisk pace for several minutes... it could have been an hour, even. Uphill, downhill, but always moving relentlessly forward. Druri began to wonder why Gulvar needed his help... his friend cut through the fog without hesitation, as if he could see for leagues in every direction.

And there were so many other questions: how many dwarves were with Gulvar? Where had they lived all this time since the attack? Were there other old friends, neighbors and forgotten faces amongst their number?

Druri held it all in, and tramped along as best he could in pursuit. At last, another shadow, much larger than the both of them, loomed up ahead. It pointed straight up into the grey sea, a great stone, like the spire of a castle... or the claw of a dragon. Seeing it sparked Druri’s memory. Something Eldarin had said earlier... about tombs, and treasures, and old spirits.

Gulvar went straight for the stone, and disappeared into a dark portal at its side. But Druri lingered behind, hesitating.

“What are you waiting for?” His friend sounded impatient. Druri crept forward, still brandishing the dagger for some reason, and peered into the opening. Nothing but darkness, as impenetrable as the fog that surrounded him.

“Gulvar...?” Druri craned his neck forward, past the edge of the portal, into the gloom. “Gulvar... I don’t know if...”

A hand shot out of the black and gripped Druri’s wrist. Not the hand of Gulvar, or a dwarf, or any other living thing. Pale skin, glistening strangely even without light, and cold. Cold that went beyond winter chill. The cold of sorrow, the cold of jealousy, regret and fear.

It cut straight to Druri’s heart, and he fell to his knees. A cry died in his throat, and he felt himself being dragged into the shadows. Down, down, down, with mirthless laughter chasing him as he went.

 

[chrysophalax]

Dragon. Smoke. Flames. Dead and dying kinfolk lying on unforgiving stone...shouting, sweating, running. What do I do? Druri! Find Druri!

Jokim found himself running blindly as he had once done years before, calling for anyone who might still be alive in the chaos. Suddenly, he collided heavily with something larger and stronger than he was. Hammer in hand, he found himself growling dwarvish curses as he raised it to deal a killing blow.

Elbereth's teats! Jokim, have you gone mad in this mist? Haluin, help me with him, for pity's sake!" As Jokim paused in confusion, he felt an inhumanly strong grip lift him bodily from his fallen opponent, then place him none too gently on the sodden earth. "What are you playing at? Druri is missing and you try to murder Eldarin? What has come over you?"

Haluin's words brought Jokim up short. He planted the haft of his axe firmly in the ground, then half-collapsed beside it. "I-I didn't see that it was you, smith. I'm sorry. I thought you were..." He broke off, his words fading away into the mist.

As Eldarin wiped his bleeding lip, he came and crouched next to the older dwarf. " You thought I was what? An old enemy perhaps?"

"Something like that." he mumbled. Truth to tell, Jokim was ashamed. He had always prided himself on never losing his nerve, never over-reacting...and what had he done? Both, nearly killing a friend in the process. It was just that...it had all seemed so real!

"We have to find him."Jokim ground out. "If that lad is seeing half the things I thought I saw...Durin's beard, why did we ever come to this cursed place?"

Haluin motioned for Eldarin to go on ahead, then fell in beside his friend as they began their search. "If there is any blame to be placed, let it be on us, old friend. We elves-well, we...do not fear the creatures that dwell in darkness, nor the ghosts of those that have died. Perhaps one must have a finite lifespan in order to have such fears, I do not know. We will find him, that I do know!"

"And once we do, no more of this, Haluin. Do you hear me? No more! We are all we have in this world and I will not have him harmed, is that clear?"

"As miruvor, Jokim. Eldarin knows these old mounds and I have no doubt whatsoever that he will be able to..."

Suddenly, Eldarin's voice seemed come from all directions at once. "Haluin! Jokim! Here, quickly!" Jokim gnashed his teeth in frustration when he saw that Haluin wanted to run in exactly the opposite direction from where he himself thought the elf's voice was coming from.

"We can't just run off like headless geese!" And we cannot waste precious time, either. Be quite now, Jokim and trust me." The dwarf started to growl a reply, then clamped his mouth shut as Haluin's eyes fell shut, his face taking on a look that could only be described as serene concentration.

Where are you, tor-nin? We are not far, but this place plays tricks. Bring us to you!

Hurry, mellon! The lad lies under stone and only Jokim can save him, I fear.

Haluin's eyes flew open. "Follow me!" he cried, then turned and began to sprint uphill toward the top of the mound on which they stood. He had no fear that the dwarf would keep pace, for he knew that Druri's life depended on it. As they ran, Haluin explained to him the picture Eldarin had planted in his mind.

"Druri has been taken into one of the barrows, Jokim. There will be no earthly enemy for you to fight, but there will most probably be old magick about, for this was part of the Witch King's domain once and it is said, his influence still holds sway here."

"It's going to take more than a long-dead witch to take my nephew from me! Now just get me there!"

Within minutes, both elf and dwarf crested the top of the rise and stopped short. What they saw caused a shiver to crawl with frozen claws across even Haluin's neck. A large trilithon of standing stones stood bleakly atop the frost-rimed hill and there could be heard eerie laughter rising from beneath it, a high-pitched cackling fit to freeze the blood of any mortal.

Beside, lay Eldarin, his ear pressed to the cold earth as though striving to hear its heartbeat.

"Is he...?" "Nay, my morose friend. He lives, but..."

"Stand aside, stand aside! Leave this to me!" snarled Jokim as he pushed past Eldarin and began to access the stones before him. The dwarf slipped between the three standing stones, then dropped to his knees in the center, muttering. "Fine workmanship...well fitted..." Expert hands felt their way along the huge stones, feeling for any hidden joins that would allow him to enter the crypt beneath. "Ah! No...yes!" Then, with a sharp cry, he vanished from sight. Both elves flew to the spot and were greeted by a gaping hole.

"Jokim!" No answer. "Jokim, is he there? Jokim!" Again, no answer. A look of horror filled Haluin's face, then his eyes narrowed and he leapt down into the darkness below.

 

[Ghorim]

The fall into blackness seemed without end. And then, with a jarring crash, a muffled curse, a faint ringing in his ears, and the clattering of his axe into shadow... Jokim found himself on solid ground.

Instinctively, he rolled forward and reached toward the sound of his weapon. Groping, and groping... but there was nothing there on the cold ground. The axe had vanished.

No, it didn’t matter. Druri! He was on his feet in a flash, drawing the knife that he kept for skinning game. His eyes cut through the shadow, and he could see a long hallway before him, slanting deeper into the earth. A sickly green light colored the stone walls, upon which strange and twisted runes spelled out secret histories.

Somewhere, Jokim dimly perceived his name being called. But it was drowned out by that desperate loop in his head: “Druri! Druri! Druri!”

He dashed off into the tunnel, without thought of caution or strategy. His own safety meant nothing now.

Terrible visions harried and pursued him... the harm that might have already come to his young nephew. He felt those big round eyes staring at him, accusing him with their trust and innocence. Run faster! Faster!

As Jokim barreled deeper into shadow, he could sense a rising heat flooding the passageway. Not the balmy, languid heat of summer, but a sharp and aggressive crackle in the air. He remembered the fires of the forges where he had once apprenticed... the way the flames seemed to reach out and snap at you. But no, this was worse. Like whips cracking over the skin, from every direction.

The green light bled into red.

Jokim sped around a blind curve and skidded to a halt. His mind registered the sight ahead of him just in time for him to leap into a slight recess along the walls. A burst of pure flame engulfed the spot where he had just stood. The dwarf pressed himself tight against the wall, eyes wide and breathing heavily.

“I smell you, you hairy little rodent.”

No...

“I had always regretted that I allowed a few of you vermin to escape the Lonely Mountain.” A deep chuckle, and the walls rumbled. “Your nephew is with me now, beardling. Come and claim him, if you can!”

And another fireball shot through the hall, forcing Jokim to shield his eyes. He felt his heart ready to burst with rage, but a numb paralysis chained his feet to the floor. He could not move, only cling there in the tiny alcove like a drowning rat, and prepare for his final death charge.

Jokim was nearly set to pitch himself headlong into doom, when he glanced up and saw with a start that Haluin was standing before him. Right in the middle of the hallway, right in the line of fire.

“Haluin! Get back!” Jokim shouted, waving his arms frantically.

The Elf just stared at him, so strange and calm. “I have your axe with me, Jokim, but you do not need it. In this realm, your mind is the battlefield. But do not forget: they are your thoughts, though dark forces may besiege them. You are the master of this domain.”

“What sort of Elvish nonsense...” But another flash of dragon’s fire flooded his vision, and suddenly Haluin was gone.

Jokim blinked, startled. Was none of this real? And then he remembered the visions he had seen in the fog, how they had clouded his mind and led him to the verge of disaster.

The dwarf felt himself easing off his death grip on the walls, rising to his full height. Suddenly, he looked down and saw his axe in his right hand. Now there was a shield draped over his left arm. A sparkling suit of dwarvish mail encasing his body. And a helmet, with a slit visor, settled over his head. Jokim clutched his newfound weapons tightly, uncomprehending. But a warmth stirred within him, a fresh gust of courage that bore him out from his hiding place.

Smoke engulfed the hallway, but he could see those bitter eyes shining in the murk. A fearsome growl shook the earth and rattled Jokim’s armor. But the dwarf did not budge. He brandished his shield and cried out in a hoarse bellow.

“As a worm you lived, and as a worm you shall perish!” Jokim lowered himself into a crouch. “And let these be the last words that echo in your dying ear: Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!"

Before he could even charge three paces, a blinding light and rippling heat blasted through him. Jokim’s progress stalled, though his shield deflected the brunt of the attack. This time, the flames did not cut off, but only seemed to intensify. Sweat dripped into Jokim’s eyes; his skin flushed red and scalded.

With a muffled curse, he tossed the shield aside and ran harder into the flames. Now he could feel the armor melting away, could smell the putrid stench of his hair and flesh crackling in the naked heat. The pain was incredible; it coursed through his body in brutal waves. But he dashed on, harder than ever, seeing his goal within reach. For Druri, for Druri!

Jokim left his feet, flying through the air in a delirious pounce, and with what strength he could muster swung his axe for right between those two hateful eyes...

He missed. The axe cleaved air, and Jokim went hurtling into the far wall, with his left shoulder bearing the full brunt of the impact.

The dwarf groaned, rolling onto his side. His throbbing head felt ready to collapse... but he was alive. Not burned all over, as he had thought, just a bit sore from his collision with the wall. There was no armor and no shield, although strangely enough, he truly did have his axe in his hands. But most importantly, there was no dragon in the hall. No thick blanket of smoke. Only Haluin, who came running up to him with a poorly hidden grin.

