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Chapter Text

There was something not right about the river.

He walked forward slowly, taking in the mist that hung above the river. It was a usual thing, the mist, but that night it seemed heavier.

His heart whispered to him and dread weighed it down like lead.

Something moved in the mist, drifting slowly down the waters of the Anduin. It was white, ghostly. Were his eyes deceiving him?

With careful steps, he descended down the stairs from where he had been standing at watch on an old, crumbling walk built in the days of Osgiliath’s prosperity. He dare not take his eyes away from it, lest he lose it in the mist and be left with questions without answers.

The bank of the river sloped gently down to the water. He didn’t question why as he waded out into the firm, but gentle, current. The white object, glowing in the light of the moon, came closer to him, and he saw that it was a boat.as

It was of a kind he had never seen before. It was carved from a wood he had never seen before, and as he reached out to stop it, it was lighter and sturdier than any boat he had ever seen. Then he looked into it.

A cry rang out across the waters before he fully took in what was in the boat. He didn’t realize it was he who cried out—because his brother was there in the boat.

Boromir, his brother.

Dread mixed with sorrow and he couldn’t breathe.

Boromir, oh Boromir!

His brother’s face was whiter than the moon, his hair pooling around his head. He was dressed in the same armour he had seen him leave Minas Tirith in, and his hands were clasped over his chest, the hilt of his sword, now broken, held between them.

His tunic and mail were punctured with many holes, stained with his blood. He was so still, oh so still.

The sound of chirping birds drew him from the depths of sleep, and he found himself lying on his bedroll in his pavilion.

It took him longer than it should have to piece himself back together, his mind empty from sleep. It was a blissful half an hour before he remembered what he had seen the night before. It was another half an hour, filled with despair and disbelief, come back come back come back, before he was able to even begin to swallow back some of the tears that wet his cheeks.

He had prayed long and hard, night after night, for the safe return of his brother, since the day Boromir had ridden out of the High Stables and out of Minas Tirith, on his way to Rivendell. But as he stepped out of his pavilion and went back down to the water’s edge, where his brother lay in the boat, he realized that Illúvatar had chosen not to answer his prayers.

Boromir’s story had ended upon the Anduin.

But Faramir felt that his was only going to get worse.

Chapter Text

Some would say that choosing to find shelter in the old ruins of Dale on the doorstep of winter was the worst decision one could make even though they had no other choice. There was no welcome under the eaves of Mirkwood. They could only hope they could find succor from the dwarves now in the mountain. Though they knew the dwarves didn’t have food, they had shelter, they had warmth.

Grandmothers whispered of the great forges of Erebor, how their mothers and grandmothers had told them of how they fed warmth into the mountain. The forges were the beating heart of the Lonely Mountain, just as the King’s Jewel was its representation.

Children sobbed for such warmth, and it broke Bard’s heart.

Ancient vines were pulled down from walls and broken up into kindling as people tried to forget the terror and the loss of loved ones who were consumed by the flames of Smaug. Old trees that somehow escaped the flames of Dale’s destruction were broken up into logs and distributed amongst the campfires spread out around the old marketplace.

Most did not want to look at flames so soon while the remains of Esgaroth still burned, but they knew they needed the warmth. They grinned and bore it while the curious that were able to put the sorrow and shock to the side for a time went and explored the long-abandoned food stores that had been deep enough underground to not be disturbed by the heat of Smaug’s desolation.

They were able to find some wine, dried beans, and honey. They had to melt snow and soak the beans for what felt like hours before they became remotely palatable, and they had to ration what they found as Dale had burned during the midst of the growing season and there was only a small fraction of what was left from the year before.

The food would run out. They were going to starve. His children would starve.

He looked over at the fire where Bain, Sigrid, and Tilda sat. They were putting on their bravest faces, but he could see the sorrow and worry in their eyes.

Days passed. Vetureisa, October, began, and the air chilled further. Food dwindled.

And then the elves came.

Dale’s crumbling streets were filled with soldiers gilded in golden armour, and carts filled to the brim with food followed them. Bard found himself shoved into a position he never dreamed he would stand in, despite being the descendant of Lord Girion. King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm would only speak with him and expected him to control those underneath him even though he had no experience in leading.

Up until he slew the dragon, the most he had done was go back and forth, picking up empty barrels from Mirkwood and dropping them off in Lake-town, eeking out a living so he could feed his children. He could wield a bow almost as well as an elf, but he had never used it against another sentient being that had, up until recently, meant no ill will towards his people.

The stress that came afterward, the parley with Thorin and the Company, the meeting with Gandalf the Grey and watching as the halfling who had brought them the Arkenstone in hopes of helping the dwarf who had descended into madness was almost shoved over the parapet and to his death—it made the almost starvation he had witnessed seem paltry.

And then there was the fighting.

Dwarves from the Iron Hills came to fight for the Lonely Mountain, and the elves engaged. With every order Thranduil shouted while holding him and his people back, Bard wished he could rewind time.

There had been enough death.

By the time it was all over, after the orcs came and nearly killed them all, after Thorin, Fíli, and the young Kíli who nearly died inside his home, had been slain by their enemies, Bard felt empty. It had scooped most of whom he had been out.

Nearly half of who escaped the burning of Lake-town had died at the hands of the orcs. The streets of Dale were filled with the bodies of the fallen, of orc, men, and elf.

He wanted to be angry at Thranduil when he learned that he tried to pull out of the fight before it was even remotely finished, but when he thought about it he realized that, if he had a choice, if there had been anywhere to run, he might have done the same, if only to save what was left of his people.

He couldn’t remember when he began to refer to the survivors of Lake-town as “his people”.

He began to come back to himself when his children came to him and sat with him by the fire. Once he was able to touch them, smell them, love them, his mind began to clear.

But then, he was swept up to the remains of the throne room, in which he had held council with Thranduil, and was forced to sit on the old stone throne by eager people who had claimed him as their leader. He watched, apprehensive, as an old man, a skilled woodcarver he recognized from the market of Lake-town, approached with a wooden crown held out before him.

It was a simple thing, with two points, one on the front and one on the back, and carved from mahogany wood. The sight of it sent panic through him.

Now he saw how the people saw him. If he had ever taken up his ancestor’s title, he expected he would be a simple lord. But here, now, it was apparent that the people had elevated to the level of king.

He didn’t want to be a king. He wasn’t king material.

But the people wanted a king.

And as the carpenter carefully set the crown down on his head, he realized all that had come before—the death and rebirth that had rocked the valley and lake before the Mountain…

That was the easy part of this new reality.

Chapter Text

Her fingers shook as she wove the thread back and forth, filling a night sky with navy blue. She could see the finished product in her mind’s eye. It came to her as soon as she heard the announcement, that there was to be a union between a dwarf of Erebor and an elf of the Woodland Realm, springing to mind, fed by the stories Fíli had told her of the love between Kíli and Tauriel.

Though her fingers shook, the paddle seemed to fly between the vertical threads. She hadn’t had much time to practice weaving before her life had changed, and she hadn’t been able to afford the supplies for a while, but her mother had taught her how before she had sadly passed when she was around ten years old.

As she finished the sky, eying how thick it was, she found herself marveling that both King Thorin and King Thranduil had managed to see past their former animosity. She knew it was logical that a dwarf would marry an elf to help with relations between their kingdoms, but she remembered growing up on stories of the Lonely Mountain, and she had always found that the dwarves were so secretive that she couldn’t help but feel that they held an extremely purist viewpoint on their bloodlines.

It was a miracle that Kíli was Thorin’s second heir. If Kíli had been his mother’s firstborn, this union most likely wouldn’t have been allowed.

The thought made her freeze, and she thought about herself. What about her? She wasn’t a dwarf either, and she was going to—

She squeezed her eyes shut, and forced herself to focus on what she was doing.

There were no worries. All obstacles had already been crossed.

She was almost done the ground and grass when the door to her weaving room opened behind her. Heavy footsteps entered as she considered the shade of grey-white she wanted to use for the stars, her hands never ceasing in guiding the green thread back and forth.

She only paused when strong arms wrapped themselves around her shoulders from behind. A strong kiss landed on her shoulder, and she leaned into it was a content sigh.

“Hello, Fíli,” she greeted.

“Hello, amrâlimê,” he whispered back, the beads of his mustache braids gently tapping against her cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he reached forward and gently touched her work-in-progress. “You did this?”

She playfully smacked him with the back of her free hand, landing the soft blow on the front of his own shoulder. “Of course I did, silly!” she chuckled.

Chapter Text

“We will take back Mount Gundabad!” Durin VII exclaimed.

There was a chuckle from the tall, lanky figure in the corner of the king’s large study. Durin gave him a disgruntled look. “What? It’s a rightly probable venture!” the dwarf groused.

“That is not why I laughed,” the Man placated.

Durin squinted at the Man, his keen dwarven eyes allowing him to see the Man of Gondor clearly in the dark corner of the room where the light from the fireplace didn’t quite reach. The Man wore a hood like his Ranger brethren even though there was no need for it here in the mountain.

“It was your exuberance, Your Majesty,” the Man explained, his voice quiet. “If I didn’t know any better, I would think you were beginning to become tired of your position as King Under the Mountain.”

Durin snorted good-naturedly. “Durin’s Folk tire of nothing, Estelion. You have lived with us long enough to know that I was ready to become king.” After a moment, the cheer drained from his face, and he sat down heavily on the heavily cushioned chair near where the Man sat. “But the mountain calls to me.”

Estelion leaned forward. “How long has it been calling you?” he asked, his voice tinged with something akin to compassion.

The dwarf stroked at his chest-length copper beard, a genetic gift from his great grandfather, Dain Ironfoot. With a sigh, he admitted, “It’s been well nigh on fifty years now.”

Estelion’s eyes widened in surprise, reflecting the light of the fire to the point they seemed to glow. “Since only a year after your coronation?” he frowned. “The will of your people never ceases to amaze me, mellon nin.”

Durin waved him off. “Ah, cut the elvish crap, you know you can speak Khuzdul here.”

The sixth Durin since Durin the Deathless had been the first dwarf to ever have shared the secret knowledge of their language, and had only done so since Estelion was responsible for saving him from a chance snow-slide in his first year as King Under the Mountain. The snow was melting from the tall peak of the mountain, and a large sheet dislodged from the side of the Lonely Mountain and buried him and his entourage deeply, and killed their goats.

A grin lit up the young-looking Man’s face, made all the more wicked-looking as the white of his teeth shone in the firelight. “Fine, bahûnimê.” He took out his pipe and pressed some tobacco into its bowl, a thoughtful look overwhelming his mischieviousness. “But how would you get such a thing in motion? Not many may be ready to travel so far to reclaim a place that has been desecrated by orcs and wargs for so long.”

“They will rally,” he said, confident. “Mount Gundabad is our ancestral home. Orcs and wargs have been dwindling for hundreds of years, the mountain must be emptying.”

Estelion cocked an eyebrow. “You forget that the strongest and the swiftest come from Gundabad.” He reached up and finally pulled down his hood. “I have traveled to the Elderslade, have looked upon the mountain. It would make for an excellent fortress of the likes unseen in Middle-Earth. I fear that nothing but the undead would be able to liberate the halls of Gundabad from the scourge of the orcs.”

Durin’s curiosity was piqued by the Man’s words. The slight, almost invisible point to Estelion’s ears reminded he wasn’t completely a Man, and that elvish blood flowed through his veins—enough that Estelion would be able to attend his funeral before his hair was fully grey. “Were there any signs of life?” Why would you be visiting the footlands of Mount Gundabad?

All humour drained from the Man’s eyes. “The braziers at the front gates were lit.”

Durin let out a very dwarven curse, and he felt the plans that had come to him over the last week spiral off into a dark corner of his brain he had come to affectionately call “the space of not-so-good ideas”.

“Maybe you are right. The orcs and the wargs that come from Mount Gundabad are strong and swift,” he said, his shoulders slumping with a sigh. “It would be too much.”

Estelion stood, and crossed the space between them in two, long strides. Absently, Durin found himself marveling at just how tall he was, at almost two and a half times. It made him feel like a halfling. The Man planted a comforting hand on the dwarf’s shoulder.

“That has never stopped you before, balûnimê.”

Durin grinned up at him. “True, true.”

They would take back Mount Gundabad. And if he would come, he would welcome help from Estelion, son of Esteldir, son of Estendil, son of Elessar.

Chapter Text

Baldor the Hapless, breathed cruel whispers from the dark. That is what they call you now.

He couldn’t bring himself to move, only lay where he had fallen at the foot of that door, the one he was so sure would lead out to the sunlight. The pain in his legs had faded away long ago.

How long ago? How long has it been? It was impossible to feel the passage of time this far down under stone, where there was no sun, no wind, and the air felt stale and dry and never moved.

He was afraid to move. He didn’t want to admit it, but he couldn’t bring himself to move. The pain would return if he did, and he didn’t know if he had the energy to try.

Would he languish here forever, forgotten by the living? Death, even, seemed to shy away from him. Away from the door.

With tired eyes, he looked up at the door. He had done this numerous times before, trying to see if any sunlight leaked through the cracks, but nothing ever changed. As he stared at the ornate door, craning his head back as far as he could, he saw the building that rose up around and above the door. It was tall and imposing. Anger and hatred and frustration and despair seemed to radiate from it.

It was then that he realized that he had been deceived. He had become lost in the dark, turned around by the devils that roamed the Paths of the Dead. He was left here to die.

He was alone.

The scream of despair was loud and all-encompassing. He emptied all his feelings into until there was nothing left in him except for a hollow emptiness.

Why didn’t he just die already?

Get up! it was a shout from the darkness, but it was enough to send electricity through him. Terror ignited every muscle in his body, and his muscles clenched. He couldn’t move.

Irritation permeated the air, and a presence approached.

Baldor could barely breathe. He was living every man of Rohan’s worst nightmare.

I said: Get up!

“Leave me be!” he yelled, his voice sounding strange and echo-y. “Or kill me. You have broken me!”

There was a pause. Then, How could I kill you when you are already dead?

The air was sucked from his lungs, and he found himself scrambling away from the voice, on all fours, fight or flight screaming at him even as a wail ripped out of him. Dead? How could he be dead? He didn’t remember dying. He had been awake ever since his legs had broken.

But then he realized that he could see. He could see in the dark.

He didn’t have lungs. Nothing had come out when he had breathed out in his shock. He wasn’t breathing. He could see his hands, but he could also see through them. And through them…

He saw bones.

That drove him to his feet, and he scrambled back.

A familiar helmet sat on an empty skull. A familiar hauberk and trousers were draped over ribs and hip bones. They were his helmet and hauberk. His.

Those were his bones.

He was dead.

Where had the time gone? How had he lain there for so long without knowing?

The living walk the Paths of the Dead, the voice whispered, growing in strength and revealing itself to be the voice of a man.

“The living?” What did he mean?

Many men, bearing a standard such as the one that used to fly for Gondor, the voice stated.

Gondor…? Many men?

There was movement, the sound of marching feet. A tall man with an impressive sword, followed by a dwarf and an elf, lead an impressive group of men all dressed in shades of grey. One of the men followed ahead of the group, holding the mentioned standard high.

Baldor was awed at the sight of it, and hope shone in his soul for the first time in what felt like an age. He could follow them out! He could see the sun again!

He took a step forward, but then he realized his weakness as his ghostly legs gave out on him. He landed on his hands and knees with an echo-y grunt. The group passed him by and all the energy he had gained from his fright drained from him. All the fight left him.

You desire to follow them, the voice said, the words coming out more as a statement than a question. Yet you will not fight for the light.

Baldor panted for breath even though he couldn’t draw air. It was a strange sensation.

“How can you fight for something, when the fight has been beaten from you?”

The voice was quiet for a moment. Unacceptable. Get up. To give up now means my brethren succeeded.

Invisible hands shoved him from the side, forcing him to scramble up to his feet with a gasp. “Don’t touch me!” he exclaimed.

One of the men at the back of the group that had come marching through looked back, his steps slowing as a pair of cautious eyes peered about from under his hood. When he saw nothing, after seeing right through Baldor without seeing him, he turned and caught up with his fellows.

Follow them. I go to join my brethren at the Stone of Erech.

The presence faded away, leaving him alone in the dark. The electricity he had felt before surged through him again, with the sharp tang of panic flooding his mouth. He didn’t want to be alone in the dark.

It was enough to make him move.

He stumbled after the retreating sounds of footsteps, unable to bring himself to run. He could feel eyes on his back, but he did everything within his meager power to focus on his feet so he didn’t trip.

He couldn’t catch up, but he could see them. He followed them until they disappeared through a door, and he didn’t hesitate. With the last vestiges of his strength, he passed the threshold and out into the night. He didn’t stop until the valley opened up from the narrowness at the door, and he came within sight of a hill with a large black stone, carved in a perfect sphere perched on its summit.

It was only then that he was able to let himself collapse to the ground, and he sat there.

And he watched.

Up on the hill, after Aragorn, son of Arathorn had convinced the phantom of the men who had once betrayed his ancestor, one of the spirits would whisper to him of the lost soul he had found in the Paths of the Dead. One that wasn’t one of the a-cursed men, who had been a victim of both his pride and the treachery of angry souls, who had followed them out of the Mountain. Aragorn searched the vale around the hill, but never found him.

And even when he was king and he sought to set the Reunited Kingdom to rights, no one reported of the lost soul that had followed him out of the Mountain.

It wasn’t until he traveled to Edoras for the marriage of King Éomer to the Princess Lothíriel of Dol Amroth that he found any answers. And even then it was only a glimpse of a shape standing amongst the trees, bathed in the light of a full moon.

He saw him as they crossed into the Westfold, standing up on a hill. He was far from the little, weak soul he was told about.

Light seemed to shine from him instead of glow in the soft moonlight. He was dressed in familiar armour, but Elessar couldn’t put his finger on it. He felt rather than saw when their gazes crossed, but the mysterious figure broke it and ran off into the trees before Elessar could think to do anything.

It would be years before the questions he gained that night were answered.

Chapter Text

The rat exploded with a squeal.

Fíli blew at the tip of his index finger with a satisfied smile while Kíli clapped sarcastically.

“Well done, well done,” he snarked.

Fíli rolled his eyes, but refrained from snarking back. “I’m just glad I’m able to use my gifts again. I thought I would go mad before Uncle would let us use them again.

Both boys had been trained in their elements from a young age, and their abilities had become an integral part of their very beings. It had been like they were functioning with only one arm and one leg when they were unable to use their elements. Fíli couldn’t count how many times he had wished he could have burnt Azog to a crisp, or started a fire when they were cold and wet. But he hadn’t been able to because they didn’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention.

They could have really used a nice, warm, fire after they had fallen into the river in the Lone Lands.

“At least Amad will appreciate your efforts,” Kíli grinned.

Fíli rolled his eyes and went to quip back, but was interrupted by a quiet, “Who will appreciate it?”

As one, Fíli and Kíli turned around and looked down. It was Bilbo Baggins, and he had managed to sneak on them once again. It was what made him a better burglar than he even realized. Thankfully, they had been around him long enough that they no longer jumped when he suddenly appeared next to them.

Bilbo honestly didn’t realize that he was sneaking half of the time.

“Hello, Master Boggins!” Kíli greeted. Bilbo’s nose twitched at what had become a nickname, but didn’t comment on it. “We were talking about our Amad.”

“Starting to,” Fíli clarified.

“Oh?” the hobbit hummed. “And what would she appreciate?” Fíli could tell he was trying to comprehend exactly what a dwarrowdam would appreciate in these dark halls, probably basing a dwarrowdam’s likes and dislikes on what hobbit women preferred, since he had never met a dwarrowdam before. Then he noticed the smoking remains of the rat.

“Why, the eradication of the rats, of course,” Kíli replied with a devilish grin.

Bilbo pursed his lips together and didn’t take his eyes off the ash for a good long while.

Fíli lightly smacked his brother on the shoulder and gave him a chiding look.

“So…” the hobbit eventually drew out. “How… how did you… kill it?”

“With fire,” Fíli replied.

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “With… with fire?” He glanced around, almost as if he were looking at her surroundings in a new light. When he finally looked back up at Fíli, he was aghast. “How?”

The blond heir was happy to answer the question. To his right, he saw another rat, and he thrust his index finger in its direction. A ball of flames leapt from his fingertip and shot off towards the rat. As soon as it touched the rodent, it exploded with a shriek.

Bilbo jumped at least two feet into the air with a shriek of his own. He was practically vibrating when his feet touched the ground, and he had grown ten shades paler. For a moment he feared the hobbit would faint like he had when he had first read the contract.

“F-fire, you can wield fire,” he murmured wobbily. “M-most impressive.” He sucked in an unsteady breath. “I… I need to go sit down.”

The brothers watched as Bilbo quickly shuffled off, stiff with fear. Fíli worried that there was a chance Bilbo’s view of them might have… dimmed somewhat. They were going to have to make it up to him somehow.

Kíli gave him a grin that was slightly subdued. “I have a feeling that might have been a bit too much for our burglar,” he mused.

Fíli nodded. “Thank you for not showing him what you wield, brother.”

Kíli gave him a solemn nod before his smile popped back onto his face. “Aye, you’re welcome. I don’t know how he would have reacted if I froze one. Probably a less violent way to dispose of a rat, but no less jarring.”

Fíli laughed. “And don’t get me started on Uncle or Amad. Thorin’s blizzards are terrifying, and Amad’s ability to manipulate gold is both mesmerizing and frightening.”

Chapter Text

The air in the cave moaned. There was a draft somewhere, but he hadn’t felt the air move since they entered a couple of hours before. The sound made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

At times, it reminded him of breathing. But caves couldn’t breathe.

He did another headcount of their small company—the “Cave Company” as their scholar had taken to calling them—and breathed a sigh of relief. No one had gone missing since he last checked.

“Why would orcs come here?” asked Gilithdir, one of the younger Dúnadain who had joined in their mission. “I mean, it is empty, and it is one of the only caves in the Grey Mountains that isn’t infested with dragons or orcs that aren’t the ones we’re following—”

“Shh,” Halbarad breathed. He adjusted his grip on his sword and thanked the Valar that the air of the cave was cool, or he would have been sweating buckets. “Shepherd! Keep talking and you will soon find out why the orcs are here.”