“Bravo, Sir Jokim! Excellent work! The dragon is slain!”

“What... in the name of the Seven Fathers...?” Jokim began to stumble to his feet, and Haluin swiftly yanked him up the rest of the way.

“Explanations can wait! We mustn’t tarry, for I sense that Druri is near. And alive!”

Jokim’s jaw dropped in a spasm of shocked joy. And then, both he and Haluin noticed the large set of rusted double doors to their right. They looked ready to corrode from age, with the hinges bent at precarious angles.

The elf and the dwarf exchanged glances. “Shall we?” Haluin grinned, his cheekiness not forgotten even now.

 

[Ghorim]

With one combined blow they kicked the doors in, stirring up a storm of dust that shrouded the room beyond. When the debris cleared, they could see it to be a grand old atrium of some sort, once a beautiful hall, but now rotting from within. Dust and mold clung to the walls and the cone-shaped roof, obscuring an ancient mural. A great pile of ancient treasures lay heaped on one side of the room: scepters inlaid with fine cut jewels, great armored coats, and more jewelry and coins than could be counted. They might have tempted Jokim’s heart were they not so clearly rusted over and befouled with an unmistakable stench.

At the center of the room stood a marble slab, pure and blank as an unmarked tomb. And there upon it, dressed in a long white cloak, lay Druri, looking wan and feeble in the dim light. A shade in a hooded robe loomed above him, and now Jokim and Haluin could make out the dagger clutched in its hands, primed to thrust...

“Halt!” Haluin drew his bowstring and stepped forward, Jokim hot at his side.

The shadow’s head shot up, and Jokim immediately recognized the frigid gaze that stared back at them... the same eyes he had seen on the dragon moments ago.

A dry laughter surrounded them, like the sound of an old man’s final gasp. “You threaten us with your toys, Firstborn? Too far from home, too far from home! Be gone!”

“Unhand the boy and you shall have your wish.” Haluin drew the string tauter, and stepped just in front of Jokim to prevent the dwarf from dashing into peril.

“This?” The shadow hissed, long and deep, and let the blade of the dagger glide gently over Druri’s body. “What cares have you for this... dirt, and ash, and rubble? From dust to dust the circle turns, and ne’er the chain shall break.”

Haluin shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Your cold words do not touch my heart, damned one. It beats strong within me. Have you been lost so long that you have forgotten the warmth of life?”

This time, the shade cackled. “But you shall know this feeling, too, in time. For you are damned as we are damned, Firstborn! Forever lost to wander!”

Haluin’s composure appeared to crack for a moment, and hesitation stilled him. The bowstring relaxed by one degree.

But now a booming voice sounded behind them, and a gust of warm air blew into the room. “Not lost! And not alone! He has me.” It was Eldarin, standing proud and powerful in the entrance. A strange energy, a kind that neither Jokim nor Haluin had ever sensed, seemed to pulse from him.

The shade sensed it as well, and recoiled from the tomb slab with a groan. “Leave these halls! You are forbidden!”

But Eldarin had already begun the chant. Quietly at first, almost under his breath. The words were in Elvish... an old strain, almost forgotten upon the lands of Middle Earth... and they bristled with a terrific, ancient power. Suddenly, Haluin had taken up the chant alongside his kinsman. A faint, blue glow began to fill the room, cast by Eldarin’s sword and the tips of Haluin’s arrows.

So, too, did the blade on Jokim’s axe begin to glow, for it was forged by Elvish hands. And finally, the dagger that the shade held caught with the same blue light, for it was the same blade that it had stolen from Druri, the same blade that Eldarin himself had forged in Rivendell. A sizzling sound overtook the shadow’s hands, and with a shriek it dropped the weapon.

Haluin fired off two bolts in rapid succession. They shot through the shade’s cloak and pinned it to the wall. Its shriek had grown to an ear-splitting howl, which reverberated and swept throughout the atrium.

“Now, Jokim!” Eldarin cried above the din.

The dwarf had been absorbing all of these strange turns in a volatile silence, his heart burning and weeping from the sight of his nephew so close to death’s hand. When Eldarin called his name, he did not think twice. He raced forward, roaring with a fury to match the shade’s wails. Jokim leapt over the marble slab as though it were a fallen log, and brought his axe down upon the shade’s head.

The blade split the robe straight down the middle. A crack like thunder sounded, lightning flashed, and a gale of frozen wind whipped through the chamber. All at once, the centuries of dust and mold fell from the walls and the ceiling in a cascading tumult. Jokim and the Elves covered their mouths, shut their eyes and coughed. The room would have gone completely black, were it not for a skylight, now uncovered from grime, that shone down in a radiant beam upon Druri.

His cheeks were flushed pink again, and he too rolled over to cough up the dust that rained down on him.

Jokim turned from the tattered robe and fell upon his nephew in an embrace. “Druri! My nephew, my one treasure! Arise, I beg of you!”

He stood there, bent over and shuddering with suppressed sobs. All was silent. The last specks of ancient dust fluttered down from overhead like snowflakes.

And then, weakly, a little hand reached up and settled upon Jokim’s back. “I am here, uncle...”

 

[chrysophalax]

Few words were spoken as the four companions picked their way back down the eastern slope in the light of a pale pink dawn. Little light it gave and less comfort, for all except Eldarin were shaken by what they had experienced within the chilling hill of the barrow.

" He said you would die, uncle. A lonely, sad death and that I would be of no use to you." Tears hung at the corners of Druri's eyes, threatening to spill at any moment. "How could he say that? You know that I would never-"

"Hush now, of course I know! You're a good lad, that we all know, now not another word about it. And, Druri?"

"Yes, uncle?"

"There will be no more of these elvish tales, do you hear? They may be our allies, but they know little and care less for the likes of us, sometimes. Theirs is a different world."

Jokim had been shaken to the core by what had befallen Druri and now his latent suspicions and misgivings regarding the world in general had sprung to the fore. He would do anything to protect his nephew, no matter the cost.

Ahead, the elves stood silently, scouting the land below as the mist rose languidly, drifting ghost-like through the waist-high bracken.

"How should we proceed, Eldarin?" asked Haluin quietly. "We have been far too reckless in our course until now, it would seem and I could not bear it if one of you comes to harm."

The elven smith glanced at his friend sharply. "Do you blame yourself yet again? What a fool you are, Haluin! You did nothing wrong by asking me to tell a tale. If anything, it is I who should feel at fault, for I knew the dangers and did nothing to stop it." He snorted bitterly. "We know so much, do we not? Firstborn of Iluvatar! Ha! Much joy has it brought us!"

Haluin gripped Eldarin's shoulder firmly. "Were it not for you, Druri and possibly Jokim would be now be lost to us. It was you who saved them, not me! Like a child who trembles at every darkling shadow in the night, I listened to that foul creature and...I believed."

The pain in Haluin's voice made Eldarin's heart ache. "What I said was truth, tor-nin. I have sworn to walk at your side until Arda fades, if need be."

"A mad promise! You have left all you love, everything! For what? So I won't be lonely? Do I not deserve the punishment I am given?" Haluin's breast was heaving now and for the first time in his existence, he longed for death.

Anger flared in Eldarin's eyes as he struck Haluin a backhand blow that knocked him to the ground, his left cheek deeply torn by Eldarin's ring. "A mad promise? Aye, so it now seems to me as well! And no, son of the Greenwood, not all!"

Haluin was struck dumb, not only by the blow, but by the fact that he had unwittingly pushed his companion so far. As he watched Eldarin stalk away, he felt a dam break deep inside and wept bitter tears of regret as he watched the ages roll out before him, powerless to stop them.

The dwarves were nearly at the base of the hill, when Eldarin appeared beside them. Druri jumped, then chuckled uneasily. "I sometimes forget how quietly you move, Eldarin! " After a moment, the youngster looked puzzled. "Where is Haluin?" The smith gestured vaguely behind him and Jokim's eyebrows shot up. This was new!

"What has he done this time?" he asked in jest.

"It is not my concern." replied Eldarin stiffly. "By which route would you like to continue, Jokim? Do you wish to return to the Road, or do you prefer to stay out of sight?"

"I want to avoid as much attention as possible for now. We have enough food for at least three more days, by my reckoning."

"Very well. Then I suggest..."

Suddenly, Druri blurted out, "Where is he, Eldarin? What happened? It's not like you to act like this."

The elf closed his eyes, sighing heavily. "He said something that angered me and...I struck him." Jokim chuckled. "I know how you feel, smith! Many's time when we were travelling together-"

"No, Jokim, you do not understand! I gave my word that I would stand by him, protect him and instead, I have wounded him deeply. Ah, Valar!" he sighed as his shoulders slumped.

Druri glanced at his uncle, then put his hand in Eldarin's and squeezed tight. "Go find him, smith. We'll wait." rumbled Jokim gruffly. He knew the kind of loyalty Haluin could instill in those closest to him, as well as the depth of annoyance and that,usually, the former outweighed the latter.

"No need." called a hoarse voice. "I am here." Three sets of eyes flew to Haluin's face and Druri gasped, then yanked his hand out of Eldarin's. "What did you do?" he cried.

The bloody cut on Haluin's left cheek spoke of a future scar, a companion to the one he already bore and the black eye that was well on its way to forming, marred his handsome features.

"Durin's beard!" Jokim exclaimed. "I'm glad you're on my side." he said to Eldarin, who stood mortified as he gazed at Haluin's face. The elf started toward his friend, who held up his hand to stay him. "No, let it be. We've lost enough time. Lead and I will follow."

 

[Ghorim]

They retreated into themselves that day. The fog fled, yet something lingered between them.

Whole conversations seemed to unfold and fade without anyone speaking a word.

Boots crunched over wet snow and dead leaves. Dark clouds appeared to hang just overhead, within easy reach.

They forged into woods; the dwarves did not bother to ask their name. There was no road for this leg of the march, only back trails, unsteady under foot and gnarled by jutting tree roots. Haluin cut himself off from the rest of the party, blending amongst the trees as he scouted the forest. What he sought was unclear… but Jokim fancied it was time away from Eldarin.

He did not want to stick his nose into their little snit. But as much as he grumbled and tried to look the other way, part of him sensed that their feud ran deeper. Both of them were Elves, perhaps, but there was some sort of mismatch between them. Competing temperaments. They could not survive an eternity together, not even a year.

If they could not sort the matter out themselves, it would fall on him to fix. But what could he say? And he had Druri to sort out, besides.

The lad had sunken back into that tentative, haunted gait… the same one that had marred him in the months after the Mountain fell. It frustrated Jokim to no end. His nephew had made such progress, shown such inner fire along the journey. Now it was all dashed away, and specters seemed to dance before his eyes.

So when they stopped for lunch, Jokim pulled Druri aside. A great tree loomed beside them, with limbs spread like tentacles to snatch them up. Druri stared up at it, bewildered.

“Are you afraid?”

Druri did not respond, and kept staring up.

“You look at me when I address you.” Jokim gave the lad’s head a smack, dislodging his traveling hood. His nephew looked at him now, hurt in his eyes as he straightened the hood.

“Are you afraid?”

Druri looked down, but quickly remembered the force of his uncle’s hand and popped his chin back up. “I am not afraid.”

Silence. Jokim folded his arms across his chest in that fearsome old expression and stared down at his nephew. As if from leagues away.

“I…” Druri trembled all over. “I am afraid.”

“Of what?” Each word arrived like a blow.

“Of…” The lad cringed and made little fists of his hands. “Uncle, I heard those things in the darkness… and I saw them, too. It was you…”

“No.” Jokim knelt down and clutched both of Druri’s wrists. The fists crumbled under his grip. “No. You saw nothing but tricks in the mist.” Druri looked ready to weep again, and Jokim gave him a heavy shake. “Listen. It is said that a lie, well told, can have all the weight of truth in your hand. But when placed beside the truth, it crumbles into dust. The truth stands before you now, Druri. It is me. I shall fight for you, I shall scrap until my last breath to keep you safe. But you must show me that same strength.”

“But I…” Druri sucked in a breath and kept the tears at bay. “I could never be as strong as you…”

“Nonsense! When I was laid low in the Misties, you showed your mettle. Haluin told me everything. How you willed the both of us through to Rivendell. All the bravery that sleeps within you… it is there, but if you do not seek it, if you shy and flee from it, it shall wither.” He smacked Druri again, this time on the shoulder. “Now straighten your back and march at my side. We are nearly there, do you realize? Nearly at our new home. What shall they say if you arrive shivering and meek? Be strong! Be what you are!”

Only now did Jokim offer a smile, a tiny ember of warmth that seemed to light something in Druri. The lad took a deep breath, puffed out his chest and looked ready for battle. Jokim stood back to his full height, swiping at Druri’s nose in an affectionate gesture. Druri made a sudden leap, brushing his own knuckles against Jokim’s nose in a surprise uppercut.

By the time they returned to the Elves, they were engaged in a full-fledged play fracas. Jokim would turn the other way, and Druri would try to catch him off guard with a furtive smack. Retaliation, of course, was swift to follow.

As the dwarves walked past, jabbing and slapping at each other, Haluin and Eldarin stared after them. Then they looked at each other.

 

[chrysophalax]

The smith's eyes lighted on Haluin's torn cheek and glanced away again, sickened. The ring that had caused the injury had not stopped burning on his finger and he longed to fling it from him.

"So simple." whispered Haluin.

Eldarin started, then replied distantly. "Everything is simple for Men and Dwarves. They have so little time to sort out their differences, after all. While we, on the other hand, have ages.

Haluin shivered as his vision of time and time and time opened once again before him. "Ages. Do you know? Until now, I had thought long life a gift, but now..." he fingered his wounded cheek gently. "Now I am uncertain."

Concern wrinkled Eldarin's brow. "What else is there but to endure, tor-nin? I have pledged you my life, what else would you have me give?"

Long minutes as they walked side by side in the dwarves' wake, their hair bejeweled with snowflakes from a sudden flurry. Haluin's head was aching from confusion and pain. Ashamed that he had pushed his friend to violence and now would bear forever a scar as a reminder of his rashness, his thoughts gnawed at him. 'And well deserved, too. This is no way to repay such generosity of spirit. For once in your life, fool, think! Ease his guilt, or lose him. Simple.'

Abruptly, Haluin stopped, removed his pack and began rummaging around in its depths. Eldarin kept going for a few paces, then stopped, curiosity getting the better of him. "What are you looking for?"

"My bag of herbs. Go on ahead, I'll catch you up." With that he knelt down, dumping the contents out on the ground, muttering the while. "Where is that mirror? Durin's Bane, of all the things to lose now..." He continued on, carefully picking through several neatly tied pouches, in the end setting aside a small handful of leaves and berries.

Eldarin watched, fascinated. He had no gift for healing, but had watched Rivendell's healers work many times whenever there had been an accident in the smithy and never failed to marvel at their lightness of touch.

Out came a small mortar and pestle made of oak and as Haluin ground the berries, Eldarin moved closer, with Haluin still muttering beneath his breath. "Of all the times to misplace that mirror. Idiot!"

"Why do you need a mirror?" Eldarin asked quietly, as he sat down on a nearby rock.

Haluin's eyes met his and he sighed. "Because I can't see the wound without it, nor must I constantly ask for your assistance. In truth, I haven't seen many things and because of this, I have wounded you as deeply as you have me. Forgive me, mellon-nin, though I do not deserve it." He cast his eyes down lest Eldarin see the tears shivering on his lids and drew a deep breath as he continued making his paste.

Without a word, the smith stood and walked away, not sparing a backward glance for Haluin, who's tears fell unimpeded to the ground.

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

"Durin's Beard, where are those two? My stomach's flapping against my backbone and they have most of the food. Typical!"

Jokim's irritable words only served to amuse Druri, who had by now shaken off the last vestiges of the wraith's presence and was feeling more dwarf-like than he had felt in weeks. "Stop griping, uncle! You know Eldarin wouldn't run off with the food. He's not even very keen on it! Too "mortal", I'm guessing."

"Turned into a judge of character now, have you? We'll just see how far that gets you when you're back around your own kind, my lad!" Druri dodged a swipe at his shoulder easily, grinning roughishly.

"How far now, uncle? Will we bring Haluin with us? And Eldarin to, of course!"

These were questions Jokim had already been turning in his mind and some of the answers were proving difficult. "I'll ask the smith...if he ever shows his face again. As to the rest, I'm not sure, Druri. Just not sure..."

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

Haluin dried his eyes and looked down at his poultice. It looked right, all it needed was some... "Water?"

The elf jumped, grabbing for the knife he had laid on the ground beside him. "Eldarin? You came back!" he cried, relief and delight evident in his voice.

"Fool. Of course I came back. I know enough to know that all poultices need moisture of some kind. Give me some credit!" Chuckling, he glanced then at Haluin and saw not only his ravaged cheek, but that he had been crying and grabbed him by the shoulder. "What is -no...you thought I-Haluin, ah,Valar! When will you trust me?"

Silently, Haluin took the water his friend had brought to him and mixed his poultice, then, as he went to smear some on his cheek, Eldarin stopped him and did it for him. "You see? No need for a mirror, you're vain enough as it is! Come now, tor-nin. Our dwarvish companions will be starving by now and I have some news that will gladden even Jokim. The Golden Perch! A delightful tavern not too far north of here and just over the Bridge Shire-side."

They collected Haluin's bags and bundles, as Haluin drew a deep breath of fresh, snow-tinged air. "My thanks once again, Eldarin. What would I do without you?"

Smiling, Eldarin clapped him on the back. "You'll never know, Haluin. You will never know."

 

[Ghorim]

Kip listened, jaw clamped shut, as the innkeeper called him a sluggard.

Burter didn’t yell it. He never yelled. He would invite Kip over as one might a drinking chum, always with a smile, and explain to him how he was not fit to breathe everyone else’s air.

Normally, Kip would stare at some vague point below the keeper’s chin to avoid making contact with those winking, jolly eyes. But this time, he held his head up, stared straight at the old hobbit and took his lumps with pride.

“Now, for this evening! What say you dig a good sound hole out back, say six by three by six, and fill it back up?”

Kip didn’t say anything. He grabbed his axe, lifted it high above his head, and took aim at that broad, shining forehead…
“Kip!”

The crazed glow fled from Kip’s eyes, and he turned to see Grub scampering up the hill towards him. He turned back to where his master had once stood, and saw the log staring back at him dumbly from the chopping block.

“I’m busy.”

He didn’t like to be gruff with Grub, who was as sensitive a fellow as he’d ever met. But Kip had cocooned himself in one of those dreary moods, wanting only to dwell upon the ways in which he’d been wronged. Talking to Grub might actually cheer him up again, and he could never have that.

“No, no, Kip! You have to come.” Grub made it to the crest of the mound that stood behind the Golden Perch, and heaved forward with his hands on his knees. “Two Elves and two dwarves just walked in the door. Swear on me auntie.”

Kip had raised the axe again to continue his wood chopping for the day, but felt his arms go slack. This time he really gave Grub a good look. The two Halflings who worked as the Perch’s busboys seemed drawn as if to cancel each other out. Kip’s hair was sandy and shocked with wild curls. Grub’s was dark, straight, and clung to his forehead by an ever-present layer of perspiration. Kip had a slender, quick build, but with a knack for clumsiness and inventing new ways to knock things over. Grub moved slowly, but with an almost effeminate care and attention to detail. Kip was clever to the point of overlooking common sense, while Grub’s simplicity tended to keep him out of trouble.

They weren’t quite friends, but more like common sympathizers.

“You razzin’ me, Grub?”

“I ain’t razzin’!” Grub shook his head vigorously. “On me auntie, I swear!”

“You’re razzin’.”

“Ain’t razzin’! I’ll show ‘em to ya.”

“What, and have me abandon a job like this? And then have Burter come crashing down on me like a cow with wings? No, no. I’ve had his rear planted on my head too many times already.”

Grub rubbed at his nose like a sullen child. “Well he’s going to want you to serve ‘em…”

Kip had prepared to chop, but again hesitated. “So what, then, they came in separate? And at the same time?”

“No.” Grub folded his hands into his armpits to keep them warm. “Together.”

“Together?”

“Aye, you heard me!”

“Two dwarves and two Elves? Like a bloody bunch of farmhands, just lolling in for a drink together?”

“Well one o the dwarves is real little, ‘bout my size. Think he’s just a scamp.”

“So… hold on.” Kip finally put the chunk of wood out of its misery, splitting it in half with a clean stroke. Then he tossed the axe aside and walked straight up to Grub. “A scamp, you said? Don’t they all sprout of the ground at four foot high, with beards twice as long?”

“No, no!” Grub shook his head hard, as if the faster he shook the quicker Kip would believe him. “That’s what I thought, too. But he’s just like a lil puppy, sniffin’ everything out. You have to see!”

Kip took a step forward, but seemed to regret it instantly. “No, no… I’ve got all this wood, and…”

“It’ll be quick! You just have to see them. Bloody… I’ll do the bloody chopping if it gets you down the hill any faster.”