A light chuckle came from the company scholar, Aurdan, but he, thankfully, said nothing. Instead, he shifted the pack on his back and marched diligently after their leader, Aragorn.

Gilithdir sighed. “Yes, Sentinel sir.”

It had been nearly a month since they had begun to hear whispers of nefarious plans regarding an ancient weapon that might be able to turn the tide in regards of Sauron’s influence in the North. They had followed the group of orcs that had been sent deep into Ered Mithrin once they had figured out where they were. But they had no idea what this weapon was—was it of evil origin or was it about to be corrupted? Was it crafted by the dwarves that once lived in those mountains? Or had it been hidden there?

Halbarad couldn’t suppress the twisting of his stomach as he let his mind go over why they were here, so far from their normal stomping grounds in the Angle and around Bree-land and the Shire. He thought of the hobbits he would see from his hiding spot among the trees, and wondered of what they were up to in his absence. He knew they had no idea that he, or any of his kin, were there, he couldn’t help but feel as if the whole routine of things had been knocked off balance by their dearth.

The only elf of their group, the healer Gúrthand, asked the question they were all wondering. “Will we reach the end of this cave before the end of the day? I do not wish to sleep where we will most certainly be ambushed by yrch.”

“Elves don’t sleep,” Aurdan quipped under his breath.

Halbarad focused on their surroundings, the only sign that he found the quip funny was the corners of his mouth quirking up slightly. Aragorn answered Gúrthand’s question as Halbarad carefully eased himself over a large and sharp-looking formation of glowing blue crystals that were almost finished sealing the tunnel. The only opening left was man-sized, Bree-man-sized, which was greatly smaller than a Dúnadan-man such as himself. He had to squeeze himself through, holding his breath so he didn’t accidentally impale himself on the crystal spikes.

He spotted black, tar-like blood on one of the spikes, and surmised that one of their quarry had cut himself on the unearthly crystal.

Once everyone had managed to squeeze through, and without adding to the blood on the crystal, Halbarad caught his young chieftain staring at the spikes. “What are you thinking, Strider?”

The young man scanned the source of the blue light, making his grey eyes glow like small stars. “Our torches will warn our enemies before we can even approach them. But will they pay attention to the familiar glow of the crystals?” As one they both looked up the tunnel where they were going to go. The passage, clearly carved out by water long ago, was fairly straight and seemed to keep going on forever. And it was periodically dotted with large formations of crystal. Most of them were blue, but some were purple, yellow, and orange. Aurdan muttered something about minerals and stone composition, but Halbarad didn’t pay him much mind.

Instead, he looked to his charge and gave him an approving smile.

“We should each take one of these crystals and leave our torches behind,” Aragorn said. He reached over and gently uprooted one.

Halbarad set his torch on the ground and pulled out a long crystal of his own, taking care to not touch anywhere that might have been sharp.

“The dwarves love to make gorgeous light fixtures out of these,” Aurdan remarked as he pulled a spike out.

With every crystal spike they pulled out, the hole they had squeezed through grew a little. It would make their escape a little easier if they had to run.

Once everyone had a crystal, they continued on. Halbarad couldn’t help but feel a little exposed by the light in his hand, which was both brighter than the torches, while also being softer. The light didn’t hurt his eyes, but he was sure that, if they had been standing in the middle of a field, they would’ve attracted every enemy in the area.

Halbarad caught Gilithdir staring closely at his crystal and wondered what he was thinking. The young ranger soon came back to himself with a gasp, giving him a hint of the possibility that he might have been thinking about his love, but he said nothing about where his mind had gone. He kept walking, as they all did, in single file.

With every step, they could feel themselves descending deeper into the earth. There was a weight to the walls that spoke of ages long passed. Whatever remnants of the dwarven halls that existed in these mountains either didn’t reach these tunnels or had been worn away long ago.

It was eerie and sad.

Eventually, they came to the end of the tunnel, and they crouched behind a large formation of purple crystal as the sound of raucous voices reached their ears.

Halbarad peeked between the crystals and scanned the room beyond. The tunnel they had come down opened wide, stretched out into a medium-sized cavern, where the rock had been softer. Near the center of the room stood their quarry, orcs.

He looked back at his fellow Rangers and gave them a nod. He held up six fingers, indicating how many were there. He then held an index finger up to his lips, reminding them they had to be quiet in case there were more orcs he could not see.

And they attacked.

It was a silent affair. They leaped out from behind the crystals and sunk their blades into the orcs. Most dropped without making a sound, but one squealed as its throat was slit. Halbarad held his breath and prayed feverishly to Illúvatar that the sharp sound hadn’t alerted any orcs that were ahead.

He could see that an even bigger chamber was connected to this one, bridged together by an opening at least twice as tall as he was and just as wide. It was an opening that yawned wide and left them awfully exposed. There was no cover to hide behind in this room, so there was no other option but to go forward.

In the next chamber, they encountered more orcs. They had been alerted by the last orc, and Halbarad had to wonder if Illúvatar had chosen to test him that day.

These orcs fell as easily as the previous ones, with Aragorn slaying most and showing Halbarad how capable and ready he was for a mission such as this.

He had been there when Arathorn had fallen in that skirmish against the orcs. The former chieftain, who had been known to the common folk as Grey-eye, had taken a large arrow of orckish make to his eye, but he hadn’t died right away. Once the orcs had been dispatched, Halbarad had crouched next to his chieftain in time to hear his final words. “Take care of my son. Take care of my wife. Take them to Rivendell where they will be safe. Guide my son when he comes of age.” Then he passed away.

Halbarad had done everything his chieftain had asked. At the age of 17, he shouldered the responsibility of Aragorn’s guardian. There was much discussion amongst the Rangers over who would take over leadership of the Rangers until little Aragorn reached his majority. It finally was concluded that the best candidate would be Arathorn’s second-hand man, and once that was decided, Halbarad and a group of men road for Rivendell. They traveled by secret routes and told no one of their errand, and by Illúvatar’s mercy they managed to arrive at their destination without attracting the wrong attention.

Wanting to succeed in guiding Aragorn as he had promised, Halbarad had chosen to stay in Rivendell, and established a lasting friendship with a boy. He had watched him grow, helped to train him, and established himself as a mentor of sorts.

And as Aragorn cut down one orc after another, Halbarad couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride. He could see a worthy leader blooming right before his eyes.

Not as much noise was made in this battle, thus when they advanced, they were not met by more enemies. There were enough crystals here that they were able to hide theirs in their packs. They moved like ghosts, their feet almost as light as a hobbit’s.

This chamber bent to the right in a slow and meandering manner before opening into a cavern that was so large, it wasn’t hard to imagine that it could hold an entire city. Massive pillars of stone reached down from the ceiling high above and stood proudly periodically around the room, holding up the roof of the cavern. Clusters of the crystals sprouted like blooms in different places and in every colour imaginable.

On the far side of the room, under a bright pillar of light that fell from a hole in the rock above, was a dais. And on the dais stood a stand that held up something small and hard to see at this distance.

Orcs meandered around the cavern, while a Man dressed in foreign robes studied the object on the dais. Halbarad studied the Man and quickly came to a conclusion that made the whole reason why they were there seem all the more dire. Why else would a Man of Mordor be here, leading a group of orcs?

A Man of Mordor would be trained in the Dark Arts. He was a formidable foe.

The Cave Company quickly scrambled back into the previous room, and regrouped. Halbarad let Aragorn choose what they were going to do next. The planning was quick but sound, and they rushed back to the cavern. Gilithdir, Aurdan, and Gúrthand moved as one and engaged the closest orcs while Aragorn and Halbarad sprinted towards the Black Númenórean.

The dark man heard them coming and whirled around. Taking up a sword and a scepter, he began to throw balls of fire towards them. They dodged easily and the flames sizzled and died on the stone behind them.

It was a dance of blades. It was clear that the man had been trained to fight two opponents and was one of the most qualified swordsman in the cave system. The orcs’ fighting skill was laughable at best, and because of that, the others were left to watch as their chieftain and his kin fought for their lives.

When Aragorn swung at the man, he blocked with his blade, and when Halbarad swung at him, he blocked with his scepter. When they met his swings with their swords, their wrists ached.

Halbarad’s heart sunk as he spun away to avoid a particularly strong swing from the man’s scepter. This man was strong, no doubt enhanced by some dark spell. They would have to work together, be more in sync than they were now, if they were to have any hope to defeat him. We need to distract him, he realized.

“Who are you?” Halbarad grit through his teeth, attempting to twirl his sword around the scepter so he could yank it out of the man’s hand.

The Man of Mordor chuckled and grinned at him from the depths of his deep hood. “Wouldn’t you like to know, my dear Ranger?”

Aragorn kicked up at the man’s sword hand and succeeded in sending it flying from his hand. But before it could clatter to the ground, the man held out his empty hand and the sword flew back to it, hilt-first. “If you must know, I go by Ugrutamar these days.”

Halbarad crouched and kicked at Ugrutamar’s ankles, hoping to bring him down. But the Black Númenórean easily danced away from his kick and stomped down onto his ankle instead.

Halbarad did everything he could to not let out a shout of pain, grunting as he quickly pulled himself away from stomping feet and slashing swords. Hands from the other Rangers reached down and helped him to his feet.

He limped over and positioned himself behind Ugrutamar’s back. He aimed for the man’s back and thrust towards him.

Ugrutamar whirled around and knocked his blade away. With that same hand, he thrust it towards him and Halbarad felt his feet leave the ground. Before he could really register what was happening, his back slammed into a nearby column of limestone. He slid down with a groan. His surroundings swam uncomfortably and his stomach did a backflip.

A blob of colour threw itself at him and searing hot pain sunk into his abdomen. This drew a yell from him, and another when something was yanked out of him. I have been stabbed! he realized with horror. Ugrutamar…he…!

His vision finally settled, and he looked up as heat pooled in his lap. Aragorn was putting it all into the fight, and Gúrthand had joined him, filling the space Halbarad had left. The elf was a skilled healer, yes, but he was also very good with a blade. And for that, Halbarad was grateful.

Though, they would need their healer. They couldn’t risk losing Gúrthand. They couldn’t risk losing their chieftain.

He couldn’t feel his legs. The pain in his abdomen had replaced the pain that had ached from his ankle—but he couldn’t move his legs.

I’m going to die, he realized. Something within him didn’t feel right. The blade had torn through something vital. It was going to be quick.

He looked at Aragorn again, coughing a little as he felt something warm and sticky creep up the back of his throat. I am sorry, melhon, he said silently.

He thought about Arathorn, and of Gilraen. He had promised that he would look out for their son, but this wound was of a kind that only Lord Elrond would be able to heal it, and he was not here. He cast his gaze about the large cavern. Would this place become his tomb?

As the battled continued to rage only a dozen feet from him, he felt himself begin to sink into himself. Darkness crept into the corners of his vision as his tunic and trousers were stained crimson.

“Well, well… This is intriguing.”

Breath seemed to leave Halbarad at the sound of the voice, and everything grew far away. It was almost as if he was in a dark room and that everything that was happening right in front of him was out a large window.

The voice was deep, and it vibrated through him like thunder. There was movement in his periphery, but every time he tried to look, he saw nothing.

“What do we have here? A battle in my lair.” There was a chuckle, deep and jarring. “Never in a thousand years did I think anyone would dare to come in here and try and take me.”

Halbarad was confused. Lair? He looked about as best he could, but didn’t see much. But what he didn’t see gold or jewels… or anything else that could be considered valuable. All he could see was the dais, and the thing that had seemed so important to the Black Númenórean and the forces of Mordor.

“And you, little man… You are mortally wounded.”

That drew a weak snort from him. What if I am? Was this what he was reduced to in his last moments? Delirious, resorting to talking to imaginary voices in his head instead of speaking last words or seeing whether or not his friends emerged victorious?

“You use bravado like a shield, little edan. It would behoove you to believe that I am quite real and that you are not in your death-throw dreams.”

Halbarad fell silent, stunned by the words. The inside of his head felt thick, like stew when barley had just been added. It was hard to think. What… do you want…?

“Good, very good.” The voice sounded pleased. “Asking the right questions. Do you want to know why I have chosen to speak to you?”

He looked over at Aragorn and Gúrthand and watched as Ugrutamar thrust his hand at Gúrthand. The elf went flying, but managed to control his landing and was back up on his feet in a second, much to his relief. Will you help?

“That remains to be seen. Will you listen? Will you have an open mind?”

He heaved a deep breath, the muscles in his chest weary already. Yes.

He got the impression that the voice was pleased with this. “That is a good little Edan,” the voice was more than a little condescending. “I will speak quickly, as we do not have much time.” The voice hummed. “That…thing on the dais—do you see it?”

Halbarad looked over at the dais, fighting to focus his sight. I see it. What is it?

“It is a scale—one of my own. I placed it there when I decided to enter into a long-lasting slumber. I have been asleep for a good long while, and all that’s left of me is in that scale.”

Halbarad would have gasped if he could. You are a dragon.

The voice laughed. “What gave it away? No, do not answer that, I can sense your answer.” Halbarad felt his vocal cords tighten of their own accord, and if he tried he didn’t think he would have been able to speak. “My name is Gostir. Who are you, if I may ask?”

His vocal cords relaxed after the voice finished. He knew what magic felt like when he felt it. Gostir. I know that name. You are a dragon of Morgoth, one of the Urulókë

“One of the dragons of Morgoth. Haven’t been in over six thousand years,” the voice, Gostir, corrected. “Never liked that Dark Lord, or the current one for that matter. They never saw me as anything other than an asset for their breeding pool. Pride had me leaving as soon as I saw a chance.”

Yet you willingly use your dragon-spell to try and influence me, Halbarad pointed out, resisting him.

“Have I?” Gostir purred. “Have I used that trick on you?”

Yes! I felt when you told me not to speak.

Gostir fell silent. Halbarad felt a small sense of triumph, but it was getting hard to breathe.

“I… I am sorry.” Gostir groveled. “It has been so, so long since I have spoken to anyone. And it might have been longer if the fighting hadn’t awoken me.” There was a pause. “I wish to make you a deal.”

Warning bells went off in Halbarad’s head. A deal? I cannot trust you!

“But you must!” Gostir sounded disgruntled. “You are almost out of time, good Edan. You wish to live, do you not?” He didn’t give him time to respond. “As do I. I assume you know next to nothing about me—that is because I didn’t go around burning towns and kidnapping helpless maidens. I came and I hid here in the Grey Mountains. I hid because I did not want to be taken advantage of again. I wish to live, for the first time in my life. This is the deal I give to you: I will help you live, to survive this, and you will show me what it is like to live.”

It was too easy. He didn’t sense any effects from any dragon-spell with these words. But he couldn’t trust this serpent. And he had no idea who he was, what he was like, and how would he even heal him? He didn’t know if dragons even could heal others.

But there was a selfish part of him rising up from the depths of his soul. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to leave Aragorn and his duties as a Ranger. He didn’t want to break those promises.

Would you be alright with a life as a Ranger?

“What is a Ranger? Are you a Ranger?”

It would be better to show you—but only if you do not betray me. Do you promise me?

Gostir hesitated. Halbarad didn’t like this. Promise me!

The dragon sighed. “I… promise.”

That is not very reassuring, Gostir.

There was a chuckle. “That may be so, but I was the one who gave their name first, and you have yet to give me yours. Names have power, Edan. As I see it, you hold all the power.”

Still, not all that reassuring, but… it wasn’t like he had a choice. He was out of time.

We have a deal, he finally said. What do I have to do?

And Gostir told him. A tiny trickle of energy entered him and reality snapped back into place, bringing him back to the present. He blinked a few times. There was more blood than when he had begun to succumb. Aragorn was flagging, but so was Ugrutamar. He would have to act fast.

He had to help Aragorn.

Slowly, he lowered himself to his side, and then to his stomach. His legs would not obey. He clawed his way forward. The sounds of the fight and the grunts of exertion were enough to cover up the scraping sounds he made as he inched across the rock.

At the base of the dais, he ran into a problem. He couldn’t make himself reach up, his arms were not long enough.

Fortunately, that dilemma was solved for him. Aragorn sent Ugrutamar staggering back, struggling to find his balance. The Black Númenórean bounced off the dais and caught his balance. The impact was enough to send the scale and his stand dancing off the dais and straight down into Halbarad’s waiting hands.

He took off his right glove and wrapped his hand around the scale, squeezing until he felt a sharp pain.

And then everything went black.

Aragorn stumbled back, and his heel caught on a numb of limestone. He went down. Ugrutamar advanced, panting at the exertion of their fight, but that infuriating grin was still on his face.

Gilithdir rushed at the Black Númenórean, but he was repelled before he could even get close. He landed in a heap several meters away, and didn’t move. Gúrthand glanced in his direction, but went right back to trying to draw Ugrutamar away from Aragorn.

With another thrust of his hand, Gúrthand went flying. Mid-air he crashed into a limestone column and fell, limp, to the ground.

“Your efforts of useless, young Ranger,” Ugrutamar chuckled, sounding breathless. “I will claim my prize.”

Aragorn climbed back to his feet and pointed his sword at the Man or Mordor. He didn’t like how his hand shook and jostled the blade.

Aurdan drew his bow and fired an arrow at the sorcerer. The arrow nailed him in the shoulder, and he cried out in pain. But then he blasted Aurdan back and sent him sliding into a wall. He then picked Aragorn up by the neck with his powers.

But as he drew Aragorn towards him, an almighty roar reverberated through the cavern, shaking straw-like stalactites from the ceiling.

Ugrutamar dropped Aragorn in shock, and swung around, searching for the source of the roar. He looked up just in time to see a massive head descend upon him. He only had enough time to scream before the massive jaws closed around him.

The scream was cut off abruptly when the dragon swallowed.

He wanted to scream, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t the one in control.

You ate him!

Gostir was practically purring. “Yes, yes I did.”

Halbarad reeled from what had become of him. This had been the last thing he had expected when Gostir had told him that he would heal him. But it should have been expected. Dragons never told the whole truth when they actually told the truth.

But he put his foot down. This is still my body, Gostir. I will not be going around eating people. Spit him up!

“But—”

“Rangers don’t eat people!”

Gostir whined at his words, almost like a kicked puppy. But he complied, to Halbarad’s immense relief. Swinging his massive head off to the side, Halbarad felt the tell-tale signs of something rushing up his throat, accompanied by nausea.

Ugrutamar’s lifeless body landed with a splat! on the stone.

That’s… disgusting…

“Believe me, it wasn’t pleasant for me either.”

Movement caught their sight in their periphery, and they turned to look. They were met by a sight that broke Halbarad’s heart.

The Cave Company was in pieces. Gúrthand was picking himself up off the floor, a trickle of blood running down from the back of his head, staining his white-blond hair. Aragorn looked dead on his feet, but still stood tall to face him, a new threat in his eyes. Aurdan was on his feet, his bow in his hands, and Gilithdir lay still, knocked unconscious in the fight.

Gostir didn’t know what to do, and thrust control at Halbarad like he had been handed the hot potato in the childhood game Hot Potato.

Halbarad knew what he had to do. Every Ranger could remember the stories of the “great” dragons—don’t look them in the eye. That was how they got you, how they were able to put the “dragon-spell” on you. So he looked down at the stone floor of the cavern and lowered his head until it rested on the stone. He then lay the rest of his body down as slowly and gently as he could manage.

These caves were not so empty after all. Was this what the enemy searching for? Maybe it wasn’t an artifact that they were looking for—maybe it was a dragon. Aragorn could remember Elrond telling him of the time when Gandalf had come to Rivendell when he was a young boy, leading a group of thirteen dwarves and one hobbit on a quest to reclaim the lost dwarven kingdom of Erebor from the dragon Smaug. Gandalf had worried that if Smaug was left to his own devices, Sauron would come along eventually and tempt the serpent into joining him.

Had Sauron once again tried to lure a dragon into his service?

“Stay back, beast!” the young chieftain cried. How could he have missed a whole mountain-sized dragon?

There was an intense urge to look the dragon straight in his grey eyes, and it took everything within Aragorn to not give in.

A low rumbling came from the dragon, and Aragorn steeled himself for the dragon’s next move.

What he didn’t expect was for the dragon to purposefully avert his gaze and slowly lower himself to the ground. His eyes, which had glowed like mithril, dimmed to a muted cool grey as he hooded them. The slate-blue dragon tucked his wings tightly against his sides and held himself very still.

“I am yours to command,” the dragon rumbled.

Aragorn’s mouth grew dry. What was he supposed to do now? …Maybe Halbarad would know.

“Halbarad, what would you do?” he asked. Confusion swirled within him when there was no response. “Halbarad?” He looked around, but saw no sign of his mentor. “Halbarad!”

He turned and looked back at the rest of the Cave Company, but only Aurdan and Gúrthand looked back. “Where’s Halbarad?” he asked them.

The sorrow on their faces, which he hadn’t noticed at first, only deepened at his question. “You didn’t see it?” Gúrthand asked.

Aragorn stared at him. “Halbarad was stabbed by Ugrutamar, yes, but he seemed fine when I last saw him.”

“He… he was run through, Strider.”

Gúrthand glanced past Aragorn, at where he had seen Halbarad slump to the ground. His eyebrows drew together when he saw that the spot was now empty, save for a large pool of blood. A trail of blood wound away from the pool, until it disappeared underneath the dragon.

Aragorn saw this also, and a white-hot fire flooded through him. He whirled on the dragon and pointed his sword at the massive serpent. “What did you do to him?!”

The dragon shut his eyes, and let out a weary sigh. “I did nothing.”

“Then where is his body?”

The dragon popped open one eye and looked at him. The strange keyhole-shaped iris regarded him for a long moment. Aragorn sensed no malice in it, but his wariness did not diminish.

“It is…” a gusting sigh washed over the Company. “Right here.”

A bright flash of white light filled the cavern. Aragorn winced, and when the light faded, it took his eyes a moment to recover. When he could see again, his heart leapt to his throat.

Where the dragon had been standing a second before, Halbarad now stood. But it couldn’t have been Halbarad—Halbarad wasn’t a dragon.