“You?” Kip turned suspicious. “You never do the bloody chopping.”

“Just come on!” Grub took Kip’s sleeve and gave him a surprisingly strong tug in the proper direction. Kip, being who he was, tripped over his own feet and made the rest of the journey down the hill in a tumble of limbs and curses.

Grub helped him back to his feet at the bottom, and the two lads snuck around to crouch just beneath one of the front windows.

“Gotta be real sneaky, now,” Grub whispered. “You know about Elves and how crafty they are.”

---

Inside, Haluin glanced over to Eldarin and muttered in their home tongue: “Should we pretend that we cannot hear them?”

Eldarin gave a half-glance to his companion. “That would be the courteous thing to do, yes.”

---

On a silent count of three, they peaked just over the brim of the windowsill and into the tavern. The first thing Kip saw were the two powerful, lanky forms of the Elves, rummaging through their supplies with creased brows. They weren’t at all like he expected. He imagined their skin would be glowing, and that they’d be wearing green tunics and have layers of bright jewelry all over them. Instead, they looked grey and tired and… dirty.

Then there was the little dwarf, who sat cross-legged by the hearth and stirred at the fire. Grub was right… if it weren’t for that little carpet patch of beard on his cheeks, he could have passed for a farmer’s broad-backed son. But there was something else different about him… in the way he carried himself… a certain pride and decisiveness to his movements.

As for the other dwarf, he sat in a red wingback chair that had its back to the window. All that Kip could see of him were a pair of enormous, dinged up traveling boots stretched out and crossed over one another in a lounging position.

The two hobbits crouched back down again.

“Well?” Grub hissed.

“Well what?” Kip rubbed at his chin, considering what he had seen.

“You gonna apologize to me?”

“Oh Grub. Get off it. I’m sorry if you can’t stomach anyone second-guessing you.”

“Mrrr….” Grub pouted, his lower lip jutting out. “Well at least you could thank me for takin’ the bloody chopping…”

“Why are you taking the bloody chopping, anyhow?”

“It’s that other dwarf. He’s a right terror, he is. Snortin’ and grumblin’ like a horse that nobody’s broken in. He could rip me head off and eat it with his toast and jam!”

“Oh shut up, Grub,” said Kip, but he was nervous. “Nobody’s that bad that ain’t a goblin or worse.”

“Well don’t say I didn’t warn you. ‘Cos Burter wants you in there servin’ them on the double.”

Kip tried to ignore that last remark. “What about the Elves?”

“I dunno. They’re all frilly and what-not. Don’t know how they got crossed in with the Beardfolk.”

“Well… why does Burter want me in there, at any rate? You’re better with customers.”

“I dunno.” Grub tried to draw a blank expression, but it was clear that he harbored great satisfaction for having ducked his duty. “Maybe he wants somethin’ else to ream you for.”

“Oh, well thank you so very much for that.” Kip put on the posh accent that always colored his sarcasm.

“Well at least you've thanked me for something!” And with that Grub started out on one of his little tantrums, standing up and stomping away in search of attention.

“Oh come now, Grub. Grub!” But his comrade had rounded the building’s corner, and Kip was left alone with the unappetizing prospect of serving four strange folk. He glanced back up to the window and rose to peek in one more time. This time he found himself unable to stop staring, his gaze fluttering between the newly arrived party and Burter, who stood frowning at the countertop behind the bar.

Counting every moment that it takes me to get inside, Kip realized. The thought should have spurred him on, but it froze him with terror instead. And so he stared and stared, imagining all the ways that this night could go wrong…

“Kip?”

He whirled about, and found himself staring Tilly Proudfoot right in the eye. She was bundled up in that perplexing purple coat of hers, lined along the edges with the fur of some tiny, defenseless creature.

Things, ludicrously, had just gotten worse.

Kip was gaping at her, but she was making every effort to look past him, in through the window at the source of his fixation. “What are you doing?”

“Just… inspecting… the window frames.” The lie was so lame that he could barely stumble through the words.

“What? Something of interest is finally happening at this little shack?” She began to move to the door.

“No!” Kip dashed into her path, and then realized how suspicious and desperate this looked. “No,” he began, more reasonably this time, “I’m just scared to go in there… ‘cause I’m late. I think Burter’s goin' to give it to me good.” He smiled nervously, congratulating himself at having told at least a certain version of the truth.

“Well,” she smiled, in a way that suggested more than idle amusement, “maybe I can distract him for you.”

“Tilly, no. It’s not that bad. I’ve weathered his worst.”

“Even so…” She stepped around him. Kip twitched in an attempt to stall her further, but realized he was making things even worse at this point.

Tilly Proudfoot, a member of the most notorious knitting circle in the eastern Shire, was about to stumble upon the juiciest scrap of gossip the region had seen in years. At this point, the terrible wheels already were set in motion, and trying to intervene would only get Kip crushed between their teeth.

 

[Ghorim]

She opened the door, and made a haughty assessment of the interior. After giving a polite whiff of a greeting to Burter, her gaze fell upon the hearth… and then she froze. The door hung open behind her, flapping limply in the early evening winds. After a few moments, the Elves stared up at her. Then the little dwarf by the fire. Then, from the red wingback chair, a growl arose like that of a bear awoken from hibernation.

The body in the chair swiveled, and all Tilly saw were two dark, tumultuous eyes staring over the chair’s back.

“You are letting in a draft.”

“Excuse me!” Tilly squeaked, spun around, slammed the door, jostled past Kip as if he were an errant tree branch, and went dashing off to town.

In an hour, the whole Shire will be here, Kip thought, watching glumly as Tilly’s strange, purple form vanished into the deepening shadows.

---

With a series of spectacular tumbles, cartwheels and flips, Kip’s eyes managed to avoid Burter’s. Nevertheless, he felt the temperature in the room rise a few degrees as the innkeeper stoked his ire. But so much the better: it canceled out the draft that Tilly had let in.

Kip flicked his serving apron off one of the pegs behind the bar, tied it around his waist, and hastened over to the hearth. The Golden Perch was a small establishment, with the busily stocked bar dominating the east end of the main space. Beyond that lay a cramped kitchen, where Myra the spinster cook toiled. The space between the bar and the hearth, which contained the main jumble of tables and chairs, measured only a dozen paces or so. As he weaved between the tight-packed furniture, Kip tried to imagine the whole town of Stock and all the farmers from the surrounding regions filling the room to see the Perch’s strange new guests. Then he tried to imagine four staff trying to keep them all merry and sated.

Disaster, surely, awaited them.

Thankfully, the room was empty at the moment, except for a regular who was shooting the strangers suspicious looks from his barstool. As he neared them, Kip tried to restrain himself from appearing similarly intimidated. He had to figure out which one of the four to address first. Instinct drew him toward the little dwarf, but that would have been patently ridiculous, so he made an effort to judge between the two Elves. Both had noted his approach and looked back to their supplies. But after Kip had stood there for a few gawky, silent moments, the one on the left looked up and gave a relieving smile.

“Yes?”

The Elf had a masked wound on his left cheek that Kip found hard to ignore.

“Eh… welcome to the Golden Perch. My name is Kip. May I be of serv… er… how may I be of service to our esteemed guests?” Kip felt a strong glare at his back.

“Ah yes, service. Wonderful.” The Elf clapped his hands, and looked to the dwarf child. “What does the stomach of our party have to say?”

The lad, Kip now realized, had been sizing him up… the way a cat might a bird on a nearby branch. “How about seed cake? Oh, and a big loaf of oat bread, with plenty of butter, please! There ought to be some meat, too… do you have any pheasant? And strawberry tart for dessert… and beer! Lots of beer, too!”

The Elves laughed in unison, and the one who had spoken before looked back to Kip. “This is our friend Druri. You must forgive him; he has nibbled on travel rations too long for his liking. By the way, does his appetite remind you of anyone? A relative, perhaps? We have always said that he eats like a hobbit.”

All of this merriment and cheer struck Kip like a refreshing splash of water to the face. He perked up — especially when Druri mentioned “beer” — and gave a grateful smile to the Elf. “It’s been said that my grand-uncle Roark could swallow a whole chicken and spit out the bones during his prime, and I’ve seen him clean three full plates in one sitting before.” He turned back to Druri. “But I’m afraid you’re used to finer flavors than we have here, at least when it comes to the pheasant. But... our cook Myra can whip up some tasty corned beef.”

Druri nodded vigorously. “Fine. But what about everything else?”

“Well… replace strawberry with apple and we can manage that tart for you…”

“And the rest?”

“I don’t see why not.”

Druri nodded again and looked satisfied.

Kip wagged a finger. “And just you wait on that beer. I’ve a special brew ready to come up from the cellar, and I’ll let you lucky lot tap the keg.”

The Elf gave a gracious cant of his head, and there was a sudden regality about him that began to conform with Kip’s imagination. “Thank you, Master Kip. We shall await our repast most eagerly.”

Kip nodded and just smiled stupidly at them for a moment, even daring to finally look at the older dwarf in his chair. He had expected a savage glare, but found only cool disinterest. The fellow made for an intimidating picture, though: weather-beaten and hard, with a slanted red nose and a great auburn beard that cascaded past his waist. His thumbs were hooked beneath his black belt, attached to hands that looked like they could pulverize iron and tear bricks from hardened mortar.

After Kip had stared at him for a few moments, the dwarf blinked his eyes. Somehow, that mere gesture was pointed and threatening enough to send the busboy hurrying on his way.

---

Myra was middle-aged, jowly and plump, the way any good cook should be, she claimed. Her tenure at the Golden Perch had outlasted a small army of busboys, and she adopted each new pair like a set of surrogate sons. She had never had children, or a husband, or even a determined beau. But scared young hobbits living away from home for the first time were drawn to her like stray cats to a welcoming doorstep.

Kip and Grub trusted her with their secrets far more than they trusted each other. Kip alone had enjoyed countless talks with her in the pre-dawn hours when they began baking the day’s bread, or in the evenings when he helped her with the dishes. (In five months of work at the Golden Perch, Kip had dropped and shattered three plates. Myra covered for him every time.)

She was in the midst of dicing up carrots into tiny cubes as Kip entered the kitchen. He went right up to her and sat on a barrel beside her workstation.

“Did you hear about the new guests?”

She did not look up.

“Oh, Grub managed to blubber something about it before he went out looking for you. And I’ve had a peek out the door.”

“Have you ever seen anything like it?” Kip leaned in toward her.

“Dwarves and Elves together?” She clicked her tongue. “Strange times, indeed. I knew that business with the dragon was an omen. You may live long enough to see eventful days, Master Kip.”

“Really?” He beamed, but then Myra fixed one disdainful eye on him.

“That expression is usually meant as a curse, you know… eventful days! One would hope that the Shire is quiet enough to be left alone in what’s to come, but I would not be so certain.”

He stared at her blankly for a few moments, after which she sighed and lowered her knife. “You've an order for me, I take it?”

“Oh, right!” Kip recited the young dwarf’s feast from memory, saving the drink order for last.

“And did you pass on the beer request to Burter?” She had grown used to him forgetting simple things like that.

Kip shook his head, and smiled to show that the oversight was intentional. “No. I think tonight calls for a special occasion.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, Kip…”

“What? It’s been fermenting for months down there…”

“Just because your uncle used to brew up warm goat’s urine in his cellar…”

“Oi! Uncle Roark’s brew was the finest in the Eastern Shire!”

“And he taught you everything he knows, I take it?”

“He did!”

“Well then you’re just as likely to poison tonight’s fine guests as satisfy them. And then what do we do, eh? Two dead dwarves and two dead Elves in our hall. We’ll have a pair of armies at our doorstep before you know it!”

Kip hopped up from the barrel and backed to the door, his face scrunched at this betrayal. “Well I watched Burter, too. And I read the books he keeps in the cellar about brewing. All of them. I was just following a recipe in one of them, is all.”

She sighed, and some of that matronly warmth returned to her. “Don’t be so cross. Go on, fetch your little keg. Just remember that Burter won’t need any more of a reason to thwack you if your batch backfires.”

Kip grinned and nodded, and hurried off for the stairs. What he hadn’t told her was that he’d added a few embellishments to the recipe in the book. An extra handful of hops, a different preparation for the barley… maybe something else, too, he couldn’t remember.

At any rate, it was his signature brew. And if anything was going to get him out of Burter’s doghouse, this was it. As he rolled the keg up one step at a time, Kip found himself humming happily for the first time in months.

By the time he slid back out the kitchen doors, the tavern was already beginning to fill up. All of the locals had made a point of sitting well away from the hearth, but there was no question where their attention lay…

 

[chrysophalax]

How amusing!, thought Haluin as he settled back in the overstuffed chair across the hearth from where Jokim was holding court. It's quite possible he could start a stampede just by belching.

Eldarin on the other hand was feeling less than comfortable. Never at his best in crowded places, he nevertheless felt a wry smile beginning to form as he gazed back at the gaggle of wide-eyed faces attached to even wider bodies, each clutching their pints as if they were talismans of protection against such...oddities. Leaning over, he whispered in Haluin's ear. "Surely they've seen elves before? Has been that long since last I set foot here?" A quick calculation told him that fifty four years had passed. "Hm. Most of them can be forgiven then, I suppose." he mumbled.

"Do you think the food is actually any good? I'm starving!"

"My dear Druri, look you at these good hobbits. Do any of them look under-nourished to you? Nay, my friend any inn that doesn't produce large quatities of food and more than passable beer would never last long in the Shire!"

Eagerly, Druri pulled a stool closer to where the eleves were sitting, heedless of Jokim's grumbling. "Tell me about them, Eldarin! Haluin mentioned that you have been in these parts before. What are they like..really?"

The smith smiled and several gasps were heard coming from the direction of a tableful of ladies, one of which was now busily fanning herself with her neighbour's bonnet. Jokim's eyes rolled almost audibly.

As Haluin chuckled, Eldarin regaled the lad with as much of the long history of Hobbitdom as he could remember, from their humble beginnings near the shores of the Anduin, to the long march westward in search of milder weather, to the various clans and families which now made up the Shire. "For many long years, when there was a High King, these lands were closely guarded. Not only by the men who now call themselves Rangers, but by Mithrandir as well. Ah!" He held up a hand to forestall the inevitable question. "Mithrandir is a wizard and here he is known as Gandalf. The Shire holds a special place in his heart for some reason know only to himself and even though these good folk do not realise it, there must be something special for one of the Maiar to take such an interest."

As the elf spoke many of the hobbits found themselves starting to wander in their thoughts, for even though many of them couldn't properly hear him, the manner of his speech had slipped into the familiar cadence of a seasoned storyteller, and while many of the ladies present made eyes at the elves, the lads hung on every word, inherently knowing that this was on of those moments that will never come again, the stuff of fireside tales for years and years to come.

"Here it is, good sirs!" cried Kip, nearly collapsing under the weight of a huge, fully laden pewter tray. "Corned beef and taters, a fresh loaf of oat bread, butter and honey. Local, that honey!" The companions inhaled and closed their eyes, salivating. The rest of the room fell to murmuring as the mood was broken. As they fell to, passing around bowls and dipping into the various dishes, Kip returned bearing an enormous pitcher of beer, his eyes sparkling. Jokim eyes lit with joy. "Is that the brew you spoke of, lad? Durin's beard! At last, something stronger than elf..." Haluin shot him a glare. "Anyway, your health!"

As Kip filled tankards, Jokim began gulping his down as though his life depended on it. Druri watched in awe, Eldarin in worry and Haluin with resignation as two more tankardsful swiftly followed the first. "'e can really hold his own, he can! Kip, is that yer brew? The one that..." Kip made shushing motions as he glared at his detractors.
"These are obviously customers who know a fine brew when they taste one!" he said proudly.

Meanwhile, the elves sniffed at it cautiously as Druri took his first mouthful. His face split in a wide grin and soon he was keeping pace with his uncle. With a shrug, Haluin and Eldarin followed suit and within half an hour the entire keg had been drained, to the sound of loud applause. "Is there another, lad? Thash, that's the best beer I've had in...hmmm...a long time!" exclaimed Jokim warmly. The young hobbit's face fell. "I-that is-no, sir, I don't. Sad to say, ye've drunk the lot. We do have many kegs of the house brew though."

As Jokim's face clouded, Haluin hurriedly pulled the lad close. "Run as fast as you can and bring us back a keg of your landlord's finest. Go!" Not needing any encouragement, Kip flew down the stairs and began to look through the barrels.

Haluin leaned across the table and grabbed Jokim's sleeve. "You have hit upon a treasure here, old friend! If you can get that dragon's breath exported..." The dwarf glared back at him for a moment, then as the elf's words sank in, he threw back his head and laughed, causing cats outside to hide and ponies next door in the small stable to throw their heads up in panic. "Not bad, not bad. You're startin' ta think like one a' me now, elf!" he said, putting a finger to one side of his nose. "Canny, canny! Now, where's that beer?" he roared.

 

[Ghorim]

Just as Kip brought over the next round of drinks with a stumble and a grunt, there arose a great commotion from outside, as if a brigade were massing on the inn’s doorstep.

Kip looked up in horror. The Golden Perch was already bulging at full capacity. He and Grub had brought up extra chairs from downstairs, and squeezed the tables together so that only the narrowest of trails led between them. For a patron to stand up from his seat, he had to ask someone at the next table to make room before backing up his chair.

What could Kip tell this latest group? To form a line outside?

Then that familiar face, with its enormous graying sideburns poked in the door, and Kip could almost relax. Almost, but not quite, because he knew that the Perch was about to descend into bedlam.

Marlo and his Merrymakers were the most popular traveling band of musicians in the Shire. Every innkeeper with enough coin on hand wanted to recruit them to play at his establishment every night. But Marlo, the group’s fuzzy-faced leader, did not approve of routines or schedules or knowing where he would bed down the next night. So he led his players — each one as wild-eyed and mischievous as he — on a zig-zagging route that defied any predictability. They were regulars in Bree, often seen in the mannish villages of Eriador, and rumors whispered that they had played before Elvish kings and dwarvish lords alike. Marlo may or may not have been the source of said rumors.

Even with the instruments on their backs, they could trek from one corner of the Shire to the other within a day or two. And when they arrived at an inn, tavern or even someone’s den, it was always unannounced.

So there came a gasp from the few at the front of the room who had seen Marlo’s entrance, and before the others could catch on, the old hobbit put his flute to his lips and played a high, piercing note. Now everyone looked his way.

“Eh…” he looked about the room, feigning confusion. “Did someone call for musicians?”

“HOOOOOOOO!” It was a physical eruption that shook the Golden Perch, as the spare beer mugs rattled underneath the bar and the pictures threatened to drop from the wall.

Marlo gave an eye-crinkling smile and bowed deeply, drinking in the attention as a seasoned performer does. Then he rose and gestured for the Merrymakers to file in after him. In they came: two fiddles, a lute, a clarinet, a viol and a big round drum, each borne by their players. They were all noticeably younger than Marlo. He had to keep the band’s roster this way: as his fellow musicians aged, they grew weary of the road and looked for places to settle down.

Marlo could not tolerate such a line of thought. Seemingly inexhaustible, he directed his players through the crowd with familiar gusto. Then he visited Burter behind the bar to share an enthusiastic handshake. The customary deal was that any innkeeper lucky enough to find the Merrymakers in his hall would provide food, rooms and a nominal fee in return for a night’s worth of entertainment. Oh yes… and plenty of drinks. No keeper had yet to refuse these terms.

“Frogs and toads!” Druri was peeking over the back of his chair from his knees. “Who’s that, Kip? It’s not Mith… er… Mithrrr… er… Gandalf, is it?”

“No, of course not!” Kip shook his head with a little smirk. “You’ll find out soon enough. He’s no wizard, but he might be the next best thing.” And with that, he had to rush off to serve another table.

Jokim had given the commotion a faint ounce of interest, but had returned his attention to cleaning out the bottom of his tankard. But now Haluin tapped him on the shoulder.

“My dear dwarf,” he began, which was Jokim’s first signal that something terrible awaited him. “… I suppose now is as good a moment as any to unveil a little surprise that I’ve been saving for you.”

Jokim made a noncommittal grunt — his grunts came in many shades, as Haluin had learned.

The Elf reached down for his traveling pack, and plucked out a leather case almost as large as the pack itself. It took another poke from Haluin to draw Jokim’s gaze, but nothing more to hold the dwarf’s attention. He had seen this case before: marked along the fringes with Elvish script and clasped shut with silver hinges. Haluin did not even have to open it, but did just for show.

Inside was the same fiddle that Jokim had played in the Hall of Fire, at first as a private concert for his companions but soon enough for Lord Elrond himself.

Jokim looked up incredulously. “You stole this?”

“What? No. You are much too much, Jokim. It was Elrond’s final gift to me before I parted his realm. He said to pass it on to you, on the condition that you continued to practice your scales. You have some talent, he told me, though it may be raw…”

“And you carried this all the way from Rivendell in secret? Why did you not hand it over to me?”

“And have you complaining all the way about having to lug about so useless an item? You singe my ears enough as it is with your grumbling!”