Aurdan inhaled sharply. The fire in Aragorn’s chest only grew stronger at this dragon’s audacity. “You would steal our kinsman’s visage?!” he seethed.

The dragon held up his human-like hands placatingly. “No, no!” By the Valar, he had even stolen Halbarad’s voice. How much more would his friend’s memory be defiled before they could mourn him?

Aragorn stalked over to him, daring to look into the serpent’s eyes now that he could look down on him. Later he would chastise himself for his recklessness, but this Aragorn was quite a few decades from the wise and steady leader he would grow to be known as.

“Halbarad would never have said yes to such evil as you,” he hissed, trying to ignore the sadness that bloomed in the creature’s eyes at his words.

“He would have if it meant he continue on with the oath he had made with your father,” the dragon countered softly.

Aragorn blinked at that statement. His heart did a flip in his chest. Not many knew of that oath.

The dragon slowly lifted shaking hands and rested them gently on his shoulders. Aragorn stiffened at the touch, but couldn’t bring himself to move. He didn’t sense magic in the dragon’s words, but… he couldn’t bring himself to believe them.

“Let me prove to you that I am your kin.”

Aragorn took a deep breath. “You are not my kin. Halbarad told you about that oath as he died.”

“I am Halbarad, son of Narubarad, grandson of Narudir,” the dragon proclaimed with emotion in his voice that Aragorn wouldn’t have expected from a dragon who was trying to deceive him. There was no malice or sick joy in his countenance. “I was told nothing for I said nothing.”

“Who was his father, and what was his alias?”

“He was Narubarad Narudirion, and he was known as Wayfarer by the common folk.”

“Who was his mother?”

There was no hesitation. “Gilithiel Aurchatheliel.”

“What was the year that he brought me to Rivendell?”

“It was the year 2933 of the Third Age, in the spring only two weeks after the last thaw.”

Aragorn found that he had to swallow hard in order to keep a straight face. A dragon couldn’t read minds, could they? “Do you know who I am?”

The dragon gave him a sad smile. “I do. You are my chieftain.”

His heart clenched and he couldn’t breathe. Could it be true? “H…Halbarad?”

“It is me, melhon.” There were tears building in those familiar eyes. Aragorn could feel some building within his own.

The young chieftain wrapped his arms around his kin before he could really think about it, daring to hope that he hadn’t lost the man who had helped raise him. “What happened?” he breathed.

“Ugrutamar mortally wounded me. I did not want to die. Gostir sensed this,” Halbarad explained as they pulled away from each other.

“Gostir?”

Halbarad nodded. “Yes. I assume that was why the orcs and the Black Númenórean were here. Gostir was a dragon—”

“A dragon of Morgoth,” Aurdan cut in, some suspicion lingering in his voice.

“—A dragon who was bred by Morgoth, yes, but was seen as nothing more as a pawn in Morgoth’s attempts to breed better Urulókë. Gostir left, I assume, before Morgoth could enchant him. We made a deal—”

“A deal?” Gúrthand interrupted with narrowed eyes.

Halbarad nodded patiently. “Yes, we did. Gostir healed me because I agreed to show him what it would be like to live.”

“So he could experience what it was like to be free,” Aragorn concluded.

“He promises that he will behave,” Halbarad assured, before his grey eyes lit up to a familiar mithril glow. When he spoke again, his tone was different, and his voice was a little deeper. “I promise, I promise!”

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. “Gostir?”

Halbarad’s visage grinned at him and gave him a sweeping bow. “At your service, Strider!”

Aragorn’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I will make this known now: I do not like dragons. Yet, I find myself trusting one with the life of one of my closest friends. Do not cross me or any of my Rangers, or I will be forced to do the one thing I could never imagine bringing myself to do.”

The look on Gostir’s face softened at this. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And that was how the Dúnedain gained a dragon-ally in the form of one of their kin. Halbarad was desperate to keep this new side of his secret, and Aragorn agreed that they would tell no one, as they were unsure how they would react.

The trip back to the Angle was a daunting task that loomed before them, full of danger, since they had traveled on foot for maximum stealth. Gilithdir needed to see a healer as soon as possible, and no one was really fit to travel so far after that fight.

Halbarad didn’t know how to fly, but Gostir offered the service nonetheless. They flew home, after they left the caves, of course. They didn’t think Halbarad would have been able to get out as a dragon. It took a couple of days to return to the Angle, which was better than the month and half it took to get to the Grey Mountains. But they had to take the long way around to the Angle so they didn’t draw unwanted attention from the elves.

Aragorn didn’t know how the elves would react. Only Galadriel would know right away that he was genuine, since she had the knack of seeing into one’s heart with ease.

Their lives returned to normal when they returned to the Angle. But Halbarad felt that he no longer knew what normal was. How normal was it for two minds to share the same headspace?

It wasn’t.

Chapter Text

A long, weary sigh whooshed out of Barliman Butterbur as he caught sight of a much-dreaded sight. A hooded figure, clothes dusty from the road, slunk from the door and into the tavern of the Prancing Pony Inn.

Rangers. Every time he saw one he was afraid chaos would descend on his establishment. Trouble seemed to follow on their heels. But he couldn’t afford to turn them away.

With wary eyes, he watched as the tall man stalked to a small table in the corner, and sat down behind it. There was a tall candle sitting in a stand on the table, and it cast an ominous light on the Ranger. His eyes glinted in the shade of his deep hood as a barmaid went over and took his order.

The maid brought the order to Barliman and he passed it to his wife in the kitchen. It was only a few moments before his wife handed him a plate heaped with mashed potatoes, some meatloaf, and some boiled carrots. Barliman then handed the plate to the maid, and watched as she took it over to the Ranger. Watched as the grizzled man gave her a smile and thanked her. Saw that he said something to her, and she giggled bashfully before she traipsed off to the next patron. He couldn’t hear anything over the noise of a full tavern.

Barliman forced himself to look away, and busied himself with his next customers. Two dwarves grinned up at him and ordered a room, and meals for that night and in the morning. Barliman eyed them suspiciously, finding something familiar about them, but he couldn’t remember why. Was it something about their garb or their hair? One wore a funny hat and had stylized his greying hair into two braids that curled stiffly upwards, had a thick moustache but nothing but stubble on his chin. The other had white-grey hair done up in an intricate do that was laced to his beard with thin braids. The more he thought about it, though, the more he began to remember the stories his grandfather had told him in the few short years he had known him. Hadn’t he told him about the day the dwarves had stayed in the inn? The air had been tense and a few of the local unfavourables had glared at them all evening.

“You look familiar, lad,” the dwarf with the funny hat said. He glanced at his friend, who shrugged.

The second dwarf regarded Barliman thoroughly. “Now that I think about it, he does look like him.”

“Like who?” asked Barliman.

The first dwarf stroked his stubbled chin. “Orman Butterbur.” He hummed. “But his bairn was named Sherman.”

Barliman stuffed his hands into the pockets of his apron and rocked back on his heels. “Sherman was my father. Orman was my grandfather.”

The dwarves looked at each other with raised eyebrows. “Has it really been that long?” the one with the fancy braids mused.

“It has been 77 years,” the one with the strange hat remarked. He turned to Barliman and tipped his hat to him. “Bofur at your service.”

The other dwarf bowed his head. “Dori at your service.”

“Welcome to the Prancing Pony, gentlemen,” Barliman greeted. “What brings you to Bree, if I may ask?”

“I’m looking for some new textiles to bring back to Erebor,” Dori said. “I’m a tailor by trade.”

“And I’m visiting family in the Blue Mountains,” Bofur grinned. “Not everyone moved to the Lonely Mountain when it was reclaimed.”

“That’s nice to hear,” Barliman smiled as he handed them a key for their room. “I hope you enjoy your stay at my establishment. The special tonight is my wife’s signature meatloaf with mashed potatoes and boiled carrots, and my personal brew is on tap. Just finished a fresh batch of my signature ale, so the taps are as good as springs tonight.”

Bofur brightened like a small sun at the sound of a bounty of alcohol, while Dori seemed more enthused about the meal. Barliman watched as they quickly tromped off into the tavern, and then went into the kitchen to see how his wife was doing.

The kitchen was hot and busy, despite there only being two occupants in the large room. His wife and Nob scrambled to keep things cooking and the fire roared in the fireplace.

“How's it going, Agnes?” he asked his wife.

The woman, who’s angles had grown soft in her age, handed off a basket of potatoes for Nob to go clean and peel, sighing as she went and rinsed her hands of the dirt. “It seems to be alright, Barli—but I’m still considering that we need to hire another kitchen hand. The Pony is only growing more popular by the day and poor Nob and I can barely keep up.”

“Who would we hire?” Barliman asked.

Agnes shrugged. “Nob says his brother Hob wouldn’t mind working for us. They have enough hands at the family farm in Staddle, with their brothers and sisters and all.”

Barliman sighed. “I will think about it, my love—”

Before he could say anything else, a commotion broke out in the tavern. There was yelling and the sound of furniture crashing. Something akin to porcelain shattering followed suit, and Barliman knew that a brawl was on.

He raced back out into the wide room, and found some of the town’s unfavourables going at it with some of the local farmers. Brigands went at men young and old, and anything that stood in their way was either used as a weapon or shoved carelessly out of the way.

“Oi! Oi! Stop it!” he bellowed, and waded into the fray. He took one of the brigands by the shoulders and threw him away. Many would call Barliman portly, but hardly anyone considered that he was strong with muscles built from years of rolling large barrels full of his ale.

But he wasn’t a fighter. One of the brigands landed a heavy punch square in the middle of his face. His nose crunched into his face, and he went down like a felled tree. The fight swirled and danced above him as his vision swam.

The occasional kick landed on his sides, but they were accidental ones as the focus was no longer on him and he was just in the way.

A pair of strong arms reached down to him through the tangle, and he latched on to them. He was dragged to his feet and pulled out of the fight. Someone helped steady him, and held him there until he was sure he wasn’t going to tumble back down to the floor again.

Barliman decided right then that he wasn’t going to try and break up a fight this big ever again. Breaking up fistfights with one or two people in them was one thing, but this time he had bit off more than he could chew.

“I’m not doing that again,” he remarked as his eyes finally focused on who had rescued him. His stomach did a little twist when he saw that it was the Ranger. “Uh, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the Ranger returned, before disappearing back into the fight.

Barliman stumbled back to a place of safety and gently nursed his broken nose. He would have to wake the healer to get it fixed. But until then, he pressed a handkerchief to his nose to stem the bleeding, and watched the brawl play out.

The Ranger was easily the most noticeable participant of the fight. Barliman’s eyes followed him and he found he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

The Ranger was brutal and efficient. Never once did he lay a rough hand on any of the farmers, but he wailed on the brigands whenever he could, using his fists and his feet.

One brigand shoved the Ranger and he went flying across the room until he was able to catch himself on one of the tables. He then braced himself on the table and kicked out at the brigand with both feet as the brigand rushed him. That sent the brigand flying back across the room, and unlike the Ranger, when he hit a table himself, he wasn’t able to catch himself and went rolling over the table and down onto the floor.

Another brigand rushed the Ranger, hefting a spiked cudgel in a blatant disregard for his ‘no drawing weapons in my tavern’ rule. The Ranger easily yanked it out of the brigand’s hands and bashed the end of the handle into the brigand’s forehead, knocking him out.

The brigands’ bravado quickly began to dwindle once they saw there was a real fighter now involved. After the Ranger landed a few more good hits, the brigands decided enough was enough, they were outnumbered, and rushed out of the Prancing Pony, dragging their injured with them.

Relief flooded through Barliman as soon as the last unfavourable was out the door. Bofur and Dori clapped with wry smiles on their faces and went back to eating. They were getting up there in age and hadn’t really been in the mood to join in.

Agnes came out, cautiously, followed by Nob. “Is it over?” she asked.

“It’s over, my love,” Barliman assured. He watched as she looked over the damage and the mess, and saw the great weariness that came over her.

“I hate it when this happens,” she moaned.

In the end, they managed to get the farmers to help them with the cleaning up, and the Ranger wouldn’t leave until the broken furniture and the sharp shards of porcelain were swept up.

With the help, they were able to finish cleaning before they closed the tavern for the night. The Ranger introduced himself before he left, calling himself Sentinel (“because that’s what the hobbits of the Shire call me”), and differentiating himself from the Strider that would occasionally haunt his tavern. He was a friendly sort, a bit more chatty than other Rangers, but Barliman still didn’t like the mysteriousness that seemed to hover about him like a mist.

But he was grateful for the rescue. He couldn’t consider what would have happened if he was left on the floor.

Chapter Text

“Man’s wisdom is his best friend; folly his worst enemy.” – William Temple.

The wind was howling, driving shards of ice into their faces.

Arvedui couldn’t remember if he had ever felt this cold.

“We need to find shelter!” the captain of his personal guard, Nuirmir, shouted over the wind.

“There is no shelter!” Nuirmir’s second in command, Manauth, cried.

This had been foolish. What had he hoped to gain by going this far north? North had been the only way to go since the enemy had encircled Fornost. But they were far from being prepared for the frigidness of the North. The brumal wrath that had only been found at the tops of mountains had descended from the peaks and smothered the lands they had been marching steadily into. They had not packed the right clothes when they fled the city.

And with every second step it felt like they were being harried from behind, despite them being sure that they had slipped away unseen.

“We have to keep moving!” he told them, his throat itching from the effort of yelling. He paused for a moment and turned to their pathfinder, a wandering woodsman who traveled so frequently between Lindon and Arthedain that he knew every pass like his own home. Ered Luin was supposedly his back yard. “Are there any passes that might lead us west, Cromdâl?”

The man shook his head, and the snow that had managed to pile up on his head fluffed off. “We’re too far north! Any valleys or passes between the mountains are snowed in now!”

Arvedui sighed. Curse you, Arvedui, for your fear! he grumbled. Have I doomed my men?

“Look!” one of his guards, Faelthan, thrusting his arm off towards the upper slopes of the nearby Blue Mountains.

It took Arvedui a moment before he spotted dwarven ruins carved out of the rock of one of the many mountains. Relief swept through him at the sight and a relieved laugh bubbled out of him.

They rushed to the foot of the mountain as fast as the snow and the storm let them. Their surroundings were relatively flat and featureless with only the occasional pine tree, having been worn smooth long ago by the slow march of glaciers formed in the dark days of the Years of the Trees.

Somehow, they managed to find stairs cut into stone, unearthed from the powdery white by this unearthly wind. They scrambled up the smooth steps, slipping occasionally and banging their knees when they tried to catch themselves. The steps were steep and lacked railings, so they climbed using their hands as well as their feet so they wouldn’t accidentally pitch over the side and to their deaths.

Arvedui prayed all the way up that a door in the ruins was unlocked. They would probably be able to find some shelter from the wind in the ruins, but they needed to be indoors, out of the cold, if they hoped to be able to survive this in the long run.

He didn’t know if there would be anything to burn if they got inside—but he could only bring himself to worry about one thing at a time.

At the top of the stairs, their lungs burned in the cold air. They were a bit stunned at what they saw there, at the structures carved from living rock and the ice that had glazed over them, drawing frosty lace across the granite.

Now that they were there, they saw that there wasn’t much outside of decorative obelisks, a couple dwarven statues, and a thick, square door. It was a relatively plain set up compared to what Arvedui had seen in Khazad-dûm and Ered Mithrin, but it was just a mine. It didn’t need to be fancy.

But it also meant that there was no cover from the storm.

Arvedui went to the door and tried the doorknob. The doorknob turned, slowly, stiffened by years of disuse and the ice that had undoubtably formed inside the mechanism. When he pulled, the door resisted as ice had formed over the door and had effectively sealed.

“Cromdâl! Your axe!” he shouted.

The woodsman tossed it to him and Arvedui caught it neatly out of the air. He then turned and slammed the blade against the seams between the door and the doorframe, and did it again and again until the icy seal was broken. Then he tried the door again. It swung open.

His men cheered, albeit weakly, before he lead them inside.

He handed Cromdâl back his axe as he looked around. It was dark inside, but once Faelthan got a fire going in his tinderbox, they could see a sconce on the wall nearby.  Faelthan lit it and light unveiled even more of their surroundings.

They were standing in a short tunnel which seemed to open up into open up into a medium-sized room. They traveled down the tunnel, lighting sconces as they went, until they came to the room and saw that this room was like a nexus. A tunnel went to the left, another tunnel went to the right, and a third went straight on like an extension of the tunnel they had just left. There was a brazier in each corner of the room, and though there was remnants of oil in their bottoms, it had long since been reduced to a waxy substance by time. Faelthan dropped a lit stick in each in hopes that the oil would melt and burn again.

The room seemed like a good place to camp, but after they stood there for a while, they decided it was still too cold a place to bed down. Ice drew lace on the walls and they still could hear the wind roaring outside.

They travelled deeper and deeper into the mines. It got warmer the farther they travelled from the door and the deeper they went. But not by much. They would have to huddle around a brazier or something to keep warm.

Eventually, they found another door, and as they were deep underground, this one opened easily. Behind that door was a large office, a foreman’s office, with a large fireplace. Faelthan rushed to the fireplace and quickly went about trying to start a fire.

Arvedui hung back, and studied the room. It was eerie. He could feel the ghosts of the past lingering, like the workers and owners of the mine would return at any moment. There was a desk near the fireplace, with a cushioned chair behind it, and there were still scrolls, papers, and tomes on the desk, left as if the foreman had thought he would return. A square, dwarven inkwell sat next to the papers, and an old, fraying feather quill stood proud in the mouth of the inkwell. He didn’t want to touch it.

Faelthan and Nuirmir worked together to fill the fireplace with the correct amount of coal chunks. Soon, there was a decent fire roaring in the hearth, but they didn’t sit down right away. They waited until the floor in front of the fire warmed some before they sat down and set about soaking up the delicious warmth.

Arvedui rolled his bedroll out in the corner before joining his men by the fire. The warmth was like a breath of fresh air. He could finally take a deep breath.

"I wonder what Ellothiel is thinking right now," Nuirmir mused as he held out closer to the flames. "I... hope she made it out alright."

The others hummed in agreement. Arvedui thought of his wife, Fíriel, and his sons. Did they manage to make it out?

He didn't know when he would see them again. Of if he would see them again. His mind 'helpfully' provided a gruesome image of them lying dead in one of the streets of Fornost.

He shuddered, and brought his cloak tighter around himself. He wished they could have made sure that the women of the city were able to escape like they had been able to.

"How long are we going to stay here, do you think?" Manauth mused more than asked.

Cromdâl answered anyway. "Not long. Hopefully just until the storm is over, or we'll run out of supplies." He looked to Arvedui. "At least, only if you agree, Your Majesty."

Arvedui looked at him with vacant eyes, suddenly wanting nothing more than to roll up in his bedroll and sleep until everything was fixed. But he couldn't. Not yet.

"I'm no longer the king of anything, that title has been taken from me," he said softly.

Nuirmir gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "You are still a noble man, descended from the proud men of Númenor. We will call you what we like," he said with a wry smile. Looking to their woodsman friend, he answered, "And yes, we will only be staying until the storm is over."

They had to keep going. 

Something moved in the dark. At first, he thought it was one of his men getting up to use the ancient toilet they had found near the office, but when he cracked open an eye, he saw that there was no one.

He pushed himself up slightly, and scanned the room with tired eyes. Every one of his men had positioned their bedrolls so that their feet pointed towards the fire. And every one of them was fast asleep.

The shuffling sound came again as soon as he laid back down and closed his eyes. His eyes snapped back open in time to see the chair behind the desk push back. The papers on the desk shuffled a bit.

Using his stomach muscles, Arvedui sat straight up like a board. He looked towards the desk in time to see - it was like a twinkle of light - a short figure shortly before it disappeared. He threw off his covers and quickly climbed to his feet. He didn't take his eyes off the chair, but he could hardly believe what he had seen. Had he really seen a dwarf sitting there?

He was sure that he had seen a dwarf siiting behind that desk, with many braids in his hair and forked beard. His beard hadn't been long and he wasn't young, so he wasn't one of the Longbeards. Broadbeam or Firebeard, maybe?

Why am I trying to figure out the identity of a figment of my imagination? Arvedui asked himself. It had to be the lack of sleep. Yes, that had to be it.

Before he could finish comprehending that thought, light footsteps trailed from the desk to the door. He watched in bewilderment as the door swung open, groaning on its hinges, depite the fact that he remembered that they had locked it behind them every time one of them returned from the toilet.

Arvedui found himself following the footsteps. He walked quietly enough that he could hear the ghostly footsteps ahead of him.

The footsteps lead him farther down the hall that brought them to the office. The passage continued to travel a ramrod straight path, but after a while it grew steeper. Arvedui quickly found himself plunging into the depths.

Eventually, the footsteps brought him to a wide room that looked like it had once been used as an eating place for the mining workforce. A common room, perhaps? There were empty bookcases in the far corner, speaking of a time when this room may have been used for leisure between mining shifts.

The fact that this place was forgotten hit him as incredibly sad. Was this the fate of Arthedain? To be forgotten and filled with ghosts forevermore?

"Well, it has been a while since I have seen a living soul," a voice suddenly piped up. "Ye are a persistent one, aren't ye?"

Before him, the dwarf he had seen faded back into sight, sitting on one of the many long tables that had managed to stay standing over the years. He was transparent, but held life-like colours in his countenance. He looked as if he was still alive, but by the way he spoke Arvedui knew he wasn't.

"What, cat got yer tongue?" The dwarf's chuckle was rough, and tired-sounding.

Arvedui quickly swallowed. "Who are you?" he asked.

The dwarf quirked an eyebrow with a wry smile. "I should be saying that, young Man." He groaned. "But I will humour ye. Ingi, son of Oni, at yer service!" He gave the Man a half-hearted bow before pinning him with expectant eyes.

Arvedui gave him a gracious bow of his head. "Arvedui, son of King Araphant. I am..." suddenly, he couldn't bring himself to look into the dwarf's ghostly eyes "...I was the king of Arthedain."

Ingi looked confused. "Was? But Arthedain is only a century or so old! Did the three kingdoms decide to join back up to form Arnor again?"