“Well… eh…” Jokim brooded, and then made a rare, self-effacing smile. “Perhaps you’re correct.”

Haluin smiled back. The Perch’s excellent beer had made quite the impression on his old friend, it seemed! He had seen Jokim drunk on only a few occasions, all of them back in the Rohan days, and knew that the dwarf’s moods could swing any which way once spirits were in play.

He wouldn’t say that Jokim was drunk yet — although the dwarf had a head start in that direction. But at least tonight it seemed that the suds were brightening his mood.

Of course, that was before he took the fiddle out of its case to look it over, and one of Marlo’s Merrymakers spotted him doing it.

“Oi, Marlo! We’ve another musician in the house!”

The band was setting up on a raised platform in the back corner of the room, well away from the hearth, but the fiddle’s glossy finish had glinted in the firelight and caught the lutist’s eye.

Marlo broke from testing his flute to follow his comrade’s outstretched finger. “Ha ha, so we do!”

The night’s crowd, which had funneled all of its attentions toward the band, now seemed to collectively swivel toward the hearth. Jokim froze up and tensed like a cornered animal. The lady’s table, headed up by Tilly Proudfoot, broke into excited whispers and giggles.

“You, sir!” Marlo called across the room. “You with the beaver pelt on your chin!” Hoots and laughter rocked the Perch from side to side. “Come on up and join us! We could always use another for the fiddle section.”

Jokim stood, fiddle and bow in hand, and cleared his throat as if to deliver a royal address. “Well, sir, you must understand…”

“That he’s the dwarvish fiddling champion, and he refuses to play with any rank amateurs!” Who else would it be but Haluin, fanning the flames with a gleeful abandon?

Were there not so many witnesses, Jokim might have flung the Elf into the hearth at that moment, but now it was far too late. Marlo was laughing and gesturing furiously for Jokim to step to the stage, and patrons were already making way, with some even coming forth to pull the dwarf in the proper direction. Even Druri was at his uncle’s back, grinning and pushing him forward.

Only Eldarin, sunk back in his chair and looking eager to disappear, seemed to empathize with Jokim’s pain.

 

[Ghorim]

Once they finally had managed to install him on stage, Jokim’s ruddy face had gone colorless. Haluin shook his head. The same warrior who could send whole companies into retreat with a roar was deathly afraid of public performance!

The two fiddlers yanked Jokim into a huddle and began explaining the melodies to him, while Marlo stepped forward to address the antsy crowd.

“Ladies and gentlemen… what a pleasure it is to return to the Golden Perch.”

A great cheer went up at the name.

“Stock has been right kind to us on many an occasion, and don’t think such hospitality has gone unnoticed! But I’m not much one for speeches. How ‘bout a tune, eh?”

Thunderous applause.

Marlo glanced over his shoulder to make sure his men had the dwarf sorted out, and he got an affirmative nod from his lead fiddler. After Marlo turned back to face the audience, the fiddler gave Jokim a wink.

“Remember, if you’re not sure where we are, just play a C!”

“I heard you the first time.” The hairs on Jokim’s beard seemed to bristle, and the fiddler took a discreet step away from the dwarf.

“Alright, then! Now I want to see all those mugs and flagons and whatever it is you’re drinking out of up in the air!” Marlo’s voice took on a grand, booming tone, and all the patrons obeyed his orders.

He counted off for his musicians, and then they launched forward at a nimble gate: the drummer pummeling his instrument, the hobbit fiddlers dueling with harmony lines, the lutist’s fingers dancing along his strings, the viol sawing stubbornly, and the clarinet taking a soaring lead. Jokim drifted to the back of the stage, near the violist, and copied him note for note.

Marlo played the role of rabble-rouser, encouraging the crowd to sway their drinks from side to side as they held them aloft. With teeth gritted in anxiety, Kip crawled along to clean up the downpour of sloshed drinks that threatened to stain the floorboards. Grub, meanwhile, began placing eight mugs of stout — one for each musician — on a pair of trays just off the stage.

“Sing along if you know the words!” called Marlo, and soon had a legion of backup singers as he began the tune:

“With stumblin’ steps, I make my way,
Into places unseen.
Through valleys, over mountains,
And all lands in between.

But even when the Eastern wind,
Chills me to my bones:

All roads lead home!
All roads lead home!
All roads lead home, in the end!

My father always said to me:
‘Son, never be bold.
Sit right here upon me knee,
And do just as you’re told.’

But as sure as the robin sings,
I was meant to roam!

All roads lead home!
All roads lead home!
All roads lead home, in the end!”

Druri nearly fell over from hopping along in time, Haluin had to grip his sides from the hilarity… and Eldarin still looked vaguely miserable.

As whoops and cheers rained down on stage, Jokim’s fellow musicians were all slapping him on the back.

“How about our newest player, eh?” Marlo smirked and raised his own hands to applaud. “I like the sound of three fiddles!”

Pushed forward to center stage, Jokim made a cursory bow and exited the stage… although he was sure to take his mug from Grub along the way. If he had hoped to avoid attention, though, he had failed: once petrified at the mere sight of him, all of the hobbits in the room were suddenly curious about this musical dwarf. A chant already had started up to get him back on stage.

Jokim groaned. Nights of revelry were always the hardest!

 

[chrysophalax]

Even as he resigned himself to a long night of revelry and drinking among the merry throng of hobbits, the like of which he could scarcely credit, given their stature, Jokim's thought turned to revenge. Haluin seemed forever bent on dragging him into humiliating experience after humiliating experience. It was time someone turned the tables.

"Marlo, my good hobbit!" boomed Jokim, his eyes fixed on the cause of his current predicament. "Are you aware that I am not the only guest musician in the common room this evening?"

Both elves whipped their heads around to face the stage, even as all eyes began to search the room. Who could the dwarf be speaking of?

Eldarin began rubbing his temples. "If he thinks for one second..." "Nay, Eldarin, peace! I do believe Jokim seeks to return the favour I so graciously bestowed on him. Watch!"

Even as Haluin spoke, Jokim was pointing in the direction of their table, making grand gestures and posturing dramatically as he shouted into Marlo's ear. The hobbit's face beamed as he peered through the smoky haze and his gaze lit upon Haluin.

"From Mirkwood, you say? Renowned singer, you say? Well, then! Let's have him up! What do you say, boys?" The fiddlers cheered loudly and Marlo turned to the crowd and began beating on an old pot (kept just for this purpose) for silence.

"Good folk of the Perch! Our good dwarf has been so kind as to inform me that we have yet another surprise awaiting us this evening. I have it on good authority that our next guest performer hails all the way from the forest of Mirkwood and has sung before elven royalty. Come, sir! Will you not sing with us?"

The ladies present began giggling as the tall elf moved gracefully toward the players, fully aware of the effect he had on the fair sex. He nearly burst out laughing at some of the comments that reached his ears. "Daisy, look at his hair!" "His hair? Look at his face! Those eyes..." "Eyes, ha! Look at his..." By the time he had reached the relative safety of the musicians, he was nearly in tears.

The elf's companions meanwhile, were all having mixed emotions. Druri was well on the way to being well and truly drunk for the first time in his life and therefore was delighted with everything. He had begun to applaud wildly as soon as Haluin had gotten up from the table and was still going strong. Eldarin was ill at ease. None of them had any idea who in the room might be aware of their situation and any mention of Mirkwood could spell trouble. and Jokim...well, he realised as soon as saw the light in Haluin's eyes that he had grossly miscalculated. The elf's love of attention and natural talent for enjoying life in general made it nearly impossible to embarrass him. So it was with a heavy sigh and a quiet chuckle to himself that Jokim moved aside and let Haluin take his place.

"What will you sing, my good elf? Will you need accompaniment?"

"O' course 'e will!" the crowd yelled.

"Of course I will!" replied Haluin with a blinding smile and Jokim rolled his eyes at the girlish squeals that arose from a group of ladies who had, oddly enough, been near the back mere moments before. The elf then took Marlo and his cronies aside and hummed a bit of the tune, confident they would be able to follow along. With a nod, they re-tuned, then looked up at him eagerly.

Haluin then nudged Jokim, winked, then turned to his audience, for of course, they were now his.

"The song I will sing for you now, is famous throughout the great lands to the South, Rohan and Gondor. It is the tale of three great warriors who fought there not so very long ago, but who live still in the memories of those folk by way of this song. Marlo?"

A few quick bars and Haluin began:

"Out on the plains,
Three riders seen!
One short, one tall,
One in-between.

When mounted up, they look unsteady,
But come battle they're more than ready!

With weapons drawn, as bold as kings,
They ride to fight the Dunlendings.
A Man, an Elf, a Dwarf: a team,
Defenders of the Rohirrim!

The first, Hengist, a warrior bold,
His strength a legend often told,
With mighty blows he hacks and cleaves,
To sweep away brigades like leaves.

Next Haluin, with merry eye,
Who could shoot gnats out of the sky,
His arrows sing their deadly tune,
And leave the battlements in ruin.

The last, no taller than a child,
But with his axe he fights like wild.
Called 'Jokim,' with a bristling beard,
A name and face most dreadfully feared.

They came from lands split far apart,
But through their deeds, they forged one heart.
A Man, an Elf, a Dwarf: a team,
Defenders of the Rohirrim!"

The crowd sat in stunned silence, then began banging thier tankards on tables, calling for an encore.

Jokim cringed. Not only had his plan backfired, but now as he played his way through the miserable song a fourth time, it dawned on him that the hobbits were determined to memorise the wretched piece!

"They love us!" cried Haluin as he bowed, then gestured to Marlo's band, who were busy collecting yet another round of free beer. Marlo sidled over to Jokim during the break. "Do you think he'd be willing to tour with us? The crowd seems to have taken to him!"

"Tempting as that offer is, master hobbit, we must be moving on come sunrise." replied Jokim. "In fact, we must all to our beds now. Your health! Come, Haluin."

Cries of dismay went up from all and sundry, but to no avail. The party dispersed soon after the strangers ascended the stairs and the landlord smiled with satisfaction as he counted up the coins in the till. Tonight would be a night to remember!

 

[Ghorim]

It was a busy night for the wheelbarrowman.

Marlo and his Merrymakers did as they were paid to do, and their tip jar filled up almost as quickly as their audience’s beer mugs.

By the end of the night, only the stoutest of liver were prepared to walk home under their own power. As for all the rest, either they had to find a (somewhat) sober friend to use as a crutch, or else they paid a call on the wheelbarrowman.

For a copper, he would whisk them off on a bumpy ride along the country roads, the moon lighting his way, only to dump them unceremoniously at their doorsteps. Whether they could crawl the rest of the way into bed was none of his concern.