Arvedui shook his head. "No. Much more time has passed than you realize, Master Dwarf. Arthedain, as well as Cardolan and Rhudaur, have been conquered by Angmar. I am king of no kingdom. That is why we have intruded on these halls. We are on the run, and were caught out in a storm."

The dwarf looked at him thoughtfully. "Well, if I felt that you were intruding, I would have been mad, Arvi." Arvedui balked at the nickname. "But that's too bad, about yer kingdom, I mean. I do not know anything about Angmar, but they sound like more trouble than they ought to be. What are ye going to do about it?"

It took Arvedui's tired mind a moment to comprehend what the ghost had just said. "What?"

Ingi chuckled. "What are ye going to do about Angmar? Are ye going to take back Arthedain, or are ye gunna let them get away with it?"

Arvedui's lips pressed into a thin line. "We cannot do anything until the storm dies down."

A fiery look blazed in the dwarf's eyes. "That's not an answer! Are ye gunna let them get away with it?! Or are ye gunna rally and take back yer kingdom? Show them what for? Tell 'em that ye and yer people are not to be messed with?" he took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. "The storm is going to die down in three days, by the way."

Arvedui sat down on a chair and it creaked dangerously under him. The fire for justice that had just come pouring out of Ingi nearly laid him out on the floor. If only he could feel such a fire inside him. Whatever he had before had nearly been extinguished.

Ingi had seen what his words had done to him, and helped to calm him down. But even when he went back to his bedroll, his mind spun around and around, as violent as the storm outside. He listened to the flames eat at the chunks of coal in the hearth. Who am I? he mused. Why am I not more angry about the fall of my own kingdom? Why am I not raging about this? After a few moments he realized why, and he had to bite back tears. He had been afraid.

He had been afraid and almost glad to put the fallen land behind him.

The next three days passed at a crawl. Cromdâl watched their food stores like a hawk. At night, he would speak with Ingi, and on the night of the second day, Ingi told him how he died.

There had been a horrible cave-in in a new—the last to be excavated—section of the mine. Ingi had known that the rock there had been more unstable than in other parts of the mountain, but his bosses back in Khazad-dûm had wanted them to dig there and he had been unable to say no.

The 'new' section had collapsed completely, and over half of the dwarves had died. Ingi had cursed himself for not standing up for his dwarves. When the rest of the dwarves had abandoned the mine in fear of their lives, Ingi couldn't bring himself to follow them. His guilt had been insurmountable.

"Don't let that guilt come to you, Arvi," Ingi warned. "It has kept me pinned to this world for hundreds of years. Mahal wouldn't let me into his Halls when I went there."

Arvedui didn't miss the tears that ran down from his eyes

When the storm finally died down, it was so quiet that they could hear their ears ring. They were hesitant to leave, but their supplies forced them to leave. They stood outside the door, their eyes squinting painfully against the bright sunlight.

The former king of Arthedain was still reeling from the goodbye he exchanged with the lonely dwarf. He found that he was going to miss the dwarf, strangely enough. He pitied him. He couldn't imagine being alone for so long, feeling forgotten, and never expecting to see another being until the world ended. And not being allowed into your afterlife? He had to shake the thoughts from his head.

Thankfully, he was stopped from thinking anymore when the familiar cry of an owl. He looked up in time to extend his arm and brace himself. Strong claws gripped at his bracer and snowy-white feathers flapped in his face until the owl caught its balance

There was a scroll tied to its leg.

Nuirmir untied the scroll and quickly read it.

"What does it say?" Arvedui asked.

The captain of his guard hummed a bit before he answered. "It is a message from Círdan." He read some more. "He says that he has heard of our plight and has stocked a ship as of the 4th of Hithui. It is sailing north to the Icebay of Forochel as he writes this message. He wishes to drop the supplies off to us and do it as many times as it takes to carry us over to the spring. He doesn't think the boat will be able to enter the bay with all the ice that will be there."

Arvedui couldn't help but wrinkle his nose at the thought of having to subsist on traveling food for another couple of months. He quickly smoothed his expression out before anyone could see his disgruntlement. He let a little hope trickle in now that he could see the end, and maybe he wasn't going to die due to misadventure.

They traveled hard over the next weeks. The snow hardly mattered to them and hardly slowed them down. They didn't wonder about what kind of shelter they might not find or how they were going to get the supplies from the ship to the shore over ice that might not hold their weight. All they would let themselves think of was the so-close possibility of safety. They wouldn't have to look nervously over their shoulders anymore. They could face danger with backs to the wall and weapons in their steady hands.

When they reached the shores of the bay, they discovered that there were people living there. Men, toughened by long, cold winters in Angmar's ever-present and looming shadow. Their homes were impressive, made by thick walls of snow and reinforced with treated leathers. Their homes backed onto towering cliffs covered in thick layers of ice, hiding tunnels that went deep into the rock where bubbling hotsprings and veins of iron could be found.

The Lossoth found Arvedui and his men long before they even noticed that they were there. But they provided shelter for them and succoured them for over three weeks, despite being wary of them at the start. The chieftain of the Lossoth, Eeru, warned him of the dangers of the ice in the bay, and at first Arvedui listened.

But then he remembered what Ingi had told him. Why wasn't he angrier about being a king-in-exile? Didn't he want his kingdom back?

He changed the plans and ignored Eeru's warnings. He left his ring with Eeru as thanks and assurance that he could ask for help if they needed it.

They boarded the ship... and a great storm blew up as if the Witch-king knew their every move and struck at them at their most vulnerable.

The ship was shoved against a massive iceberg, and a long hole was ripped into its hull. It sank and all hands were lost to the icy waters of the bay. Any who jumped into the water quickly froze and died, as icy, wintery water sapped heat from the body faster than any wind.

Arvedui clung to the mast as the ship sank below the choppy waves, and realized that in his haste, he had doomed them all. Eeru's words echoed in his ears as the last remaining elven crew member plunged into water with a cry of fear. His heart wrenched in his chest.

He cursed himself, anger bubbling in him and fueling every word. Such anger had not been seen since the day his ancestor Isildur cursed the Men of the Mountain when they broke their oath.

And then he slipped below the waves.

He drowned before he froze, his body dragged down to the depths with the ship and his men.

But that was not the last the world heard of the exiled king. On nights of a full moon, or on the eve of such storms as the one that wrecked the ship, Lossoth hunters claimed to see the ghostly figure of a man, taller than any of the Snowmen, pace the length of shore. The man would always be staring out to sea, as if he was watching for something. 

And he was hardly ever alone. For by his side was a dwarf.

Chapter Text

The slap echoed across the grassy plaza. It was strong enough it spun him around and left a throbbing welt on his cheek.

Gostir snarled from his corner of his - their? - mind. Halbarad quickly stopped him before he could do anything stupid.

"How dare you?!" his attacker screeched. "How dare you claim to know how I feel!"

Halbarad reached up a gently touched the raised and tender skin, which he was sure would look like an angry handprint in a few minutes. Slowly, he turned back towards the irate woman.

"I thought I was privy to how you felt, Tatharil, since I am your beloved!" he shouted back. He was forced to duck when she pitched one of the cabbages she had just harvested at his head.

"It has been a long time since you were mine!" she snarled.

His heart ached at her words. Gostir mentally licked his lips. "She is starting to look rather tasty."

Halbarad didn't have the energy to roll his eyes. We don't eat people, he chastised half-heartedly.

"I am a Ranger, Tatharil! What did you expect me to do? Our chieftain needs me, I can't turn my back on him!" he implored.

"Yet you turned your back on me!" she cried, bursting into tears.

Halbarad was struck speechless at this. He had never thought that, in doing his duties as a Ranger, that he had neglected Tartharil in any way. It certainly didn't feel that way. He had visited with her, showered her in gifts, wooed her, and bared his heart to her, yet she still didn't believe it was enough?

He had known her for close to ten years. He had courted her and sought to marry her, but there had never been the right time, and every time he learned he was to go on a mission, she grew distant. Now that he thought hard about it, it was starting to feel like she had been playing with his heart all along.

"All I ever wanted was to keep you safe!" he proclaimed passionately. "How could I have done that by staying in the Angle?"

"You could have kept me safe by staying by my side!" she wailed. "But I don't want that from you anymore! I don't want to see you ever again!" She whirled around and disappeared into her home. The home's front door slammed closed behind her, the sound echoing across the space between the houses.

The silence that descended was suffocating. Halbarad found himself biting down on his fist as tears welled in his eyes. He had loved her.

Aragorn had heard the shouting all the way on the other side of the Angle's main settlement, and had come to see why familiar voices were shouting at each other. He had witnessed the end of the fight, and he didn't know what to feel. He approached Halbarad, eager to provide comfort for his closest friend. 

Halbarad shook his head when he saw him coming. "I need to be alone, melhon."

Chapter Text

The two young hobbits looked as if someone had tried to roast them over a spit, and their fronts and sleeves were damp with dishwater.

Hyacinth Brandybuck narrowed her eyes, but refrained from boxing their ears. It seemed that Gandalf had punished them already if the soap suds were anything to go by. “You were playing with Gandalf’s fireworks again, weren’t you?” she admonished. “I told you that you’d get yourself hurt!” She ended up smacking them upside their head anyway.

When all the Brandybucks returned to the Great Smials the next day, Hyacinth, who was one of Merry’s many aunts, made sure that Pippin came with them and she assigned them to dish duties for the next couple weeks.

Chapter Text

He could feel it on the wind long before he felt the ground shake. The dragon was awake, and he was angry.

The wind whispered that he make haste, to evacuate Lake-town before it was too late. He listened.

He went from door to door, yelling and shouting, and when people finally started to come out he told them what he feared. Those who knew him well did not doubt him and warned others and spread the word.

Someone started yanking on the bell-rope in the nearby bell tower, and the deep bonging seemed to shake everyone from their beds. It was absolute pandemonium.

Bard rushed back to his rickety home and rushed to prepare his children. Tilda didn’t want to leave—Lake-town was all she knew, and she was so, so young—but Sigrid managed to convince her to pack some clothes and her few teddies. Bain paced nervously and only managed to gather some of his clothes and some kitchen things like the skillet, a pot, and some bowls and utensils. Bard carried two sacks of beans and barley that he had bought from the farmers in the fall and carefully carried them down to their little wooden skiff. It would feed them in the days to come, hopefully.

Bard Boson slung his longbow over his shoulder along with his full quiver. He took down the drying herbs that he had gathered for his daughter when he last went hunting and tucked them into Sigrid’s healing kit. He stilled when he caught sight of the familiar windlance bolt that had haunted his family for years.

But he needed it now. And if the wind would guide it to its rightful destination, he would finally finish what his ancestor started.

He yanked the large, black arrow down from where it was hidden in the low-hanging rafters. It weighed heavy in his hands, but there was power in it.

Tucking the black arrow into his quiver, he herded his children down to the skiff, but Sigrid stopped at the top of the stairs and looked back at the dwarves. With a jolt, Bard realized that he had completely forgotten about their house guests and that the dwarves had been watching them silently as they rushed around. The sick one, Kíli, lay very still on the table with a pillow of walnuts under his head.

Bard was briefly confused as to what, exactly, a bunch of walnuts would do to help fight infection.

But before he could ask how Kíli was doing and see what they were planning to do now that they were evacuating, he heard heavy footsteps on the roof. A second passed, and the most ugly of creatures he had ever seen came crashing down through his ceiling. He jumped back and his daughters screamed.

He took his bow and used it as his weapon, since he never had a sword (the Master never liked it when those under him and his guard had any weapons other than those used in hunting and utility). The ends of his bow were pointy, but far from sharp and only served in pushing the ugly creature away.

He had an arrow knocked on the string of his bow in a second, and buried it in the creature’s forehead.

His front door came crashing in and another of the monsters stomped inside. Bard’s daughters screamed louder, drowning out the yelp that came from Bain.

The blond dwarf, the brother of the dwarf on the table, let out a battle cry and took the spear that had been made out of a walking stick and a sturdy knife. He plunged it into the monster’s chest and it stumbled back out the door and fell over the porch railing, taking the spear with it. Before they could hear a splash, three more monsters were inside.

Bard kicked the dining table at them as the blond yelled, “Orcs!” as an explanation.

Oin tossed the hammer to Bard, who handed it to Bain. The old dwarf then tossed a pickaxe to him, and the tall bargeman used it on the closest orc as it came for him and his children.

Two more orcs fell, but they kept on coming. Kíli seemed to only grow more ill as if the presence of the fell beings seemed to have an effect on him. Bard worried that the flow of orcs would never end—at least, not until they were all dead—and his heart ached.

The wind whispered to him, encouraging him, but told him not about how many of their foe was left. He wished it could. But… the wind did not know the language of the living, and did not speak to him clearly despite him being able to wield it. The wind spoke to no one, not even the vindadansa.

Then there were elves. A blond male and a redheaded female. The whirling of their blades was mesmerizing. They cut down the orcs in rapid succession until there were no more and the inside of the house was left in silence.

The power of the wind and of nature flowed around them, leaving Bard speechless. He wanted to say thank you, but the blond elf turned to the woman, paying him no mind. “We have to go. Bolg is fleeing north.”

The she-elf hesitated for a moment, glancing towards the dwarf prone on the table.

The blond elf stopped at the railing of the porch outside. “Tauriel!” he said, his tone commanding.

Suddenly, the dwarf with the funny hat was standing in the doorway, clutching a large bundle of the weed kingsfoil in his square hand. The she-elf brightened at the sight of the weed and took it with a breathy whisper that Bard couldn’t hear at the distance he was standing from her.

As she turned from the doorway and went to Kíli’s side, the wind blew through the ruined doorway and tugged at him. The dragon was coming.

“Get down to the boat!” he told his children, and shoved them down the stairs and to their small under-house dock. And despite of their protests, he rushed back up the stairs, through the house and out onto the porch. He ignored how the inside of his home began to light up with what he would describe later as ‘starlight’ as he dashed down the stairs to street-like boardwalk that lead to the center of Lake-town.

The earth shook and the water rippled. Chunks of ice clunked against the piers. Men, women, and children moaned and cried. The bell continued to bong.

The wooden planks beneath him were slick from moisture rising up from the surface of the lake. There were many times where he nearly slipped and fell, but by some mercy he did not go flying off into the freezing water.

Bard didn’t take a deep breath until he reached the bell-tower’s ladder. And he climbed. In the bell-tower’s open bellfry, he saw that he was alone. The one who had started pulling on the rope was long gone, off to take care of their own family. Yet the bell continued to ring loudly, deafening him.

But he spun his arm at his elbow in a wave, urging the wind to push at the bell. That began the ringing again.

He scanned the air, readying his longbow with an arrow. Up here, the sound of people preparing to leave seemed far away. It was quiet. The world seemed to hold its breath in anticipation.

"You there, Bard!" the familiar voice of the captain of the guard called up to him, shattering his focus. "Are you the one who started all this ruckus?"

Bard looked down at the slightly doughy face of the captain with a frown. "And if I am?" he snarked.

The captain shook his head with a growly sigh. "I should have arrested you earlier when I had the chance." He made to climb the ladder, but Bard pointed his bow down at him. That made the few other guards with the captain grumble, but they made no move.

"You have been slacking in your duties, Captain," Bard said. "You failed to stop a party of orcs from coming into town. They nearly killed my children." The only sign of ire that came over Bard's features was the severe pinching of his brows. "I suggest you go and ready your family before the dragon comes."

"The dragon isn't coming!" one of the guards said.

"Isn't it?" Bard pushed. "You felt the ground shake. The dragon is very much alive!" People didn't really like to believe him. The town authorities had long since pegged him as an alarmist. But for their families' sake, just this once, he wished that they would listen to him.

The captain grew red in the face, but seemed to consider what Bard had said. With a growl, the captain ordered the guards to follow him, and he marched away without another word. Bard relaxed his bow and huffed a sigh of relief.

But his relief was short-lived. The front gate of Erebor lit up with a fiery light, becoming visible from even that distance. It was more than fire from braziers, and the wind gave him the impression that something was coming.

A massive figure came flying out of the large gate, a trail of stars flickering down behind it. He could feel it flying on the wind, and his stomach dropped to his toes. He turned and screamed, "Go! Go! The dragon is coming!"

Skiffs began to row out from below Lake-town, and thankfully no lanterns were lit.

The dragon came out of the darkness, his chest glowing with fire. Liquid flames came pouring from his gaping maw and spattered down on the wooden structures of the town. 

Bard tried to check the dragon's underside as he went flying overhead, but Smaug was too quick. He was gone in a flash before he came around and blazed a new path of fire. Again, he was too quick, but when he came for another pass, Bard took his bow and loosed an arrow at him. It bounced off of Smaug's hide like a toy.

When Smaug came again, Bard fired another arrow at him. Again, it bounced off of him.

Bard fired arrow after arrow until his quiver grew empty save for one arrow and the black arrow. He knocked the last arrow and aimed as Smaug alighted heavily on the burning ruins, and fired. It struck Smaug in the muzzle and bounced off like the rest. Only, this time, it gained the dragon's attention.

The dragon's eyes flashed a bright gold and his thin, scaley lips pulled back in a wicked grin.

"Who are you that would stand against me?" Smaug boomed across the distance.

Bard grit his teeth and took the black arrow from his quiver. But it was then that he realized something—the black arrow was too long... and maybe too heavy for his longbow. The arrow itself was longer than his bow was tall, it was almost as tall as he was and he was not a short man. Would his bowstring even be long enough?

He looked up at Smaug, his realization clear on his face.

Smaug sneered. "Now that is a pity," he hissed sarcastically. As sweat beaded on Bard's brow, Smaug began to crawl towards him, buildings and homes collapsing under his unimaginable weight.

Bard always knew that he had bitten off more than he could chew when he decided to face the dragon, but someone had to face him. To draw attention away from those who fled to safety.

Fire was all around now, and Smaug crawled amongst it like it didn't affect him at all. And it probably didn't, since he breathed fire. The fire drew in the wind and air, whirling it about and sending it spiraling up into the sky, ripping it away from Bard and his control. He couldn't feel or hear prompts from the wind. He was truly alone.

Tears sprang to his eyes, but he couldn't tell if it was because of the smoke or because of the sorrow building in his chest.

With a fist, he rubbed the tears from his eyes.

"What will you do now, Bowman?" Smaug taunted. Bard searched the air for any free wind, but sensed none. "You are forsaken," the dragon continued. "No help will come!" A particularly large building collapsed under the dragon's right claw. Smaug licked his lips and hummed in delight. "Even the wind has left you, consumed by my flames, Wind-dancer."

It was almost too hot. He was being baked alive. Screwing up his eyes, he prayed harder than he ever had, for Illúvatar to allow the Lord of the Winds to grant him a boon, and when he was finished he opened his eyes and took a deep breath. Nothing changed.

"Tell me, wretch, how now will you challenge me?" the dragon crowed, lifting himself up out of the rubble.

Bard's eyes widened when he saw the dark patch on Smaug's chest, unveiled as he stretched up to make himself tower over the bell-tower. It was the only part that didn't glow with the dragon's inner fire. It wasn't just a patch of missing scales, it was a pit. If Girion had had more time, he would have ended the dragon before he reached Erebor that fateful day generations ago.

Thankfully, Smaug mistook his look of surprise for a look of terror. Bard knocked the last black arrow on his bow and took aim. Smaug mistook this as a last, feeble attempt to defeat him. The dragon didn't know what this arrow was.

"You have nothing left—but your deATH—" Smaug let out a bellowing roar that made the tower beneath him shudder.

Smaug charged the tower. He came ever closer and closer, bringing Bard's target to him. His hands wanted to shake, but he forced them to remain still. He had only one shot.

"Lord Vindahalr, guide this arrow—for my children. For my people," he whispered. He checked his aim—Smaug was so close now—and stilled his breathing. Then he let go.

The black arrow soared through the air, almost too fast to see. Bard couldn't move, afraid that if he did, he would change the trajectory of the arrow somehow.

He couldn't see it anymore. 

Smaug stilled with a gasp.

The dragon trumpeted in agony and threw himself forward, towards the bell-tower. Bard didn't have a moment to even savour his victory before the dragon crashed into the tower and toppled it over.

He plunged into the frigid waters of the lake, his bones turning to ice. Vaguely, he thanked Illúvatar for the fact that Tilda had taken after her mother so that she never had to feel the pain he was feeling right then—before his head broke the surface and he struggled over to the nearby stairs that trailed into the water.

He could barely move by the time he reached the top of the stairs, frozen by the nippy late autumn air. He forced himself to limp over to the closest flames and sat down on a bench that had yet to burn. He started to shiver as his body remembered what heat was.

There was no sign of Smaug. He could only assume that he had fallen as he had, into the lake. But all he could see was the burning ruins of Esgaroth.

He had won.

Illúvatar had answered his prayers.

Chapter Text

His clothes were stiff from mud and he felt grit in places he had never realized he had.

He could hear snickers from Elladan and Elrohir from where they trailed behind him and Estel.

"Keep laughing, you two, and I will shove you into the next puddle we come across," he warned, wishing he could wipe the mud from his face. But it had dried and would just flake into his eyes. It itched.

His warning didn't fase the twins, but they seemed to try and stifle their laughter. He wanted to growl in humiliation, but swallowed it down lest it triggered them into raucous laughter.

Estel looked at him with something akin to sympathy, but said nothing. Halbarad could see the mirth dancing in his melhon's grey eyes.

When Halbarad had first come to Rivendell nearly 14 years before with baby Estel, his mother, and some Rangers in tow, he knew absolutely nothing about just how mischievious the twins could be. He quickly learned from how the elves would groan and whisper warnings to each other if they heard they were up to something, and had managed to avoid becoming an unfortunate target. Until today, on their last day on the journey home from a wild hunting trip.

It had been raining on and off the whole time.

And the two had shoved him into the first mud puddle they had come across that was big enough to swallow his tall frame.

He had emerged, seething like a mud dragon, but his ire only made the elves laugh harder.

Now... Halbarad looked forward to sinking deep into the bathing pool in his rooms deep within the Last Homely House East of the Sea.