“Wheelbarrowman, wheelbarrowman!
Wheeling them home as fast as he can!
Buy up a round, but save if you can,
Save up a coin for the wheelbarrowman!”

Or so the ditty went, anyway, and the Merrymakers were sure to launch into it each time the stout hobbit appeared at the front door.

For Kip and Grub, his every appearance was a blessing — it meant one less rowdy patron to please. They stumbled through the common room’s forest of limbs, maintaining a precarious balance with their serving trays.

With each spilled drop of beer, Kip felt Burter’s glare eating away at him. At one point, the innkeeper pulled him aside for a talk.

“I saw what you did earlier with that beer of yours.” Burter smiled wide and clapped Kip on the shoulder. His hand stayed there, squeezing tight. “A ‘special brew,’ eh? I’d never seen that little keg before. Believe me, my boy, I know every brew in my cellar, like a farmer knows his crops.” He laughed, spilling false warmth all over. “You ever swing a trick like that again and it’ll be a cold, cold winter for you. You hear me?”

Burter’s eyes crinkled. Kip nodded.

So he labored for the rest of the night doubly burdened, fretting about both his hectic present and uncertain future. And a long night it was — Kip and Grub were still sweeping up the main room long after the last patrons had tottered off into the night.

“Well, look at this way…” Grub grunted as he spoke, squatting and reaching under a table to pick up a half-eaten hunk of bread. “We got to see Elves and Dwarves and Marlo and his band, all in one night. If that don’t count for an eventful evenin’ in Stock, I don’t know what does.” He stared at the bread for a moment and then took an exploratory bite.

Kip snorted as he scrubbed at a stain entrenched on one of the tabletops. “Aye. But at least you didn’t have Burter breathing down your neck like some bloody…” He glanced up, and noticed Grub and his snack. “Oi! Are you eating that?”

Grub nodded and hunched his back defensively.

Kip sighed and put down his rag. “Well, give us a bite, would you?”

But before Grub could react, a great groan reverberated down the staircase. Both hobbits stared up, and heard a heavy footfall on the top step. Then another, with a second groan alongside.

“That isn’t…” A shaken Grub turned to Kip. “That isn’t the ghost you told me about…?”

“No, Grub. I was just razzin’ you that one time.”

The first thing they saw descending the staircase wasn’t a foot, but a blanket. Step by step, the figure revealed itself from the bottom up: it was that little dwarf, Druri, wrapped up in his quilt. He looked almost pale enough to pass for a wandering spirit, and his eyes were ringed and slightly puffy.

“Unnnnnnhhh…” He didn’t acknowledge the busboys, instead shambling up to the bar and mounting one of the stools.

Kip hurried behind the bar. “Can I help you, Master Druri?”

“A glass of water, please,” Druri managed, looking unsteady even while seated.

Kip had seen these symptoms more than a few times in his life, and knew exactly how to react. He fetched the water in a blur, and set it gently down in front of the dwarf.

“Thank you…” Druri sipped at it gingerly, closing his eyes as he did.

“Too much down the gullet, eh?” Kip folded his hands on the bartop and settled his chin atop them, looking up at Druri.

Druri’s eyes gave a prideful little flash, but it faded fast, and he nodded.

“Well, maybe it would help you to be in the company of friends?” Kip nodded over to the hearth, and Druri followed his gaze.

There, lounging comfortably and giving him waves of encouragement, were Haluin and Marlo. Druri gave a hoarse laugh.

“It might. Thank you.” It took Druri a few moments to decide how to safely dismount his stool, but he managed to get down and begin his journey to the hearth, water in hand.

Grub stepped forward as if to help him, but Druri held him off with a rumbling growl. Haluin had to suppress a smile. Jokim would be proud.

Marlo watched Druri’s approach with a curious sort of sympathy, taking a few contemplative puffs from the long pipe that reached down to his hairy feet.

“So a dwarf can overdrink, I take it? I thought their stomachs were forged of cast iron.”

“Be fair.” Haluin slapped his knees. “The lad is still building his tolerance.”

“What are the two of you doing up?” Druri croaked, curling up on the right side of the couch, opposite Haluin.

“Well, I was trying to convince your friend here to tour with the Merrymakers.” Marlo gave Haluin a wily look from his armchair. “The womenfolk seem to fancy him, and I’m well past the days when that was a given for me!”

“And I was politely declining.” Haluin smirked. “But I did intend to compliment your music and the fellows who played it. That one song, especially… ‘All Roads Lead Home,’ was it?”

“Oh yes, that one,” Marlo turned to the fire and blew a few gusts of smoke in its direction.

“I had meant to ask… did you write it?”

Druri had shut his eyes and was already beginning to drift off, but something in Haluin’s voice prodded one of his eyes open.

“I wrote that… when I was 21 years young.” Marlo didn’t look the same in the firelight, Druri noticed as he sat up. He wasn’t the entertainer anymore. Lines once invisible creased his face. “Which means I’ve been performing it for… well, let’s not say how long that’s been, shall we?” He chuckled.

In the quiet that followed, Druri looked to Haluin and saw that he was leaning forward expectantly, his lanky frame folding in upon itself.

“You know…” Marlo suddenly roused himself. “I wrote it… to convince myself that I had made the right decision. To leave home. It was just me and a few friends back then. It wasn’t the sort of thing that good Halflings did, then or now, you understand? Going off half-cocked on some adventure, playing music in taverns for bed and bread.”

“Would you say… you chose correctly?” Haluin looked away, and his face fell into shadow.

“I’d say… I did.” There was that little moment of hesitation. “Maybe I was scared then. But I’ve seen more of the world than the rest of my village put together ever saw. Met all sorts of people…”

Haluin turned back, interrupting. “But do you ever miss having a home? Or a family?”

“I couldn’t imagine having either — not now, after all these years. Like the song says, ‘I was meant to roam.’”

The hobbit chuckled again, in that agreeable sort of way that encouraged accompaniment, but he laughed alone.

“But you…” Marlo nodded to Druri, then Haluin. “You’re nearly at the end of your journey, aren’t you? The Blue Mountains, you said?”

Haluin said nothing, so Druri cleared his throat and jumped in. Even with his poor stomach in full revolt, he felt a jolt of enthusiasm. “Aye, we’re not far, are we? My uncle’s going to be an officer in the infantry there.”

“Ah! I could see that for him. Built like an ox.” Marlo nodded. “Tell him to keep practicing on his fiddle, though. One must not let such a fine instrument collect dust!”

Haluin suddenly appeared to snap to. “Knowing Jokim, he’d probably use it to prop open his door!” Druri had never heard Haluin laugh at one of his own jokes, but here he did, and a little too loudly at that.

The silence that fell then was total, and they could hear Kip and Grub grumbling from the other side of the room.

Haluin looked to Druri and then away again a couple of times before speaking. “Would you like to be left alone to rest, Druri?”

“No,” Druri shook his head and took a gulp of water. “Stay.”

“Perhaps a tune would help? I could play something restful.” Marlo pushed his pipe away and took up his flute, looking rather eager to please.

“It would be our pleasure.” Haluin leaned back, and exchanged another look with Druri.

And so Marlo began to play. Not the raucous lines of melody that he had blown on stage, but long and meditative notes. He sounded like a completely different musician, no longer having to show off for the crowd. Druri sunk back into the couch and listened to the gentle flow of sound. Again he looked to Haluin, and saw him staring off into the shadows. Thinking something over.

Quiet though it was, Marlo’s flute began to fill the hall. Even Kip and Grub stopped their bickering to listen.

On and on, the melody went. A lonesome sound.

 

[chrysophalax]

Memories are made up of two things. Things that make you grin for no reason, or things that make you long for a brain-numbing injury that completely removes the ability to remember anything in the first place.

It was in the latter category that Haluin now found himself. The soft minor that wafted from the old flute wrenched at his heart and he longed to rise from the comfortable depths of his fireside seat and follow the melody whereever it lead him, as far from himself as he could get.

Ah, if only it were that simple! he thought morosely. To simply remove one's self from the vicinity of one's recollection and there it would remain, never to haunt one again. Alas, the one place where this might be possible, I am forbidden to go! And why? Because of my cursed impetuous nature! How many people in my life have warned me against my own nature and have I ever deigned to listen?

The obvious lack of an answering voice spoke for itself and he ground his teeth, then a thought occurred to him. He might never be able to right the wrongs in his own irredeemable life, but he could most certainly lend a hand where his friends were concerned. Haluin found himself suddenly abashed. Was he, had he always truly always been, that self-centered.

Looking down at his left hand, the shiny one, he grimaced and turned away. Not because he disliked looking at it, but because of the fact that it had been a gift. A gift made for him by one of the most selfless beings he had ever known. Ruefully, he chuckled. Selfless and selfish, what a pair we make!

"Haluin, mate! What in all of Arda are you thinking of? Your face looks like the Misties just before the snow flies. What's goin' on in that a' yours?"

"Memories, my good Marlo, memories. Wicked things, all. Begone with them, I say!" he cried, waving his arms like a conjuror. Marlo snorted a laugh and Druri began snoring.

"He's an easy one to please. Wish all my patrons were that mellow!"

The elf smiled as he looked over at his sleeping companion. "Our young Druri has seen a lot for one so young. Wargs, mutilation, treachery, betrayal and all that since joining my company, sadly." Marlo's eyes grew round, his ears almost visibly pricking forward. "Aye? To tell the truth, master Haluin, to look at you, I'd never a' thought you make so interesting a travel companion as to have seen wargs!"

A dangerous light flared in the elf's eyes as he sat forward and with a flourish, bared his left arm. Marlo's jaw dropped at the sight. "M-may I touch it?" Haluin nodded curtly. Gingerly, Marlo's fingers prodded the arm and upon meeting cold metal, he flinched back. Haluin grinned at the reaction as he fluidly flexed his fingers. "How? Who? Um...."

"Not at our most articulate are we now, my dear hobbit? Believe me, it is indeed a story worth the hearing...however, not this night. Suffice it to say, should we ever meet again, I'll be glad to not only share my tale with you, but possibly lend my services as well, if only to give your young tenor some assistance. He tends to break on the high notes, sadly." This last was said with a wink and Marlo collected himself. "I may just take you up on that, Haluin. You're a good sort, you are! Now, I'm off to shut my eyes for a few hours before we return to the road. Rest you well!"

As the hobbit packed away his fiddle and left for the soft hay in the stables 'round back of the inn, Haluin stooped and lifted Druri easily in his arms. Behind him, he heard the tentative clearing of a throat. "Will ye be needin' anythin' else, master elf?" asked Kip, rag in hand.

"Thank you, no, Kip. After I've put Druri to bed, I'll be going out to walk. Feel free to lock up as you need. Oh, Kip?" "Sir?" "Remind me to talk with you before we leave. I have a business proposition for you!"


The stars that blanketed the night sky greeted Haluin as he emerged from the inn, stretching limbs cramped from too much sitting. He smiled, laughing up at them as they hung there, twinkling fairy-like above him. Filling his lungs with air, he took in the odd smells of cow dung, chickens and happily, the faint scent of gooseberry pie, freshly baked.

With the road shining before him in the light of a half moon, he pondered, tempted. But, no, not now. Not when the journey was so near its end. He could not simply walk away into the night as he so longed to do. No, not now...not yet. Suddenly before him, a shadow detached itself from a small copse of trees a sort way from the road. Curiously, it beckoned to him and Haluin being Haluin, well, he began walking toward it, intrigued. Elven sight being what it is, there was never truly any mystery. What actually interested him was why this person was here. Now. Wishing to talk with him.

"Master Eldred! What brings you to this quaint little village as the snows are threatening to fall?"

A heavy sigh, followed by a plume of frosty air was his only answer for a few moments. The man waited until Haluin had reached him before speaking, his hand drumming all the while on his sword hilt.

"Do you always wander about so...freely? 'Tis well that we keep a watch hereabouts, else I fear your forward progress would soon be hastily impeded."

Haluin tilted his head slightly, as though to view the man standing before more accurately. "Good evening to you as well, I'm sure! And yes, I do wander about freely. Why should I not, on so grand a night as this?"

Eldred made a sound similar to an impatient growl deep in his throat as he moved closer to the tall elf. "You are far too reckless! Can it be that Eldarin has not warned you that your delightful little company is travelling close by where our people make their way to Cirdan's shore? It would serve you well to stay better concealed for the final stage of your journey. We Rangers are sadly fewer in number than in decades past, so we cannot provide as much protection as we once could. All our thoughts are for the small people of this land, though they scarce realise it. Take care, elf. Use your head for once and stay clear of the Road the rest of the way!"

"I-of course. Believe me when I say, I had no idea of the danger and I thank you. You had no need to give us any warning at all." He made as though to continue, but Eldred stayed him. "Make me no speeches, Haluin. Let me just say, this is a debt re-paid and leave it at that. Fare you well, son of the Greenwood!"

With that the ranger slipped seamlessly back into the shadows, leaving Haluin troubled and saddened. Quickly he turned his steps back to the inn, where he scrambled up the thickly twisting vines that covered the front of the building. Once up on the roof, he lightly danced his way across its peak to the window of the room he shared with Eldarin.

Naturally, Eldarin, was awake, reading whatever he could get his hands on. At the sound of the window sliding open, he glanced up sharply, then relaxed as Haluin eased into the room.

"Honing your burglary skills,mellon ? I have said it before, you have spent far too long with-"

A look stopped him mid-sentence. "What is it, Haluin? What has happened?"

"You remember our friends, the rangers? Delightful lads, with not an ounce of good humour between them?" He waited for an affirmative sign before continuing, then proceeded with a rush. "I've just met young Master Eldred, who has informed me that we travel too near the Road for his liking and are likely to be spotted by those of your kin who are westward bound. Why did you not inform us of this? It might be that if we had strayed across this pathway of theirs, we might stand in violation of Elrond's edict and our lives would be forfeit. Mellon, I cannot risk that, if only for your sake." He stopped then, gazing quizzically at his friend. "Eldred also said something that intrigued me. He said to consider it a debt re-paid when I thanked him for the warning. Do you know what he means?"

 

[Ghorim]

For the first few moments, Eldarin acted as though he had not heard Haluin’s question. He licked his forefinger and turned the page of his book, even perusing the first few sentences at the top of the next section.

Of course he knew he would have to put the book down and answer. Haluin was watching him with admirable patience, and feigning sudden deafness would not do Eldarin any favors. So he reached to the bedside table, taking the carved slice of bark that served as his bookmark, and put down the volume.

“A debt, of sorts. You would have me tug at your ears all night with the story?”

Haluin smiled, shutting the window behind him and settling onto the cushioned seat beneath the sill. “I do not tire easily, mellon, and refuse to live trapped in silence. And on this night, I would not risk waking a pair of dwarves just for the sake of conversation.”

Eldarin allowed himself a brief laugh and stood from the bed to stoke the fire. “Or any other night, for that matter! Well, so be it then. But I shall tell it short.” The fire poker was shaped like a halberd, and as Eldarin thrust it, the embers danced as a host of fireflies stirred from slumber.

“Our friends of the woods fancied themselves rangers long before they were prepared to bear such titles and responsibilities.” Eldarin stepped back from the fireplace, but did not sit down. “You call him ‘Young Master Eldred,’ and young he is indeed, even all these years after I first crossed his path.” He paused, and stared into the fire, memories dancing before his vision alongside the flames.

“He was perhaps Druri’s age. And at that age, I suppose, all three of our races are much the same. Impulsive, overeager, blind to lurking danger. Eldred was slight as a child… sickly, even. Born two moons too soon. He was an object of scorn and derision from the other youths in his village. You would not know it to look at him now.”

Haluin nodded. “He has labored for every pound of muscle, I imagine…”

“But as a child he wanted everything on his plate immediately, respect most of all. So one autumn night he struck his grand idea — to hike into the Misties and slay an orc, and return with its head. That would show the others his mettle, yes? And into this quest he roped Hurod, one year his junior, ever obedient. They took their father’s chipped and battered old sword and stole off into the night. Their village was near the foothills of the mountains, not far from where they accosted us the other day, in fact.”

“When, then, did you sniff out their trail? And what had brought you so far afield from Imladris?” Haluin had drawn himself to the edge of the cushion, watching in his mind as the two boys struggled up hills and tried to carry a man’s sword between the two of them.

“Ah, you leap ahead of me in the tale! But yes, I sought the same prey. My rotation on scouting duty fell that month. And besides, one of my fellows had claimed more notches on his bow from orcs slain, and so I sought to better him.”

“A friendly competition, of course?”

Eldarin snorted. “Of course.”

Haluin folded his arms with a grin, wondering — and not for the first time — why Eldarin and Jokim didn’t get along better than they did. “Go on.”

“Well, I can see from that leer of yours that you have already guessed half the tale. The boys did not know it, but they were the hunted that night. A nimble little scout had caught their scent, and scuttled along behind them on a ridge overhead.”

“But then your bow sung out in the still of the night…”

“No.” Eldarin shook his head forcefully. “I waited.”

Haluin furrowed his brow. “Whatever for?”

“I wished them to know how close they were to death. I could have easily dispatched the orc in silence, and they would be none the wiser to the lesson as I dragged them by their ears back down the mountain.”

Haluin grew pensive, for now he recalled the orcish scout that had come so close to harming Druri.

“You risked their lives for a lesson?”

“I saw little risk in it. The fiend never left my sights. The lads never knew true danger.”

“And yet…”

“I waited for it to pounce, yes. It chose to announce itself with a snarl and a short drop. It landed before them, and I watched from a nearby outcropping as Eldred fumbled with his father’s sword. His hero’s moment came, and he panicked. Hurod, too. He could only stand as still as stone and wail. It leapt at them, cudgel raised, and now Eldred’s scream joined his brother’s. ‘Twas only then that I fired. The bolt struck its throat, and the spray was enough to cover both of them in black blood.”

The wind shrieked in a fierce gust outside the window; the inn creaked and shifted in the night.

“What did you say to them…?” Haluin still looked uneasy.

“Much as you would expect. That they were fool boys playing at men’s games, and that the orcs would be roasting their headless bodies on spits had I not been there to intervene.”

Haluin shook his head. “And why are you not a father, Eldarin? You have such a way with children, it seems.”

“Jest if you will. My actions and words won their loyalty. There would be more lessons to come after that. I did not preside over their entire education as rangers, but I set them on the path with their first steps in tracking and stealth.”

Haluin chewed on these words for a spell, leaning forward with his good hand arched over his temple. “But surely this was after you had sworn off Men as untrustworthy? So why then bother with two of their lot, and a pair of unpromising striplings, besides?”

Eldarin paused, and let the silence stretch for several moments. He seemed to be hunting for just the right words — no others would do. “To see… if they could be molded. Into something I could trust.”

“And you succeeded.” There came no immediate response. “Correct?”

Eldarin stared at him. “I can see where you wish to steer this talk, Haluin. You will say that Eldred and Hurod have proven that all Men are just, deep down beneath their flaws and foibles. And yet I saw them as they were: two overzealous boys, who stole from their own father in search of proving their idiot might. Is that not the way of Men, neatly shown in one night of foolhardy adventure?”

“But did you ever stop to think that they were only that way because they had never known better?” Haluin stood and walked toward Eldarin, arms extended. “You are not the first to speak such thoughts. I heard the same arguments many a time in Thranduil’s halls. ‘The way of Men.’ As if it were a river, flowing ever toward the same sea. We as Firstborn hold ourselves above such folly, or so we think. But why is life granted us if not to steer them toward truth? Your ranger friends do not prove all Men good — even a trusting fool as I can see it is otherwise — but they do show that all Men have the capacity to learn, if someone sees the worth in them to teach.”

The two Elves were face to face now, Eldarin still holding himself erect and not ceding an inch. But his eyes had grown clouded, looking past Haluin to consider his words.

“I lack your faith in them. I do not think an eternity of us bickering could sway me otherwise. And yet I hesitate, if but for a moment.”

“Then tell me this — we have nothing if not time. Why do we not use it to bring light to the Men of Eriador? If neither of us can win the other over with words alone, let us see from experience who is correct. You and I — we can teach them of herblore, of metalwork, archery and swordsmanship, the ways of trees…”

Eldarin put a hand to Haluin’s shoulder. “Now you are being borne away by the sound of your own words, pretty though they may be. Men will break your heart, again and again throughout the generations, should you leave it open to them.”

Haluin smirked. “The same may be said of the Naugrim. Ha! I know it has been said, in every Elvish hall I have ever visited. And yet where do I find myself? My staunchest ally, yourself excepted, has a waist-long beard and stands no taller than my chest. But I have seen harder steel from Jokim than I have in most of the Firstborn.”

Eldarin waved his hand. “You are comparing sheep to horses.”

Haluin laughed. “That is a Mannish phrase, is it not? Look at you now, Eldarin! You are becoming one of them.”

“Hmm.” Eldarin gave a slight upward curl with his lip, but returned to the bedside to fetch his book. “Perhaps you would be better off conversing with the dwarves, after all.”