When they finally found the valley and began to descend, there was a rustling in the trees and the elves there laughed at his predicament. They burst into song and mockingly serenaded them about "Trip-Toe Tirn", as Halbarad was known as 'Tirn' in the valley, until they were out of earshot.

Halbarad was glad to leave thick, muddy shoeprints on every marble bridge they crossed.

He split from the twins and Estel when they reached the main house, leaving them to deal with the meat they had brought back. He sought out his rooms and talked to none of the elves he passed in the halls, leaving them watch, confused, as they made up some explanation for the mud. 

In his room, he crossed to the bathing room in long steps and started peeling his clothes off as soon as the door was closed and locked behind him.

He sank into the deep pool as soon as it was filled with as hot of water he could stand. He was in the water before he added any lavender or mineral salts or any thyme. He took to scrubbing the mud off, and once he was sure it was all off, he climbed back out and drained the pool. The muddy water swirled down and he had to rinse the pool out as some dirt clung to the sides.

When the pool was filled again, he added the lavender and mineral salts and then slipped back into the water with a sigh. He missed being clean.

Chapter Text

Time… is not kind.

It passes, never slowing. Its march is unceasing.

Things changed. Grass grows and dies. Trees rise and fall, consumed by fungus, returning to the earth. Seasons passed, the land grew green, then brown, before being covered in snow.

Nothing stayed the same.

Halbarad watched this all. He could not leave the Wastes before the Black Gate. He couldn’t remember how he got there or how long he had been there. His only companion was a single, solitary tree, an offspring from the White Tree of Minas Tirith. He had watched as it had been carried there and transplanted there a few years after the sapling of the current tree had been planted in the Court of the King. It had been planted behind the monument made to him—the sculptor had done well with his face.

It had been many, many years since then, and the tree had grown tall and strong. Halbarad couldn’t see Minas Tirith from where his monument was built, in the Wastes. But he had seen how the countryside recovered now that the taint of evil was gone. It was beautiful. It was lonely.

He couldn’t bring himself to witness his chieftain’s coronation, though he wasn’t sure he was able to stray far from where he had fallen. The monument didn’t appear until after the coronation, and he had watched as they assembled it. It only saddened him.

Why was he here? What had he not finished? Did he break an oath and not realize it? He could not remember.

Aragorn—Elessar as he was known to his people—had been meaning to do this for years. He had… just never had the time. He had been split between his duties, learning to lead a kingdom, his wife, his children, his kin, and overviewing the rebuilding of the ancient kingdom of Arnor and its capital, Annúminas.

It had been nearly ten years since that fateful battle before the Morannon, where he had lost many of his kin, and he hadn’t had the chance to mourn them yet.

He went alone, accompanied by only two guards, and headed east. It was a four-day journey, and it was spent mostly in silence. Aragorn didn’t dress in any of the splendour he had been forced to wear as a king, opting to go as he once did as a Ranger. His guards did the same.

When they came within sight of their destination, Aragorn left his guards behind and went on alone. He left his horse with them and went on foot. The guards took to chatting as he went, and by the time he reached the monument, he could no longer hear them.

He knelt before the pillar of marble and studied it for a moment.

Each line was as crisp as the day it was chiseled. Each letter was sharp and prominent on its base.

Halbarad Narubaradion the Valiant.
Kin of King Elessar Telcontar.
Inducted into House Telcontar posthumously.
July 7 ^th , 2916—March 15 ^th , 3019.
By him, the future shines all the brighter.
Long will he be missed.

Seeing the monument was... bittersweet. It was well done, and he was glad that there was something for Gondor to remember him by. By he would have preferred it if his friend was still alive.

Halbarad had been his staunchest ally. If he had ever needed advice, Halbarad had been there to offer it to him. He had always been there, his closest friend.

And now he wasn't.

There were so many times where he wished he could turn to Halbarad in his first years as king.

Thankfully he had Arwen. If she had not come to his side, he would have felt truly lost.

"I wish... things had turned out differently, my friend," Aragorn found himself saying as he reached over to the life-like hand carved into the marble.

The monument was more of a statue carved in the likeness of Halbarad by carvers among the surviving Grey Company who could remember his living visage. He was carved as he would be out in the wild, with one knee propped up on a ledge of stone, looking back at something, pausing halfway through a step. Halbarad would have thought it too much if he were alive, but Aragorn felt that he owed it to him to represent his purity of heart in a way that people would see it. Because it was Halbarad who had taken the the blow that was meant for him, dying for him when he forgot to watch his back.

"The people of Gondor would have loved you."

They would have loved his wit and sense of humour. The halls seemed emptier without it.

"My children would have loved their 'Uncle Halbarad'."

Uncle Halbarad...

Halbarad found himself stirring from a waking sleep, something he often found himself in when nothing happened except for Northern Ithilien's slow but steady march towards the Morannon.

The voice brought him back to awareness like a gentle tug, and he blinked until he could focus, his being coalescing until he was there, standing next to the monument to himself. The season had changed since he last been aware of himself. It looked to be early autumn. Leaves were drifting, slowly, to the ground, in vibrant yellows, oranges, and reds.

Leaves crunched under someones knees, and he turned to look. His breath caught in his throat at what he saw. He needed to peer at him for a long while, leaning left and right, before he could be sure of what he saw.

"Aragorn?"

His old friend hadn't seemed to hear him, and continued to stare up of the monument that had been carved to look like him, as if his chieftain was trying to remember what he had looked like in life.

"I'm sorry, my friend. I failed you," Aragorn whispered.

Halbarad grew confused. When had he...? "You have never failed me. I knew what I could face when I chose to follow you!"

Again, his words fell on deaf ears.

"I was ready to die, ten years ago," Aragorn admitted, "When we were fighting here. I was ready to die so that there would be a chance we might win, that there would be a chance to hold back the end of the world. But you were not ready to see that. I'm sorry. I should not have forced you into that impossible situation." 

The urge to pick up a rock and chuck it at his friend swept over Halbarad for a moment, but he refrained from actually doing so. Just—why couldn’t Aragorn hear or see him?

Slowly, Aragorn climbed back to his feet. He tugged down at the bottom hem of the tunic and straightened it. Halbarad watched as his friend stared deep into the carving’s eyes as if he’d be able to scry something from it.

"I am... sorry that it took this long for me to come and say my goodbyes, my friend," his king said, his voice quiet. Halbarad could feel a weariness begin to radiate from him. There was guilt there, too.

Halbarad did not like this. Out of frustration, he picked up a stray pinecone and chucked it at his friend. He didn't realize until Aragorn stumbled back a step that he had actually picked up a pinecone and that he had actually suceeded in throwing it. He hadn't been able to hold anything for more than a few seconds until now.

Non-existent air (he didn't need to breathe but it still felt like it was there) caught in his throat as he watched Aragorn scan their surroundings in confusion. Halbarad felt something begin to change as Aragorn caught sight of the pinecone. A chill raced up and down the Ranger's spine as his surroundings seemed to snap into focus, becoming more real and more prescent than he had felt them in a long time. 

Aragorn picked up the pinecone and looked at it very closely. Halbarad thought he was imagining things when he saw it glimmer in the sunlight. His friend, the King of Gondor, then looked up. His eyes locked with his own. 

Halbarad glanced over his shoulder. He couldn't be looking at him, right? No one had been able to see him before—though not many people strayed close to the Morannon, even though it had been many years.

When he saw that there was no one behind him, he looked back to his friend and saw that Aragorn had turned ten shades whiter than he had ever seen him.

"What..." his friend breathed.

Halbarad watched as he took several steps back, away from him. It made his nonexistant heart twist and squeeze.

He looked down at his hands, his mind blanking in surprise when they looked almost solid. "What is happening?" he found himself asking aloud.

"I am dreaming!" Aragorn proclaimed, rubbing at his eyes. "Or some evil remnant from Mordor has seeped out to defile this fair memorial."

"You can see me?" Halbarad exclaimed.

Aragorn's normal, passive expression descended like a mask over his features. "I can see you. Why are you here? Are you a memory come to haunt me for my guilt?"

"No!" Halbarad exclaimed, his heart aching at the sorrow that hovered in the air. "Be not guilty, for you have nothing to be guilty for!" he implored. "It is I, Halbarad! Do you not recognize me?"

"Halbarad is dead, he has left this world and gone where only Illúvatar knows."

"I am still here, my king! Please believe me when I say this! Illúvatar has not taken me yet, I have left something unfinished!"

Aragorn stared at him, his grey eyes filled with pain. "You broke no oaths." He blinked back tears. "If anything, I should be the one cursed to such a fate! I—" He sunk back down to the ground with a moan. "No one cursed you. I cursed myself."

Shock punched Halbarad in the gut. "Do not be foolish! No king has ever cursed himself. Do not give yourself such a fate!" 

Right then he remembered something. He remembered the battle and the desperation of trying to hold out for as long as possible, to give Frodo a fighting chance. He remembered, now, jumping in front of the orc so he would take the sword meant for Aragorn. He remembered falling to the ground, watching as his friend, his brother in all but blood, fought for his life, alone.

He closed his eyes, and it was dark for a time. He missed the falling of the Morannon and the defeat of Sauron when the ring was destroyed. When he opened his eyes and could see again, the battle was over. Aragorn was kneeling beside him, saying something as tears leaked from his eyes. He couldn't hear anything.

But then he caught sight of someone standing nearby. He turned his head to look, not realizing that his body didn't follow and that he had become disconnected from it.

The person who stood near them was a man taller than any man, dressed in a long flowing black cloak that had a hood so deep that it obscured his face. The man seemed to glow, and Halbarad wondered if this was who was going to take him to the Halls of Mandos, where he would stay for a little while before Illúvatar took him to wherever Men went when they died.

Before he could ask the man who he was, the man spoke. His voice was thunderous, but he was talking normally, not shouting. "Your king has made a grave mistake, Halbarad son of Narubarad."

Halbarad sat up, while his body remained lying down, staring sightlessly up at the sky. "What has he done?"

"He has cursed himself for a choice you made. The pain of coming so close to victory and then losing one he sees as close family has clouded his judgement. I have come to fulfill this doom, but I hesitate," the man said.

And Halbarad realized who this was. It was Mandos himself. No one else spoke of dire fates as dooms.

"Why do you hesitate, my lord?" he asked.

Mandos stared at him for a moment. "It is important that Aragorn son of Arathorn ascends the throne of Gondor. It is vital for the stability of Middle-Earth. We cannot have misfortune befall him because of a momentary lapse of judgement."

Halbarad's imagination conjured up a future where events were influenced by such a curse, and shivered. "Can anything be done?"

The Vala said nothing. Until, "There is one thing."

Halbarad's heart rose with hope. "What is it?"

"Someone else can shoulder this doom."

But who? Halbarad thought about it until his head began to hurt. He could think of only one person who would be willing to shoulder such a burden: himself.

After all, he was the reason why Aragorn had spoken so rashly.

The memory left Halbarad like mist melting in the sun, and he found himself standing before his friend. He looked him in the eye, grey meeting grey. Aragorn was still kneeling on the ground.

"You are not cursed, my friend," he said, and added when he saw the king open his mouth to argue, "I know this because I chose to shoulder that burden. When Mandos came to place the curse upon you, I let him put it on me instead. He made me forget, I suppose, for I didn't remember until now."

There were tears in Aragorn's eyes now, threatening to spill out onto his cheeks if he blinked.

"And do not place blame on yourself for this," Halbarad quickly added. "For I would rather watch over your kingdom while you rule than await your arrival in the Halls to see what became of you." He gave his friend a wry smile.

It was then that he felt that he had assuaged his friend's guilt, but it wouldn't be until many years later that he would find out that the guilt never truly left Aragorn's heart.

Any further conversation was cut short when Halbarad suddenly became aware of a malevolent presence. He could feel it on the edge on his senses like a tickle of the phantom sensation of something crawling on your skin. It felt far away, but it was rapidly coming closer. In seconds, he realized what it was: orcs on wargs, a feeble raiding party, probably out searchong food.

It had been 10 years, but that didn't mean that all the evil had been purged from the area.

Halbarad turned to Aragorn with wide eyes. "You must leave now!"

Aragorn looked alarmed. "Why?"

"Danger approaches! An orc raiding party. Not large, but enough to overwhelm you and your guards," Halbarad explained.

"What about you?"

He gave him a tired smile. "Don't worry about me. I'm not going to die again. I'll try to hold them off." And hold them off he did. In the end, he decimated the raiding party, scattering the orcs and the wargs, and killing most of them when he realuzed he still had a sword to use.

When they were all dead, he left the bodies in a pile, and set about making the trek to Minas Tirith, not knowing if he was tethered to this place. Not much is known of if he managed to make it to the White City, but many a servent would tell you of the benevolent spirit they would sense roaming the halls of the palace and the laughter that would occasionally echo down the long corridors.

And the servants of evil never forgot about the spirit in the woods that tore them apart. To them that forest was haunted and only the most foolish of orcs ever tried to go that way again.

Chapter Text

The main marketplace was busy and loud. Too loud, thought Stína Bofurul. Despite her father's boisterousness, she had grown up quite introverted and preferred quiet places.

So that day, she stopped at the edge of the main marketplace and decided right then that she might be able to find what she needed in one of the marketplaces on a lower floor. It was a very real possibility since most of the rentable space in the main marketplace had been filled within the first few months of the resettlement of Erebor over seventy years before, and Erebor was a major center of trade.

She needed a pattern and some nice fabrics. Yuletide was still many months away and she wanted to start on this gift for her mother early. She was quite good at making quilts, to the point that many thought it was her Craft, and she usually made the patterns herself, but today her inspiration had left her. Hopefully, a pattern would aid her in some way.

The number of dwarves and visitors slowly dwindled as she took the, often, railingless paths downwards towards the heart of the mountain. The stone under her slippered feet was smooth, but not slippery. When she finally reached the Eastern Marketplace, she let out a soft sigh of relief. It was much, much emptier than the main market, and not that far from the eastern housing levels, where she shared a nicely-sized home with her parents and sisters. She'd be able to go straight home afterwards and get to work on her mother's gift.

Slowly, she drifted from stall to stall, searching out a cloth merchant while keeping to herself. She passed stalls selling specialty cheeses, dried meats, and beautiful pottery. The merchant of the pottery stall, unfortunately, wouldn't take no for an answer when he caught her gaze lingering on an Ereboran blue ring holder that she thought her sister, Signí, might like. But she hadn't been sure. Didn't Signí already have several?

Even after she said "not interested, thank you" at his slowly lowering offers, he chased her into one of the few shops carved into the walls of this market. She didn't pay attention to which one it was, only that she hadn't been in this one before.

She immediately felt at ease. The interior of this shop was soft on the senses, with several large crystalline chandeliers hanging tight to the ceiling, casting bright white light over the entire space. It was almost like sunlight.

Half of the store was stacked high with cloth and sewing supplies. She couldn't believe how many colours there were. They even had purple! There were so many sets of sewing needles, some made of silver and various shades of gold, she almost felt overwhelmed. She could see herself spending a lot of time there, and she would need to keep a sharp eye on her purse.

The other half of the store was open and spacious, filled with a smattering of tables and chairs as to not make the space feel overcrowded. There were a few dwarves there, but they spoke in hushed tones, preserving the peaceful atmosphere of the shop.

At the very back of the shop, there was a counter, where the goods could be purchased. Two dwarves seemed to be manning it at the moment, and one of them seemed familiar to Stína. She didn't think about it for very long, the draw of the fabrics pulling on her to go and look at them.

She could hardly contain a squeal of delight when she saw the array of quilt patterns that stood neatly in the stand that seemed to have been carved especially for them. She quickly found a pattern that her mother would love, and one for herself as well. She couldn't see anything about the pattern that she would have wanted to change. She studied the list of materials on the back of her mother's pattern and contemplated what colours she would need. Anní, wife of Bofur, loved the colours of spring green, emerald green, and gold together.

Her eye caught sight of a wonderful bolt of emerald green fabric speckled with dainty, four-pointed stars. That was a good start. But as she began to search for a nice, complimentary, spring green bolt, her ears pricked up at the sound of the door to the shop opening. She peeked between the stands of fabric, and crouched down so she couldn't be seen when she saw that it was that infernal pottery merchant. Why can't he just leave me alone?

"What are you doing in here, Beini? Don't tell me you've chased another unwilling customer into my shop!" a familiar voice exclaimed, shattering the peaceful air of the shop.

Emboldened by the fact that she might get rid of this nuisance with this dwarf's help, Stína straightened, becoming visible. Her voice cut through the merchant's denials. "He's been following despite how many times I told him no!"

Her 'rescuer' leveled a scathing glare on Beini, who had the grace to look sheepish. It was then that she realized that she had been 'rescued' by none other than Dori, one of her father's friends. "Do I have to call the guard, Beini? This is your third offense! Dwalin told you that you only had three more chances," Dori said, his voice calming.

"B-but," Beini stuttered. 

"But nothing, Beini," Dori said, cutting him off. "I have only one more word to say to you: Ayum." He then gestured to Stína to follow him to the back. Stína cast one more glance at Beini, and watched as he walked dejectedly out of the shop, before she followed Dori to the back.

She hadn't seen him for a while, so she looked forward to catching up with him.

Chapter Text

O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar
But you came not from the empty lands where no men are
》Lament for Boromir - Clamavi De Profundis

Chapter Text

There were so many of the Big Folk here. Oh, how had he gotten into this mess? He could just hear how Lobelia would snigger over his misfortunes. She was probably already planning on how to use his sudden disappearance to wrest his beloved Bag End from him.

Bag End...

Oh, how he missed home.

There was so much movement. He had made the mistake of trying to walk across the plaza instead of skirting around the outside of it, and now he found himself bouncing from person to person when they didn't notice him and bumped into him. It was quite sickening.

A hand attached to a long arm reached through the chaos and latched onto his shoulder and dragged him to the edge, where there were some benches and tables near an outdoor kitchen. He was plopped down uncerimoniously on one of the benches, and one of the big folk plunked himself down on a bench in front of him.

"Thank goodness I was able to find you, Master Baggins!" the Man said with a relieved sigh. "For a moment there I feared I had lost you!"

Bilbo clasped his hands together and twiddled his thumbs. "Sorry about that," he said quietly. "I got swept away by the crowd."

"It is rather busy, isn't it?" the Ranger said, glancing about. Bilbo had quite forgotten his name, and he was left wracking his brain for it as the Ranger got up and went somewhere. Apparently towns of the Big Folk weren't usually this crowded.

He watched the movement with wide eyes, and nearly jumped clear out of his seat in fright when a young woman in a simple tunic, trousers, and apron appeared in front of him. She handed him a bowl of thin soup, and gave him an apologetic smile. "Sorry, it's all we got," she said, flicking her dark braid over her shoulder when he took the bowl. "We're trying to save as much as we can for the winter."

Bilbo looked down at the soup, and noticed the parsnips and carrots bobbing sadly in the almost-clear broth. He looked back up and tried to give her an encouraging smile, before asking the obvious question. "Is something wrong?"

The girl figited a little. "Yes," she breathed. "The... harvests didn't go as well as they should have this year. I know there are still quite a few weeks until the growing season is over, but... the plants just won't thrive." A voice suddenly called for her, and she startled. "I'm so sorry, Master Hobbit, but I must return to work."

"Of course..." he said, but she was already jogging back to wherever she had come from. He had been left with more questions than answers.

The Rangers were facing a food shortage, it seemed. But why? And how?

His guide finally returned, a worried look on his face. "Sorry about that, Master Baggins," he said.

Concern twisted in Bilbo's stomach like a knife. "W-what is going on?" He carefully focused on bringing a spoonful of the soup up to his mouth to keep from squirming.

The Ranger sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. "I haven't been back to the Angle, or Laerost, for a long time, as you know," he said as he sank back down onto his bench. "But something's wrong. Plants grow but don't thrive. Berry bushes hardly have berries on them and everything is less vibrant. The animals seem to sense it as well." He sighed again. "We used to not have to worry about this, since we live so close to the Valley of Imladris. Usually the plants thrive so close to elven magic. But the magic must be waning somehow, or drawing itself closer around the bounds of the Valley."

"Have your Tenders tried finding out what the problems might be?" the hobbit asked, raising the bowl so it was closer to his chin. His stomach clenched at the thought of staying here in Laerost and having to subsist on less than he was used to. He could remember the Fell Winter and how his stomach had ached when food began to run low. He didn't want to experience that again.

The Ranger grew visibly confused. "Our... what?"

Bilbo stared at him for a long moment, then realized that the Rangers probably didn't use the same word for those of theirs who knew the plants and could coax them. He set the bowl and spoon down with a determined thump, and pointed at the bush that was trying to grow up next to the bench.

"I am a Tender," Bilbo explained. "I do not use my abilities much, but I'm tied to the earth as much as any hobbit." He focused on the bush, on how tired it looked, and willed it to perk up. And it did. It stood straighter and opened its leaves towards the tired early autumn sun before many small, blue berries burst forth.

The Ranger's jaw flapped open and closed, giving off the impressive impression of a dying fish.

Bilbo was slightly amused. "Come now, Halbarad, don't tell me you haven't seen that before."

For a moment the hobbit worried that the hardy man would faint and fall backwards off his bench. Bilbo jumped in surprise when he suddenly turned and bellowed over his shoulder, "Ivorwen!"

Activity slowed as many in the public space turned to look at the shouting man, wondering why he was yelling. When it quickly became clear that nothing was dangerously wrong, the activity resumed. A tall, slender woman with long, tightly waved brown hair appeared at the door of one of the many houses perched upon the ancient ruins, looking quite startled.

Bilbo watched as she scanned the space before her eyes alighted on them. Balling her skirts into one hand, she quickly made her way over to them, never breaking from her walk but managing to cross the distance like she was running.

"You called, Halbarad?" she asked, sounding slightly out of breath.

Halbarad stood. "Thank you for coming, Iornaneth," he said before passing around introductions. "This is Bilbo Baggins, a hobbit from the Shire. Bilbo, this is Ivorwen, my grandmother."

Bilbo noted the wrinkles on her face, yet time continued to be gentle and she looked younger than she was. He had only read about the longevity of the Rangers in books that most of his people would try to throw into the fire if they knew he had them, but they clearly didn't cover all that was true and he found himself slightly awed. He gave her as a respectful bow as he could manage. "Pleased to meet you," he said.

"Ivorwen is our most-skilled Dórista, or 'Nature-knower' as they are known in Westron. Her knowledge of herbs unmatched and most that go to her when they're ill are nursed back to health," Halbarad said. Turning to Ivorwen, he gripped her shoulder in barely concealed excitement. "Iornana! Bilbo is a Dórista, but also something more." He gestured to the berry bush. "He resurrected that bush!"

Ivorwen gasped in delight, and rushed over to the bush. Bilbo watched as she cooed over it, confused at their reaction to what he had done. What he had done was a common occurance in the Shire.

They were acting as if plants like the one he rescued were unrecoverable.

"Most of my people can do that. It is as simple as yawning to us," Bilbo stated as Ivorwen tasted one of the berries. "Are your... Dórista -"

"Doristai," Halbarad corrected.

"Doristai," the hobbit amended, "- unable to do that?"

Ivorwen shook her head. "No," she sighed. "Our powers lie in interacting with nature more than being able to nuture it. It is a secret we, and the elves, have been trying to unlock for centuries."

"A story from my childhood said that the Dúnedain were close to understanding this before Númenor sank, but the understanding was lost in the corruption brought to the island," Halbarad said. "Though I don't know much else, since I am a Sarnhir."

Ivorwen nodded. "It is said that Queen Míriel knew, and that she was going to use that knowledge to stop her husband, Ar-Pharazôn. But then the island sank."

"That's too bad." He could sense where they might be going with this, but he didn't want to jump to conclusions. "Do you think you will ever be able to relearn that knowledge?"

"Hopefully," Halbarad said while his grandmother leveled a knowing look on the hobbit. "But...could you... heal our plants for us?"

Bilbo swallowed thickly. His hobbitish practicalities screamed at him to run for the hills, but it was far too late for that. "Alright, just point me in the right direction and give me a minute... or an hour. Or more."

And Bilbo did heal the Dúnedain's plants for them, even though he was starving and felt his clothes growing baggier by the moment. It was a momentous effort. Never had he ever seen such sickly plants. It took him longer to hear what was ailing them, and their voices were whisper-quiet. No wonder the Dúnedain's Dóristai hadn't been able to hear them.

It took him longer than he realized. Their fields were massive even though they were hidden, and a task he though would only take a few hours ended up stretching on for days. By the time he was finally done, he had garnered more attention than he would have liked and he was exhausted. The weariness radiated all the way down to his bones.

His legs refused to work once the last row of parsnips had healed, so Halbarad had to carry him back to Laerost. Bilbo would have complained about being carried like a child if he didn't feel like he could sleep for days if he shut his eyes. So Halbarad got away with cradling him like a fauntling.

Ivorwen fed him a nutrient-filled stew when they returned, before tucking him into a bed and letting him sleep surrounded by sprigs of dried lavender. The peaceful smell, coupled with his full belly, lulled him to sleep almost immediately.

Over the next month, Bilbo did what he could to teach the Dóristai of Laerost how to tend to their plants like hobbit Tenders could. More than once he realized that this would have gone a lot better if he had used his abilities more often in his life. He was hardly qualified to be a teacher. But he was all they had.

When would they ever run into another hobbit that would be willing to speak with them again?

By the time he was finished, the air had grown cold and most of the food he had managed to save had been harvested and prepared for the long winter ahead. It was then that he realized that he wouldn't be able to return before the snow set in.

He had been mentally preparing himself for long walk ahead of him. He hadn't wanted to bother the Rangers and have one of them take him back, not when they had their duties. But with winter on their doorstep, he wouldn't be able to make it back to the Shire before it grew too dangerous to travel.

When Halbarad caught wind of this, he laughed before offering to bring Bilbo with him as he travelled to Sarn Ford. He was being stationed there for the winter. When Bilbo heard this, he was overjoyed, and couldn't wait to go. Soon he would be back beside his hearth and he wouldn't have to worry aboit Lobelia poking through his things.

And he didn't have to. Thanks to his efforts to help the Dúnedain of the Angle, his long absence was dismissed by his fellow hobbits because nothing was more noble to them than rescuing aspects of nature. Bilbo felt like he had pulled through by the skin of his teeth, and was thankful he didn't have to mention why he had been so far east, or the bandits who kidnapped him because he accidentally found himself in their wagon after a series of unfortunate events.

Why did adventures always find those who weren't looking for them, anyway?

Chapter Text

"I saw Halwen with one of the citadel guards the other day," Belehbemil proclaimed as she vigorously kneaded the dough for that day's bread. "They were looking pretty cozy in that alcove I saw them in."

Lilthasír rolled her eyes as she prepped the fireplace for the roast planned for dinner. The king had asked for a fine pork roast drowned in mint sauce, coupled with buttery scones, boiled carrots, and baked eggplant garnished with sea salt, pepper, and feta cheese, a relatively new dish introduced by merchants from the east, and Lilth didn't want to mess it up because her fellow kitchen maids wanted to gossip.

"I overheard her talking about it with her sister," Cuguinneth said with a conspiratory grin as she peeled potatoes for breakfast's hashbrowns. "Apparently the both of them like the same guard!"

Belehbemil stopped kneading long enough to flap her hands excitedly in the air. "Do you know his name?" she asked, her voice shot up suddenly to the point she threatened shattering the windows.

Lilth knew who he was. She didn't gossip so Halwen trusted her. His name was Ruisthebron, though her friend usually referred to him as 'Hebron', since his father's name was Ruistmagol. Halwen loved Hebron so much, but her sister, Gannariel, was a scheming witch who hardly ever took 'no' for an answer.

"Unfortunately, I do not," Cuguinneth admitted. "Though I think I know who to ask."

Warmth from the fire soaked into her when she finally got the fire started, and she took a moment to bask in it before she got up and got the roast. Belehbemil had to stop for a moment to help her tie the roast to the spit pole and carry it to the hearth. The roast pertained of most of a pig in order to feed the royal family and many of the king's kin who were visiting from the north.

She gave the frustrating woman a quiet thank you before she went and summoned the kitchen boy, Telias. He came trotting in a few minutes later, and she set him about slowly turning the spit.

Lilth felt for the boy - his next few hours were going to be boring, the time passing slowly for him as he turned the spit. The Rohirrim used dogs to perform this task, having them run on little wheels attached to the spits, but the animals had been banned from Gondorian kitchens for years because they couldn't keep their noses out of the food.

Instead, a boy had to do it, a young boy who should be, instead, running through the Pelennor Fields with his pack of friends, finding little bits of artifacts leftover from the Seige of Minas Tirith to take home and marvel at, not stuck by a hearth, indentured out by his parents so they could add more coin to their purses.

But she was a simple kitchen maid. She had no power there.

The hours of the day ticked by at a breezy pace, as they usually did for her when one meal after another had to be prepared by those who lived within the citadel. Once she was done preparing the roast, she helped Cuguinneth finish prepping a breakfast of hashbrowns, sausage, and currant, honey, and walnut tiganites.

Once breakfast was done, servants came and swept up the trays before disappearing, off to deliver them to King Elessar, Queen Arwen, and their children, Prince Eldarion, Princess Celebwen, Princess Raenmir, and their youngest, Princess Idril.

But the flurry of activity didn't slow now that the first meal of the day was over and done. No, it only seemed to increase. Another servant boy fetched wood from the wood-cutter and replenished the wood stock for the fire. The head cook, who had been ignoring Belehbemil's and Cuguinneth's gossiping while she worked out what dinner's dessert was going to be, finally told the girls to shut up and sat the boy who brought in the wood down and had him start peeling apples.

Loaves of bread went into the ovens and were done by the time lunch rolled around. Bruet Sarcenes, a creamy soup of beef, onions, and almond milk, was prepared for the royal family, and they managed to get it done before the clock struck noon and the servants came for it. The smell of the soup made Lilth's mouth water, but they hadn't had it in months and weren't likely make it for the staff for many more months to come.

The gossip of the budding love between Halwen and Hebron seemed to have been forgotten by the time Belehbemil check the bread and pulled the loves out of the oven, and Lilth was able to breathe a sigh of relief and focus on the pies the head cook had set her to making.

The head cook had decided that, for the almost-feast that had been planned for the king and his kin, the destert would be comprised of several plates of Apple Muse and pies ranging from pear to blackberry. By the time they were done, it was almost dinner time and everyone's hands were sticky with fruit juices.

The heavenly scents of cinnamon and butter and apples and pears were surely going to have her dreaming of the desserts for days to come.

Lilth was almost sad to see the pies go when they were taken up to the dining hall.

Telias accepted a large cookie from the head cook before he left for the evening, his whole body radiating relief at the fact she didn't have to rotate the spit for a while. It was the servant boy Tithen's turn tomorrow. Telias would be needed elsewhere in the castle.

Lilth watched as the boy went, a bittersweet smile on her face. The both of them were locked into the lives they had, with no hope of being swept away to something better, and it made her sad.

She hadn't wanted to be a cook, but she was lousy in everything else. She couldn't sew for the life of her, or garden, or grow food because her green thumb was nonexistent. But she was great at cooking and baking, and that had attracted the attention of the head cook.

At least, when she thought about it, if she caught the attention of any man - an unlikely event since she spent all her time either in the kitchen or in the room she shared with the laundress Aeweth - at least she knew she would be able to please him with her cooking. Though, she really wanted a man who appreciated her for her. She really wanted a man, period.

It was rather quiet after dinner had been served, so Lilth spent the slow evening hours doing her turn with the dirty dishes. Belehbemil stuck around to help dry them, despite how she moaned about her aching arms.

And it was quiet, for the most part. Lilth didn't have much to say to the colleague who wouldn't hesitate to spread harsh rumours about you if you looked at her wrong, and Belehbemil found Lilth rather strange and usually didn't have anything good to say to her.

Until Belehbemil couldn't stand the quiet anymore and missed the sound of her voice, that is.

"You've been rather quiet today, Lilthasír," the overly excitable undercook remarked. "What is it that is whirling about inside that very ordinary head of yours?"

Lilth let the thinly-disguised insult slide right off and instead focused on scrubbing the dried tea stains out of the teacup in her hands. Someone had let their tea sit until it cooled. The butler of the citadel, Malotamo, liked to do that when he did the bookkeeping.

She gave her a thin smile. "Wouldn't you like to know?" Her voice sounded low and rough to her ears with misuse. She wanted to slam the teacup down into the drying rack, but it was too pretty so she refrained.

"Not much must flutter about in there, correct?" Belehbemil jabbed. "After all, you hardly speak, and you have no life outside this kitchen."

Lilth grit her teeth. Shooting her a heated glance, she said heatedly, "What, like you?" Don't sink to her level, she warned herself.

Belehbemil scoffed. "At least I have a man!"

That was like a slap to the face, even though she knew that Belehbemil's man was one who only wooed her when she visited the Wheel and Cask tavern. Lilth fought to make it look like she was unaffected by the woman's words, and scrubbed at a plate. She practically threw it at her after she rinsed it before attacking another plate. A part of her wanted to have Cuguinneth tuck cloves under Belehbemil's pillow, since they shared a room and Belehbemil was allergic to cloves, but revenge wouldn't get her anywhere.

A plate crashed to the stone floor and Belehbemil let out a shriek.

Lilth glared at her. "What, you dropped a plate?"

Belehbemil looked up at her, startled. "I did not!"

"Then what is that?" Lilth demanded, pointing down to the shattered porcelain.

"It came rolling out!" Belehbemil defended.

Lilth couldn't resist the urge to roll her eyes. "Alright then, explain it away!" she huffed, before going back to washing the dishes. The chore couldn't be done fast enough.

After the last dish was put away, Lilth left the dirty pails of water outside the doors to the courtyard and yanked off her apron. She tossed the apron into the dirty kitchen hamper and waited for Belehbemil to do the same so she could usher her out. Belehbemil liked to sneak snacks from the kitchen when no one was looking and tended to give herself stomach aches if she ate too late in the evening.

Belehbemil tossed her apron in the hamper, and went to turn when she let out a shriek. Lilth watched with wide eyes as the apron came flying back out of the hamper and smacked the woman in the face.

She yanked the cloth away with a gasp. Then she turned and looked off to the side and let out another scream. She pointed and grew eight shades paler than she already was. "Look!"

And Lilth looked.

In the flickering of there lamps, the shadow of a man stood in one of the doorways, looming over them from afar.

"Do you see it, do you see it?!" Belehbemil cried.

Lilth managed only a small "yes."

"It's the ghost!" Belehbemil cried, and bolted for the door that lead to the courtyard. Lilth followed afterward, not wanting to be left alone with the presence that had taken to wandering the halls of the king.

Belehbemil tripped over the pails of dirty water, spilling their contents everywhere. Lilth slipped on the soap, but somehow managed to stay upright as she dashed for the servants quarters, and the safety they hopefully provided.

Chapter Text

"No." The word came out of his friend's mouth sounding strange and ditonal.

Aragorn crossed his arms and looked him over. He wasn't taking his idea as well as he had hoped. It was going to take much convincing to get him to see how he saw it and he had the disadvantage of being the younger.

"It is suicide!" Halbarad continued, stepping closer to him. His eyes were lit up that eerie mithril grey, and Aragorn knew he was talking to two when he only saw one. "Confronting a dragon backed into a corner? I know Gandalf worries about Smaug and what ifs - but I have duties here. I need to be here to watch your back!"

"And I don't want to die, thank you!" Gostir added, his voice blocking out Halbarad's for a moment.

Aragorn watched as his friend turned and stomped out of the tent. Usually this meant that the conversation was over when they spoke about Halbarad's draconic side, but he wasn't going to drop it this time. He followed him outside, never letting him get more than a few feet ahead.

He didn't speak again until they were well out of the other Rangers' earshot. And his mind sparked, reminding him of what would most undoubtably convince him - or at least begin to. "Tell me then, adeldirnen, what will your duties mean if Gandalf fails and Sauron convinces Smaug to join him? It will mean nothing!"

Halbarad rounded on him, a dangerous look on his face. "I will be here to protect you!" he countered, the words hissing between his clenched teeth.

Aragorn scratched at the five o'clock shadow that clung to his jawline while he fiercely shoved down the frustration that was beginning to build in his chest. He tried to remember the calming tecniques Elrond had taught him, but they didn't feel like they were working. Shouting like a child will not convince him, he reminded himself.

If a Ranger would have glanced their way at that moment, he would have seen two of their leaders in fierce debate, expressions slightly strained. But little would they have known that there was a battle raging between their wills, each trying to convince the other on a matter that the Ranger knew nothing about. It would seem strange, since those two hardly disagreed about anything, but not completely noteworthy.

"If you stay here and Smaug comes, you'd put our people at risk!" Aragorn argued. He could picture it as he spoke. The Angle burning. Rivendell burning. He had had a nightmare about it once, shortly after Gandalf had mentioned his worries after they stumbled upon each other at the Prancing Pony. As soon as the words had left the wizard's mouth, he found himself sitting inside the tavern as everything was consumed by fire, his mind unable to resist the temptation.

If his mother were there she would say that maybe it was a little bit of her working through him to see forwards, but he quickly pushed the thought away.

Halbarad must have imagined something similar that moment, and paused. Hesitated. Fear flickered in his eyes, and Aragorn knew that it was Halbarad's and not Gostir's. The young chieftain watched as he grimaced.

"Do not do this to me," Halbarad whispered, pleading. The colour of his eyes dimmed to the familiar cool grey, and he furrowed his brow. "Do not force me to choose. It is tearing me apart."

Waves of guilt crashed into Aragorn at the display of emotion, and he worried that he had pushed him too hard. He opened his mouth to apologise, by his friend held up his hand. The words died in his throat.

"No," he breathed. "No more. I will not go." 

Aragorn watched as he turned and walked away, disappearing into the thick mountain forests beyond the ruins.

Gandalf, Thorin, the company of dwarves, and Bilbo Baggins had set out from Bywater on the 27th of April, and Aragorn had spotted their passing over the boarder of the Shire shortly before sundown.

Their journey through Bree-land remained uneventful, mainly thanks to Aragorn's efforts in making sure his Rangers kept an eye out. It hadn't taken him long to realize that all sorts of ne'erdowells were out to collect on a bounty that had been placed on Thorin's head.

Once they were beyond Bree-land, all news about them abruptly ended, and the young chieftain was left to quell his curiosity and return to the normalcy of protecting the innocent.

He heard nothing again until he recieved a message by eagle from Gandalf, a few days after the first of June. It was as if the wizard could feel his burning curiosity from 400 kilometers away, and simply wrote and told him that they were doing well, and that he had managed to wrangle the company into the safety of Rivendell.

He had a good laugh when Gandalf mentioned how furious the dwarf king had been when he realized he had been tricked.

Halbarad seemed to have put his suggestion out of his mind, and continued on with his usual routines. He often lead hunting parties south, and once left when normal food could no longer sate his hunger. Aragorn wondered from time to time what it was like to swallow a bear whole.

Aragorn did not bring up the Company of Thorin Oakenshield again. He could only pray that he had planted a seed in his friend's mind, because he couldn't help but worry that Gandalf and the Company had been doomed from the moment Gandalf found Thorin in the Prancing Pony, all those months ago.

On the very first day of July, Aragorn was met by a peculiar sight as he stayed reading maps and transcribing history into a new book late into the night. He looked up to see someone standing in the doorway of the tent, moonlight reducing him to naught but a dark human shape. Two dots of starlight stared at him from beneath a deep hood.

"Hello...?" Aragorn greeted, confused.

"I need to talk to you," the person said in a deep voice that told him exactly who this was.

"...Gostir?" Aragorn squinted at him.

Halbarad's body let the tent flap close behind him, them, and Gostir walked stiffly, hitching, over to the chair aross the table from Aragorn. As he watched, Aragorn came to the realization that this was the first time he had seen Gostir walk as Halbarad.

"I am sensing you are not used to walking on only two legs?" The young chieftain quipped.

The dragon sighed, the frustration clear. "I keep expecting two extra limbs. It is a miracle you all can remain upright."

Aragorn put the quill he had been holding back into his inkwell. "Where is Halbarad?" He was trying to not worry about his friend, but Halbarad had never not been present when Gostir spoke.

Gostir grinned. "He is asleep." Was the candlelight playing tricks on him? His teeth seemed pointer than they had that morning. 

The sight almost eclipsed the surprise that came immediately after, when he registered what Gostir had said. "He's asleep? How are you then-?"

Gostir sobered a fraction at the question. "Part of the body sleeps while he sleeps, and I can use the body when he does - but not for long. I can already feel the urge to join him, so I must speak quickly."

"So speak."

The dragon took a moment to adjust his seat before he began. "It is hard to explain - not many can truly explain what I'm about to say, but I have been around your people long enough to try and speak how you do."

Aragorn gave him a look. "Go on..."

"Tonight... I rested when Halbarad lay down to rest, but in the middle of the night, I sensed something."

This made Aragorn sit higher in his seat. Dragons were magically inclined, and records, however few they were, said that when they "sensed" something, it almost always was something monumental. And magical. "What do you think it is?"

Gostir scratched at the beginnings of a beard on his chin, a habit he had picked up from Halbarad. "I do not know. It came like a nakasaag-"

Aragorn blinked, surprised by the foreign word. It sounded like Black Speech, but also not. "Like a... what?"

The dragon blinked, and it took him a moment to realize that his Westron had failed him. "Ah... nakasaag - I believe it means 'bite from nowhere' in your common language. I do not know your version of the saying."

"Alright. Continue."

Gostir nodded. "It came in the dead of night. It felt like the whole world shifted. Something has changed." He yawned.

Aragorn didn't like the sound of that. "Do you know what it is?"

The answer was immediate. "No. But since I have grown fond of you and your people, I wish I did."

The young man couldn't help but snort despite the new worries that began to bubble up inside him. Instead of being frustrated at the fact that Gostir had told him of something vague that could possibly spell great change in Arda, he leaned back in his chair and gestured at him. "You are one of us now, Gostir. Whether you like it or not, my people are your people."

"A Great Dragon? What exactly makes a dragon Great?"

The voice, great and deep, rattled his ribs, and he opened his eyes. He found himself lying on his front, with his arms crossed under his head, propping it up in such a way that left him feeling confused. It wasn't until he raised his head and it went up and up and up that he realized that he was a dragon.

Looking around he saw that his surroundings had changed. He was no longer in the Ranger camp, he seemed now to be in a nesting area of some sort. He had been lying on a flat rock that was wide enought to hold him.

"I do not know, size perhapssss?" a new voice suggested, also deep, though this one was distinctly feminine.

He felt his mouth move and he heard Gostir's voice speak. "Perhaps a dragon is considered great by how many battles they have fought in and survived. That is how our forefather Glaurung became great." Gostir sounded slightly bored of the conversation, as if they had discussed the topic more than once already.

"True," said the one who spoke first, a massive male dragon covered smoke-grey, almost black, scales and eyes so orange they were almost red. "But I find I have to agree with Maglanaes. Great dragons are great because they are mighty in size, but I have to add that they are also great because they breathe the hottest fire!"

The female purred at his approval of her suggestion. "Then that makes you one of the greats, Ospuruth," she said. There was a thinly-veiled compliment in her words.

Gostir deadpanned. "Yes, and that would make us all Great Dragons. All dragons bred by Melegor are great, or he would throw us away or feed us to the wargs." He heaved himself up until he was sitting on his haunches, and gave his wings a stretch.

Ospuruth snorted in amusement. "I don't know about you, Gostir, but you have never been let out of Angband, and you have never tested your fire. Unlike us. Are you sure you are a Great Dragon?"

Gostir glared at him, but that only made him laugh. He could hear the unsaid words beneath the spoken, and they stung. In their grouping that consisted of seven, he was the only one who had not been given a mate. Ospuruth and Maglanaes had been a pair for over two centuries now, and she had laid five eggs so far.

With a heated sigh, Gostir laid back down and turned his back to them. He closed his eyes and tried to block out their nasty comments.

When he opened his eyes, things had changed, and he was running down a long, ramrod-straight hall that was large enough to comfortably accomodate for someone who was sixty feet tall. He bunched his wings tightly to his sides, hoping against all hope they snagged against nothing in his mad dash.

He could hear his keepers behind him, yelling and calling for him as they futily tried to keep up. If it weren't for the fact that he had been left alone while the others had been taken out for flying exercises, they would have been on him in a second.

He followed the scent of fresh air, or air fresher than what was down in the deeps. It was as dark outside as it was inside from what few times he had been taken out to fly. Melegor kept it dark so his servants wouldn't be weakened by the sun.

A clamour went up and a deep horn began to roar as he pin-pointed an opening to the outside. In his perifery he saw trolls lumber out of doorways, but he left them far behind before they could comprehend what was happening.

The doorway was smaller than he hoped, built more for trolls since their master didn't necessarily need to use doors. He faltered as his shoulders caught on the doorframe, but so great was his need, and his forward momentum, that he ripped the doorframe from the wall. The pieces splintered from him as he galloped away.

What couldn't be held in Angband spilled out before it. Noxious fumes hung in the air, rising from acidic pools that bubbled up from the mines and forges deep underground. Torches, blazing with eerie green fire stood here and there, practically useless.

Gostir took this all in in a moment and spread his wings. He leaped up, thrusting his wings down with all his might and accidentally beating them against the groung as he went airborn. A stone, hurled at him in some feeble attempt by an orc, bounced off his side and bothered him naught. For he was no lomger a young dragon - his scales had been as hard as steel for over a century.

He climbed up and up and up. His heart soared at the sight of the empty lands before him - freedom!

A cold hand, encased in warforged iron, wrapped acround the end of his tail and pulled.

Pain ripped up his spine. Beating his wings furiously, desperately, he turned and looked.

It was Melegor! 

He towered above everything before Angband and stiod there like a building storm. His eyes, so cold, so pale, so empty, glared up at him from below a wrought iron crown. There was no emotion in them, and even less on his face.

He grasped the end of Gostir's tail with one hand and gripped the handle of Grond with the other. The head of the mighty hammer sat upon the ground, as if the Dark Lord was using it as an anchor.

That observation was the only thing that kept him beating his wings.

"Where do you think you are going?" Melegor snarled. He yanked on his tail, drawing a pained screech from him.

The dragon had not felt such pain in years - not since he was whipped into submission as a dragonling.

Gostir sent a gust of fire down at the Dark Lord's face. The Ainur stumbled back, but did not let go.

Gostir twisted around and bit down on the wrist of the hand wrapped around his tail. He sank his teeth deep.

And that was when his eyes opened. It was the moment where he realized his master wasn't a god. For as his teeth sunk in, Melegor's hand spasmed and let go. He went pinwheeling up into the air at the sudden release.

He didn't let the shock cloud his mind. He focused on the strange taste in his mouth, a mix between the fires of the earth and stardust, and flew as fast as he could away.

Suddenly, he was on the ground, and was back in his human form. It took his mind a moment to realize that he had forgotten who he was and had believed he was Gostir. But his attention was ripped away from that by screams rising into the air.

Birds rushed from the trees, flying west as fast as they could. Deer and wolves dashed through their camp in the ruins of Ost Sídglad like it wasn't there, knocking down Rangers and tents alike as they followed the birds. The trees in and around the ruins began to dance wildly, and the wind began to pick up.

Halbarad looked around in confusion. Until he saw the looks on the faces of his fellow Ranger. He followed their gazes up, before a gust of wind shoved him to the ground. His head cracked against stone and his head pounded as he climbed back to his feet.

The sky was on fire. The sun had been setting, but the fiery reds and oranges above the trees were much, much than a sunset. It was a harbinger.

"He has come!" Gostir said, filled with more emotion than he had ever heard before.

"Who?" Halbarad was confused.

A great hulking figure soared into view, huge with wings and eyes that glowed with fire. Its scales were as red as blood. Gostir didn't need to answer the question.

A dwarf, standing only feet from him, wept out of sheer terror. "It is him, it is him! Mi Haded'addad!"

A river of flames cascaded down from the sky and scorched everything it touched. Halbarad leaped forward and pushed the dwarf and himself behind a pillar just in time. He felt the fire scorch his back, his skin peeling and blistering. He tried to scream but choked on the smoke rising up from everything.

Shouting in Black Speech reached his ears and his hand drifted to his sword. But a firm hand stopped his own. Looking down, his gaze met the tired eyes of the dwarf. "It is no use, laddie."

Halbarad shook his head and stepped out from behind the pillar. The ground quaked beneath his feet as the dragon landed on the far side of the ruins. And even at that distance, the dragon was massive, looming over everything.

"What is this?" the dragon drew out the words in a snake-like hiss. "Run, little man. Your friends have. I will enjoy chasing you down and consuming your corpse."

Halbarad unsheathed his sword and held it out to the side. He didn't feel as afraid as he should have. Maybe it was because he was also a dragon.

Without fear, he looked straight into the dragon's eyes. "I will not run from you for I do not fear you!" he shouted, letting his voice echo off of every surface of the ruins.

The dragon seemed to find this amusing, and mirth bounced in the fires of his eyes as he crouched forward on his winged front legs.

Gostir was curled up at the back of his mind, as if trying to put as much distance between himself and the dragon as he could.

"You flatter me with your bravery, foolish Ranger," the dragon purred, lowering his head to half a foot off the ground as if to try and get more on his level. "But what could you possibly do that would harm me?" A strange alluring tone wove itself into his voice, slow and gradual. Almost imperceptible. "Come along. Tell me." But Halbarad could hear it and it had no effect on him.

Halbarad threw his sword to the ground and listened to it clatter to the ground. "As you wish," he said.

He had transformed only a few times since this lot in life, but he had gotten used to it.

But this time it was different.

Only a few seconds in, intense, searing pain ripped through him, hotter than the surface of the sun. Whatever transforming he had done was instantly reverted, and he fell, gasping, to his knees.

What happened?

Slowly, he peeled his eyes open. The sound of heavy, methodical, footsteps reverberated across the space, raspy with the metal of greaves and sabatons. Chink... chink... chink...

The atmosphere grew heavier with every footstep. Halbarad tipped his head back, the action taking longer than he expected, as if the dread in the air was weighing down his head. He looked up and time slowed at what he saw.

A shadow stood there, and shadows radiated from it like a halo. It was shaped, vaguely, like a man. But that was not the most striking thing about it. For a large eye, seemingly drawn on the air in blood that glowed with malice, hovered just behind its head, like a halo, or a crown.

And it told him exactly who this was.

"S... Sauron..."

The shadow tsked at him. "What bravery you have shown this day, Gostir. And ingenuity!" he said as he stopped no more than three feet away. "No other dragon would stoop so low as to bond with a mortal." The Dark Lord's voice was hard to describe - deep and raspy. Unholy.

Halbarad flinched as an indistinct hand grabbed his chin and wrenched it up so he was forced to look into the lidless eye. But he couldn't move himself away.

"When I stopped you, I was considering the possibility of bending you to my needs, but then I remembered that you weren't overly fond of being under my master's yoke. So I'm afraid I will have to kill you." The overly sarcastic tone in the shadow's voice sent crushing waves of despair deep into his soul.

So much so, he didn't move when Sauron hefted up his mace and swung it down on his head.

Halbarad awoke with a yell and found himself entangled in his bedroll. His clothes were soaked through with sweat, and so was the bedroll.

It all seemed so real...

Against his will, silent tears began to roll down his cheeks. He sat up and kicked off his covers, feeling constrained, inhibited by them. The sensation built until the tent, even his own skin, felt too small. Too tight. He wanted to scream.

Gostir chose that moment to stir from sleep. He took stock of the emotional storm raging inside the one he shared a body with, and reached out. He had seen every moment of what Halbarad had dreamt, and had processed it better.

Halbarad sensed the mental touch, and immediately something changed. Like soothing mint paste applied to stings and cuts, the storm disappated and he calmed. He returned to himself. He was able to take deep breath.

"I saw it. I saw it all."

What... what did I see?

"You saw the past. ...My past. And a possible future if Smaug isn't killed and the Lonely Mountain isn't liberated. ...If we do not do something."

For a moment, he saw the Lonely Mountain with his mind's eye. He had seen it once, when he had visited the Woodland Realm. Arathorn had wanted to update the Elven King on the situation in Eriador and had sent him and a couple of the older Rangers who had managed to live far past their prime. It had been around a year before Arathorn had died, and Thranduil had taken him and the other Rangers to an observatory that managed to break through the treetops. The king had wanted to show him what the elves had to contend with. Halbarad caught sight of the alonely Moumtain long before the king bothered to mention it, mostly because it had seemed so out of place.

Mountains just didn't stand on their own. Not like that.

"So you are familiar with the Mountain?"

Halbarad sighed. I have seen it.

"Good, because I have no idea where it is."

A week passed before Halbarad finally came to terms with what he was about to do. By then, August had passed away and September had begun.

It had been years since he had felt like this: as if he were in the middle of the Great Sea, swimming on his own with nothing to help him keep his head above water. It made his hands tremble and his stomach dance in his chest. If he moved too quickly, he was afraid he would vomit.

He could barely bring himself to think about what he was about to embark on. How would things fare while he was gone? Could he trust Aragorn's third in command, Taurlos, the man directly beneath him in the leadership of the Dúnedain, to council young Aragorn correctly?

How long would he be gone? How long would it take to get there? He tried to remember how quickly it had taken him to fly from the Grey Mountains, but he couldn't be sure this flight would be just as quick.

One thing he did know was that he was going to depart at night, where the Rangers and the elves would not be able to see him go.

"We are going to do this, Sanar. I am lothe to admit it, but I believe I am even more afraid of what we are about to face than you. I fought none of my kind before I hid myself away."

Halbarad blinked. Sanar? The term disctracted him, and he nearly missed Gostir's confession.

Gostir sighed. "It is a nickname. It means 'thinker', as you are the more rational one. I thought you would prefer it over me calling you 'Edan' for the rest of our lives."

Halbarad hummed. I didn't expect it coming from you. I appreciate it. As I appreciate the openness you just showed me in telling me your fears. I find I will need to get used to it, as nicknames are-

There was a knock against one of the poles of his tent, and he turned to see two shadows being cast against the fabric near the tent flap. He also smelled something - two distinct scents. Gostir helpfully interpreted them as meaning 'anticipation', and Halbarad was left feeling a little rattled.

He had never picked up on smells before.

What had changed?

"C-come in!" he called, his voice betraying him.

Aragorn entered first, followed closely by an ellon with long and straight blond hair. The style of his garb labeled him as a citizen of the Golden Wood.

Halbarad offered them a polite bow. "Hello."

"Halbarad, let me introduce you to Maladlas," Aragorn said. "He is from Lothlórien. He was sent here to give you something."

Maladlas gave him a bow and held out a large tote made of soft green fabric that reminded him of velvet, though it was much stronger. It was embroidered with golden leaves, and a stylized tengwar 'G' was stitched above the clasp. Halbarad took it with gentle hands, reverence welling up inside of him.

"My lady sends her regards, Master Halbarad," the elf said, his words laced with a heavy Sindarin accent that spoke of many days where Westron was naught but a memory. Halbarad watched as he left the tent, his eyes so wide he felt them begin to grow dry.

"Why would she...?" he asked, speechless. He turned to his chieftain.

Aragorn shrugged. "I do not know, melhon."

He looked down on the tote in his hands again. Lady Galadriel...

His fingers shook more than he would have liked as he turned the clasp and pulled back the flap. Inside the tote, clothes of fine make in shades of black and slate grey were folded neatly. He noted the silver embroidery that shone a pale blue when light hit it just right. And tucked between the different articles of clothing, there was a circlet.

He pulled it out and looked it over. It was magnificent. It was full of curves that wrapped around to support a Dúnedain Star where it would sit on the forehead. The star was small, barely bigger than his thumb, and it seemed to shine like it had been forged out of mithril. Why would she have sent him this?

The warmth of the sun seemed to reach through the fabric of the tent and caress his face. But he quickly realized that it was something more when Gostir reacted, retreating deeper into his mind. Focusing on it, he saw that they were no longer alone. There was a new mind brushing up against his own.

"Take this circlet as a token from me," came the wisdom-filled voice of Galadriel, somehow crossing the vast distance between them to enter into his mind. "For once you leave your camp, your life will be changed forever. Gone will be Halbarad Narubaradion, and in his place will stand the Dragon. Usurper of Erebor. Slayer of Smaug. Lord of Esgaroth. Saviour, hero, serpent, villain."

Will I succeed? he asked.

He could sense the smile on her lips. "I do not know, my friend. But you have my blessing."

Thank you.

"One more thing," she said. "When you go to the Lonely Mountain, you will meet a man. You will need his help before you will be able to slay Smaug. I have given you something to give him. May Eru see you through to victory, man of the west."

With that, she withdrew and he was left alone in his head with Gostir. The dragon seemed rather put out at having their personal space invaded.

"Halbarad? Are you alright?"

Aragorn's voice snapped him back to the present, and he blinked owlishly.

"You left for a moment there, my friend," Aragorn said. "Where did you go?"

Halbarad sighed and carefully slid the circlet back into the tote. "The Lady Galadriel... she sends her blessings."

"Ah." The young man nodded in understanding.

He searched through the pack for the item Galadriel had mentioned, and soon found it at the bottom. When he pulled it out, he saw that it was an ornate ring, with a family crest carved out of deep garnet and citrine as the centerpiece. The two gems worked together to display a fox and a badger facing each other, paws raised to hold up a sword by its hilt. It was masterfully done, a true testament to dwarven craft.

This must have once belonged to the family of the man he was supposed to meet.

He carfully slipped it back into the tote.

"Are you ready?" Aragorn asked.

Halbarad gave him a grim smile. "As ready as I will ever be."

Halbarad waited until the sun had set and most had gone to bed, leaving a small night watch consisting of a dozen or so Rangers. The goodbyes he shared with his closest friend were painful and left him close to tears.

He slipped past the guards and travelled deep into the woods, struggling under whatever moonlight managed to break through the treetops. By the time he reached a clearing he thought was big enough, he had banged his knees more than once. He felt as graceful as an oliphaunt.

It must have been his apprehension at what he was about to do, for he usually wasn't so graceless in the dark.

Once he was far enough into the clearing, he transformed, stretching his wings until they brushed against the tops of the trees. The fact that he could touch the tops of the trees while still standing on the ground astounded him, a probably would for a good while yet, but he forced himself to focus on what he had to do.

Taking to the skies with a few powerful wingstrokes, he let himself disappear up into the night. He tried to calculate how long this would take, but ended up abandoning the train of thought when he realized he had no idea how fast he could fly.

He soon found himself up where the air grew thin as he climbed up through the sky and above the mountains. It was harder to breathe, though not by much, and much colder - though the temperature did not bother him as much as he had expected. It sent waves of exhilaration through him, and he did not tire.

The Misty Mountains, a breathtaking mountain range that often took a week to cross, disappeared under him in less than an hour.

The lush, grassy bottom of the valley the Anduin funneled through raced by below him as he took in the feeling of riding the air currents. It reminded him of the few times he had sat in a boat when they had travel faster than feet and horses could allow. It was peaceful, slightly moreso than when he sat in those boats, as he had been on the constant lookout then. But now, he soared so high in the sky nothing could interrupt him. Nothing could touch him.

After another hour and a handful more minutes, he found himself approaching Mirkwood. It was then that Gostir finally stirred from his passive watching of the world going by.

"Something is wrong with this forest," he mused as they began to fly over trees that grew so close together you couldn't even catch a glimpse of the forest floor.

A distinct smell wafted up from the fog that seemed to hover in and above the forest like a soupy miasma. It was a stench of a forest drenched in weeks' worth of heavy rain, mixed with a faint taint of rot and a heavy scent that was hard to identify.

"That is the smell of sorcery," Gostir hissed. "I couldn't forget it even if I tried."

Halbarad would have stopped short if he wasn't flying. Sorcery? His stomach did a somersault. I do not like the sound of that.

He remembered that Thranduil had mentioned something about a growing darkness in Southern Mirkwood, back when he had visited the Woodland Realm all those years ago. He had made it seem so trivial, like it was far away and could be easily dealt with by the Wood-elves.

Then Gandalf had come to Rivendell, when Halbarad was staying there with Gilraen and Aragorn, with news of a Necromancer having appeared in Dol Guldur. Gandalf had seen the sorcerer when he went to explore the old ruins, narrowly escaping after running into an old dwarf there.

The forest looked too sick - something more than a simple Man dabbling in dark magic had come to reside under the trees.

Mirkwood quickly disappeared under them after that, and soon Halbarad found himself carrying them high above an emmense valley, shallow enough to almost be flat while curved deep enough to cradle an equally as immense lake that caugh the waters of a river flowing from a lonely peak. It was a breathtaking sight, despite how barren the land had become.

[[To be continued...]]

Chapter Text

The water lapped gently against the shore as Halbarad kneeled and took in his reflection. The image of himself on the surface danced fitfully as a cool and mournful wind sighed down from the towering peak of Erebor behind him.

Aragorn and the rest of the Rangers seemed so far away now. The fact of it all was sinking in, now that he wasn't intoxicated on the thrills of flight.

What were they doing? Were they thinking of him as he was thinking of them?

The water stilled and his reflection gave him a raised brow - though he was sure that his expression had not changed. He raised a hand to check but stopped when the water did not reflect the action.

"Really now," Gostir remarked, the mouth of his reflection moving in time with the dragon's words. "Is this the first time we have conversed this way?"

Halbarad gave the reflection a deadpanned look. "Stop pretending to look so surprised, Gostir," he sniped. "Never have we ever conversed in this way."

The dragon chuckled, and the predatory way it made the image of his face grin made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. "My, are we not touchy today?"

Halbarad decided to not let Gostir have the satisfaction of a response, and stood. Turning from the lake and facing the mountain in the distance, he let the relief trickle in.

He was still… him. Never before had he spent so much time in his newer form. It had almost physically hurt to change, to condense himself back down into a form that was less than one-hundredth of the size he had just been. When it was done, nothing he did could fully convince himself that he was back to normal - not until he went and looked in the lake.

Was this what Galadriel had meant?

Was he… destined to lose his humanity - forever?

The mere thought of that possibility was almost enough to drive him to his knees, though somehow he was able to remain standing. He had never truly comprehended what he could have possibly been giving up when he accepted Gostir's deal.

"Calm yourself," Gostir chided with that deep voice of his. "You are not going to lose every part of yourself. Do not be a fool." Halbarad could feel him rolling his eyes inside his head. "There was bound to be some balancing between you and I. Just give it time. I did not make it so you could get stuck in either form."

Halbarad worked at his knuckles. Are you sure? I know that dragons are magical creatures, but…

The sound of footsteps on the scrubby grass brought his thoughts to a screeching halt. He felt Gostir retreat to the back of his mind as his eyes scanned his surroundings for the source of the sound.

A moment later, a man stepped into view, rounding a nearby boulder that had kept him hidden until he was too close for Halbarad's comfort.

The man was tall, close to matching his height. He was dressed in brown leathers and had a bow and quiver strapped to his back. There was a small knife and an equally as small axe strapped to his hip - every aspect of him told Halbarad that he was a woodsman. His sudden appearance didn't help with observation, unfortunately.

"The smell of him makes me think that he's a little thinner than he should be," Gostir observed.

Halbarad was confused about what that had to do with anything and was baffled that the dragon was able to tell that by smell alone. And? he asked, sensing that Gostir wasn't finished.

"I am picking up on three other scents - human. Younger… sweeter. Children."

Halbarad's stomach twisted at the way Gostir's voice seemed to linger on the word 'children'. At how his tone had changed… how it had deepened with interest and memory, as if… as if Halbarad had just dangled an auroch's haunch in front of him.

He hadn't had to chastise the dragon for his taste of human flesh in a while. He had automatically assumed that Gostir may have eaten an adult here and there, way back in the First Age. But he had never considered… children.

Gostir… he was almost too afraid of what he might say to ask. Gostir - did you eat children?

He felt his surprise, but before the dragon could respond, the stranger looked up from the bundle of rabbits in his hand and spotted them. He drew up short and eyed them warily.

Halbarad pressed his lips into a flat line, deciding that he would continue that conversation later. He threw up a hand in greeting and exclaimed, "Hail, and well met!"

The man didn't respond right away, and gave him a once-over. "Góthan dag…" he eventually replied, his words heavy with what must be the local accent. "You are not from around here."

"That is true." Halbarad plastered what he hoped was a pleasant smile upon his face, and gestured to the rabbits. "You have had luck this day, I see."

The man narrowed his eyes. "Aye. And I need to be getting back home to prepare them. Góthan dag."

With that, the man resumed his walk, arching around him while keeping a wide berth between them. Halbarad hadn't missed the blatant suspicion that had radiated from the man, but it wasn't anything new. He let the man go and continued on his own way.

It wasn't until nearly an hour later that he remembered the ring and let out a loud curse at the fact that he let the opportunity pass him by.

"Vairë's loom!" he swore as the ground began to slope upwards sometime later.

He twirled the ring on his finger. He had placed it there shortly after he had changed back, hoping to keep himself from forgetting. Yet he had, thanks to Gostir.

"He probably did not have the answer you seek," Gostir piped up. "He didn't seem to be in much of the mood to talk, anyway."

"And you!" Halbarad barked aloud. Don't think I'm not done with you, he said as he switched back to speaking mentally. He plunked down on a nearby boulder and let out an audible growl. I am absolutely sickened by what your words implied back there. Children, Gostir? Children!

Gostir let out a sigh, one that made him picture the dragon shaking his head. "It is not like you think, Sanar. From what I remember, my keepers never brought us human children."

The admittance still turned Halbarad's stomach. But they were still children…

Gostir snorted, though it wasn't a sound of mirth. "They fed us their own children from time to time, whenever the newest batch had finished training for a year and they had sorted the weak from the strong. They threw them in, let us divide them between us." He hummed and it rumbled deep inside Halbarad's head. Shivers raced up and down the Ranger's forearms at the sound of it. "No matter how much they screamed, we ate them in the end."

Saliva gathered in Halbarad's cheeks as his stomach performed a flip in his chest. But Gostir continued on, caught in the flow of reminiscing. "Orcs do not taste much different from humans or elves or dwarves, in my opinion. So I surmise their children do not either. The orcklings did taste oh so sweet. Tender, flavourful… Their bones crushed like chalk and didn't get stuck between my—"

Halbarad dove forward onto his hands and knees just in time for his stomach to clench tightly. Whatever little he had eaten that morning flew from his mouth as he retched uncontrollably.

 He nearly collapsed face-down in his mess before his stomach stopped turning itself inside out. His arms shook as he took a deep breath, chasing away the darkness that had begun to encroach on the edges of his vision. His spine seemed to wobble as he climbed back to his feet.

That… that… It sickened him. Gostir sickened him, even though the children he ate were orcs.

A sour feeling rose up from deep inside and washed over him like a sick, acid tide. Revulsion. It had been years since he had felt this feeling. And all he wanted to do was shove Gostir from his head. He no longer wanted to hear him or feel him. Not for a good long while.

The fact that Gostir could feel every emotion that ran through him, could hear almost every thought, made it all the worse.

Taking a few more deep breaths, Halbarad forced himself to put those thoughts away for now. He couldn't afford to waste any more time. He would deal with this after the dragon.

He looked up at the mountain, which was closer now, but still hours away. The ruined front gate seemed to yawn open wide, a terrible, foreboding sight. He knew he had to enter, but he wasn't sure what he was going to face once he was inside.

He poured some water into his hand before lifting it to his mouth. He sucked the water in and swished it around before spitting it back out, rinsing what was left of the bile from between his teeth. He then took a couple of swigs from his waterskin, chasing the raw feeling in his throat all the way back down.

"That ring." The voice seemed to punch the air despite being said in a level and even tone.

Halbarad whirled around, stumbling against the boulder as he came face-to-face with the man he had met by the lakeshore.

There was a hardened look on the man's face, one of deep suspicion and a hint of anger. "Where did you find it?" he demanded.

In his shock, Halbarad glanced at the ring where it sat on his finger, its garnet and citrine glinting in the sunlight. So he hadn't missed it after all.

Clearing his throat, Halbarad looked into the man's deep brown eyes. "It was given to me," he replied, his voice calm. "I am looking for its owner. The lady who gave it to me said that its rightful owner would know something that may help me."

The man worked at his jaw, and Halbarad could see by how his eyes shifted that the man was thinking about what he said. Probably debating on the validity of his words.

"Do… you know who it belongs to?" Halbarad prompted, tilting his head slightly to the side.

The man scratched at his right jaw, clearly struggling. But a moment later he opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. "It bears the crest of the Girion family. Formerly known as the Geirjarn family. It was last seen upon the finger of Guthmundr Girion, the last lord of Dale…" the man swallowed. "As he attempted to slay the dragon." He took a deep breath. "Everyone thought it had been lost, taken by the dragon to add to his hoard."

Halbarad stared at the ring, slipping it from his finger as he did so. Hearing the history of it, though he did not know if it was true, made it seem wrong to wear it any longer.

"It is impressive that it seems to have touched dragon fire and survived," he remarked. "I can only assume that the elves must have recovered it, for it was an elf who sent it to me."

The man seemed to startle at this.

"I would very much like to return it to its rightful owner - do you know who it is?"

The man seemed to break out into a sweat at this, and his adam's apple spasmed when he swallowed.

Unbeknownst to Halbarad, his words sounded a little strange to the man, and they had begun to echo inside his head by the time he finished asking the question. The man felt compelled to answer, and the words popped out of his mouth before he could even begin to try and resist. "It belongs to me."

Halbarad smiled at this, though to the man it was twisted by how his words made his head swim. The world seemed to bob and shift around him, and Halbarad's smile grew mischievous and menacing.

"And who are you?" Halbarad asked, his words echoing in the man's head, growing louder. "I am one of the Dúnedain of Eriador. You may call me Sentinel, if you wish."

The man swallowed again, saliva gathering in his cheeks, though he knew not why. "S…Sentinel?" he echoed. With a shuddering breath, his answer popped out again, "I am… Bard… Bard Boson…"

Halbarad took in what the man said, digesting it though the name held no meaning - yet. This man, Bard, was being very open now, and he was getting information, but how could he prove that he was who he said he was? Would he answer truthfully if he simply asked?

"Tell me, Bard," he began. "Tell me your proof that says you are who you say you are? What would tell me you are of Girion?"

Bard's hand drifted up to his neck, where he pulled on a cord that hung there. From under his shirt came a pendant nearly identical to the jewel upon the ring. Halbarad regarded it for a long moment, just to be sure. But then, within his heart, he was sure. They matched.

"This necklace belonged to Guthmundr's son, Ernust, and has been passed down from father to son ever since," Bard explained, words shaky. He watched as Halbarad regarded him, but whatever was happening turned the pleased look in the Ranger's eye to one full of - something. Hunger. Even his eyes seemed to grow stranger the more their gazes remained locked together… until Halbarad's pupils narrowed and then elongated into reptilian slits.

The sight of it drove the man to his knees with a cry.

Starting, Halbarad took a step back as a loud snap reverberated through the air. A strange feeling, which he hadn't noticed until then, disappeared. 

What… What had he done?

Halbarad dropped to his own knees and grasped the man's shoulders. The action made the man flinch as if he had been struck.

Halbarad began to shake at this. What had he done? To him, he had merely been asking questions, yet somehow he had cast a spell over Bard that left him quaking on his knees.

The Ranger closed his eyes. What did I do?

"You used the 'dragon-spell' on him," Gostir said. "Though, it is more of a persuasion—magical persuasion—than a spell."

Halbarad couldn't breathe.

"You are a dragon, Sanar. What you did was as natural as breathing. You do not like it, but it is a part of you, a part of your will. And your will now carries more weight than all but your fellow dragons."

I never want to inflict such control over others. Never again! The sick feeling had risen inside of him once again and his insides had twisted themselves into knots.

Gostir was patient with him, despite their earlier quarrel. "I keep forgetting that you are a young dragon. And that you are still discovering what is now a part of you. All I can advise is to watch your tone. When asking questions, do not look the other in the eye. Always be mindful of how you speak, for the magic of a dragon is in their speechcraft."

Gostir then retreated back into the depths of his mind, leaving him to face the man he had inadvertently attacked.

It took Bard longer than he would have liked to regather his wits.

After half an hour, he still remained seated amongst the scorched scrub and sickly shrubs that struggled for life in the Desolation. The stranger, Sentinel as he called himself, had joined him in sitting, yet seemed to look away in shame. He had taken out a small piece of wood and a simple wood-carver's knife, but he didn't seem to be doing much other than cutting haphazardly into the wood.

The ring sat upon the man's knee, glinting in the light of the sun as the burning beacon climbed higher into the sky.

Eventually, the man put his carving supplies away and brought out a small sachet of food. Bard watched with wary eyes as the man unwrapped the tan scrap of cloth, revealing a couple of squares of hard tack.

Halbarad held out one of the squares to him, but Bard stared at it and made no move to take it.

He looked up at the Ranger and tried to study his face. The man purposefully kept his eyes trained away, seeming to take every pain to keep their gazes from meeting. Bard didn't know what to make of it, or what it spelled for him. But a few moments later, he allowed himself to reach forward and take the hard tack.

Sitting back, his stomach rumbled when it realized that there was food in his hand. He broke a piece off and put it to his mouth, and turned his attention back to the ring.

It sat there on the Ranger's knee, glinting in the late fall sunlight. Was it really there? Was it truly possible that this lost family heirloom had found its way back home?

"You can take it," Halbarad said, spotting his stare. "It is yours, after all."

Bard eyed him warily. The offer carried with it a note of danger even if he hadn't meant it. In his mind's eye, Bard pictured reaching for the ring, only for Halbarad to latch onto his arm and - do what? Harm him?

Bard mustered up his courage and quickly grabbed the ring, withdrawing his arm to safety quickly while staring at the Ranger with utmost suspicion.

Halbarad regarded him with a bemused expression, his face creased slightly in a way that didn't portray amusement, but wasn't puzzled either. There was a look of knowing in his eyes when their gazes briefly met.

"Who are you?" Bard demanded, finally finding his voice. "A sorcerer? You… reached… inside me. Inside my head…" His fist clenched around his ring. "You made me speak!"

Halbarad's expression grew grim once more, the skin around his eyes pinching in a way that amplified the look of devastation that pooled within them. His now too human eyes. "I am no… sorcerer." The last word dropped from his mouth as if it tasted bad, though his tone remained calm. "I… did not know I could do what I did to you. And for that, I am deeply sorry."

Wanting to look at anything other than the man, Bard cast his gaze aside, scanning their surroundings until his eyes landed upon the towering form of the Lonely Mountain. "What are you, then? What is a Ranger of the North? This is the North, yet I have never heard of Rangers here before today."

Halbarad hesitated for a long moment. And when Bard glanced back at him for a moment, he caught a far-away look in his eyes, as if he had descended deep into his own mind. But then his eyes refocused, and he was back in the present.

"I am from Eriador, west of the Misty Mountains. West of here. Rangers patrol the land, looking out for dangers such as orcs. Most don't even know we're there," he answered, a twinge of yearning in his voice.

Bard looked him up and down, noting the strange, seven-pointed star that clasped his cloak to his left shoulder. Noted how he held himself—he seemed unassuming, nothing more than a road-weary traveler… but there was nobility there that no amount of acting could conceal. For it was an act, and Bard was quickly growing to see it. The way Halbarad held his shoulders practically screamed of a purposefully hidden facet of himself that spoke volumes in a way Bard couldn't understand without context.

"Then why are you here, when you want to be there?" he asked, a little of his suspicion bleeding away.

Sentinel gave him a sad smile, his gaze drifting away once again. "It was at the behest of my chieftain, and the lady who gave your ring to me. My chieftain…" His voice stopped abruptly, and his mouth closed, then opened, then closed again. He seemed to struggle with what he was going to say next, and he glanced up at him for the briefest of moments. When his gaze drifted away, as he forced himself to look out to the ruined countryside, he asked, "Tell me, Bard. When was the dragon last seen?"

Bard was startled at this sudden change of subject. Cautiously, he assumed that he needed the information before he could finish his answer. So he lowered his guard some more, and replied, "Nigh on 60 years, but that has not stopped my people from worrying, despite what the Master says."

Sentinel hummed thoughtfully. Scratching at the beginnings of the beard on his face, he posed another question, "What would you say… if I said that my chieftain had… sent me to go into Erebor?"

Bard's heart began to beat a little harder now that Sentinel was beginning to ask questions again. But then it skipped a beat when what he had said finally sunk in. "You want to go in?" he exclaimed. "That is madness! Any who have gone in have never returned. And many have gone, drawn by the allure of unguarded treasure!"

Sentinel grimaced. "I do not want to go in, of course I do not. Yet my chieftain bids me go - despite how many times I told him my place was by his side."

"You are still going to go in, then?" At Sentinel's nod, Bard sighed. "You are braver than most, and less foolish - despite how foolhardy the mission. He wants you to try and slay the beast?"

Sentinel nodded again.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he had to ask. "How?"

Oh, how tempted he was to answer that question truthfully. To reveal to him his hidden form—that a dragon had come to fight another dragon. But Halbarad knew that Bard would never believe that a dragon would do anything for the good of mankind. Or any of the other free races of Middle-Earth. He was too old to be so foolish to hope otherwise.

Though that didn't stop Gostir from suggesting it anyway. "Just tell him. If he's the one Gallahell sent us to find, then maybe he will not condemn us…?"

Halbarad rolled his eyes internally at Gostir's blatant misnaming of the Lady of the Golden Wood. But he didn't bring it up, continuously aware of Bard's waiting stare. He had to answer, and quickly. Yet, indecision continued to yank him back and forth and he stalled.

Gostir snorted at this, and Halbarad's mind was shoved out of the way. Halbarad tensed with thundering horror at what Gostir was doing and struggled for control.

But he quickly found himself no match for the strength of Gostir's mind.

Gostir smiled at Bard, and Halbarad watched on with horror as Bard startled at the striking change he knew his body language was undergoing. Gostir relaxed his posture and regarded Bard openly. Halbarad could feel the colour of his eyes changing, brightening to that mithril silver Aragorn had mentioned from time to time.

Bard leaned back, whatever openness he had allowed snapping shut like a book.

The only thing Halbarad was thankful for was that Gostir had kept his voice the same, and didn't frighten the man further. "What would you say if a dragon came and dealt with the dragon already in the mountain?"

Bard's mouth opened and shut for a few minutes, giving him the appearance of a gaping fish. Eventually, he snapped his mouth shut and frowned. "What are you saying?" he demanded. "Why would a dragon wish to fight one of its own kin? And Smaug, he is the last we—" The man stopped abruptly and stared at him. It was an intense stare, one that felt as if it could peel back his skin and reveal his hidden side, if it were possible.

Halbarad watched as he blinked, then grew pale. "It's not possible…" the man breathed, scrambling back and away as things clicked together inside his head. The man took his knife in his hand, pointing it at them. "You…!"

Gostir let out a laugh and rose to his feet. "Yes, me," he quipped.

"That is not possible!" the Northman exclaimed. "Never… I've never - what foul magic is this?"

"Magic - yes. Foul? No," Gostir said before drawling, "I thought you would be happy that someone was finally coming to deal with your dragon problem?"

Bard clenched his teeth, slamming his knife back into its sheath as he climbed to his feet. He drew his bow and held it at the ready, but didn't draw it yet. "Replacing the dragon with another dragon is not a solution!"

"But you can trust this dragon," Gostir said with a toothy grin.

"No, I cannot!" Quick as a blink, Bard drew the bow and fired an arrow at them. Gostir twisted out of the way and the arrow missed him by a wide margin.

Twisting back around, Gostir slammed the palm of his right hand against Bard's forehead and gripped his head tightly with his fingers. He looked deep into Bard's eyes and poured a heavy dose of magic into the word he spoke next. "Sleep."

Bard's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he crumpled to the ground.

Halbarad was not amused. Well… that happened.

Darkness had long since descended over the world when Bard came back to himself. The chill of the air and the stones digging into his back were what nudged him from sleep, and with it came the memories of what came before.

Gasping, he leapt to his feet and reached for his bow. But his hand grasped nothing but air and when he reached for his knife and axe he found them missing as well. He had been disarmed.

Panting, he whipped his gaze about in a feeble attempt to regain his bearings. But every which way he looked he saw nothing but darkness and the faint outlines of trees. It was then that his nose registered the scent of the air—heavy, sour. Still.

He had been taken to Mirkwood.

All his life he had been warned to never stray into Mirkwood, not even to the eaves where you could still see the world beyond. His father had trembled as he told him, his gaze growing distant and foggy. The forest had a way for worming into your mind, of making you see things that were not there, of getting you all turned around until you could not remember where the east or the west was. Most who went in never came home.

And he was here in that bewitched forest. Lost.

A tree creaked and groaned, and the sound ripped him from his thoughts. Heavy footfalls made the ground tremble beneath his feet in a rhythmic pattern that had his heartbeat take off at a full gallop.

Birds in the branches twittered nervously to one another. "Dragon! Dragon!" they warned in the language of the birds.

"Finally! You awaken!" a deep voice suddenly thundered from behind.

Bard let out a shout, leaping from fright before whirling to face the speaker. A massive snout that could have easily filled his house poked out from behind a tree, and a large, lantern-like eye with a keyhole-shaped pupil stared at him from the other side of the tree.

The dragon lifted his massive head and emerged from where it had been hiding. Bard stumbled back against a nearby tree and craned his head back as the dragon seemed to continue growing taller until he was nearly as tall as the trees around them. A small part of him told him that if the dragon reared up, he would tower over the trees.

I'm sorry, my children…

"Stop being so frightened," the dragon insisted in an aggravatingly amused voice. "I am not going to eat you!"

"Dragons are creatures of lies and deception!" Bard shot back. "You have been doing nothing but lie to my face since we met, Sentinel!"

The dragon's face twitched at this accusation, and for a moment Bard thought that he would be incinerated. 

But Bard had misinterpreted the dragon's reaction, for it wasn't Gostir's ire at being called out that had flickered across his face. Instead, it was Halbarad's reaction—a momentary reeling as if he had been punched in the gut, for he had not been deceitful, not maliciously. But Bard did not know that.

The dragon lowered his head low to the ground in order to glare Bard in the eye, a thunderous scowl on his face. "I would warn you to hold your tongue, tiny edan," he bit out, his deep voice putting percussive force behind each word, "but a voice inside my head suggests instead that I bite my tongue." He snorted, sending a cloud of hot smoke directly into the Northman's face. "It is a very annoying voice," he added as he raised his head.

Bard's heart had begun to palpitate in his throat. "What… do you… want from me… then?" he managed to pant out from between clenched teeth.

The dragon regarded him for a moment. "I want—" he stopped, and the light from his eyes dimmed somewhat. There was a beat of silence, before the dragon's head jerked violently to the left. "What?" he bellowed, the branches of the trees trembling in the dark from the volume of surprise in his voice.

Another beat of silence went by before something strange, strange even for this situation, happened. The dragon's eyes rolled back into his head, and he, along his with his massive head, collapsed to the ground.

Bard stood there, fighting to regain his breath as his mind tumbled. What had just happened? What had he just witnessed?

He thought about his children, and of the rabbits he had hunted that morning. What had he have thought then if he had known how the end of the day turned out? He would probably have laughed.

His children were probably panicking, now that he thought about it. Sigrid would have processed the rabbits long ago, but now was probably sitting by the fire, quietly panicking so she didn't set off Tilda.

His stomach twisted.

The dragon took a deep breath at that moment,  bringing his thoughts to a screeching halt.

After another deep breath, the dragon's eyes opened, dimmer than they had been before. He lifted his head, but didn't get up, instead choosing to fold his front limbs in front of his chest. In the dim light, Bard's mind easily compared this posture to that of a resting cat. But this resting position set alarms off in his head and he couldn't help but perceive it as forced nonchalance.

Slowly, the dragon tilted his chin down and regarded Bard for a long moment.

"I am… sorry for that, Master Bard," the dragon's deep voice rumbled. "I am afraid my… worse half got the better of me for a time."

Despite the danger before him, Bard found himself scowling at the dragon's words.

"I see my words are only serving to anger you further," the dragon pointed out. Bard had to admit that the dragon's tone of voice had returned to what it had been before it had changed, before he had been knocked out and dragged off to… here. When the dragon was still in the form of a man. But the more he thought about it, the more confused he became.

Sentinel let him continue thinking, and turned his attention to a nearby sapling. He reached out with a clawed hand and snapped it free from its base before bringing it before his face. Gently he blew upon it, and from the heat of his breath alone it ignited, turning into a makeshift torch. He then stuck it into the ground between them, lighting up the space more than the light from his eyes had been.

Then, there was a great flash of light. The dragon disappeared, and in its place stood the man who had given him his ring. Grey eyes stared at him from under a deep hood, barely visible in the dim light.

"Why have you brought me here?" Bard demanded, a little of the fear ebbing now that the stranger was no longer looming over him. "I told you what you wanted. You gave me the ring. You are going after that dragon no matter what I say, and you will bring death upon the innocent of Esgaroth!"

Sentinel crossed his arms. "I understand the risks, Master Bard. But I will do my best to keep him from going to your town. That is why I will confront him as a dragon, and not as a man." He sighed. "That way, his quarrel will be with the Withered Heath, and not with the race of men—if he assumes I came from there."

"Why do you and your chieftain insist on provoking the dragon? It has been a long time since we had to worry about him swooping down upon our livestock, upon our town! Why not allow him to continue sleeping?" the Northman implored.

A grim look etched itself into the Ranger's face. "Because if I do not, someone else will," he replied. "As we speak, a company of dwarves is making its way east, determined to get inside that mountain and destroy the dragon themselves. But there is a likely, overwhelming, chance that they will fail. And we all remember how hot a dragon's rage will burn."

Bard felt his eyes widen at the implications in the Ranger's words.

"Now, who do you want to confront the dragon?" Sentinel proposed, his voice low, "a dragon who may win - or dwarves who may lose?"

Bard swallowed thickly. He stared at Sentinel for a long moment. His mind lingered on the abrupt shifting in the dragon's personality and asked.

Sentinel gave him a sad smile and told him. "Years ago, I went on a mission to the Grey Mountains with my chieftain. There, I received a fatal wound and nearly died. I would have died… if it were not for Gostir." The smile turned bitter. "He saved me, in exchange for a…" he searched for a word. "For a melding, of sorts. I didn't exactly know I would gain the ability to… become a dragon. But I did. And the price is that I forever have to live with Gostir's voice inside my head. And he can sometimes take control" he looked to the side and scowled "often to my utter annoyance." He sighed through his nose and the scowl dropped. Turning back to Bard, he finished with, "I am still trying to teach him human etiquette."

Bard stared at him for a long moment. He was torn. A part of him said it made sense, while the other warned him not to trust these words.

Halbarad asked Bard to keep his revelation a secret. It took a bit for him to see the wisdom in his words and for him to promise to keep it all to himself.

The Northman explained why he agreed to keep it all to himself—the Master of Laketown was not a good man. His greed knew no bounds, and half the town spied for him on the other half of the townsfolk out of sheer terror or the hope of warmer homes and fuller bellies.

Bard hated the Master, and the Master hated him. "I know it is because I'm a descendant of Guthmundr—after all if he had succeeded, would we be living like this? No, we would be up in Dale, and the dwarves would be in their halls, we would all be wealthy, and we wouldn't have to worry about food when the winter fogs sock in."

Halbarad gave him a knowing look, and for a brief moment, his eyes flashed a bright silver as Gostir pressed close in intrigue. "No, it is not because of the past, I think, Girionson. No—I think he is afraid. Does your lineage not still hold weight amongst your fellow townsfolk? Instinct tells me that they have not forgotten, and they remember who should be leading."

Dawn was breaking by the time they finished, casting a gloom over the forest. Halbarad's draconic nature easily saw through the spell-heavy air that aimed to confuse, and he lead Bard back out into the open air.

Bard took a deep breath as soon as the air tasted clean, and let out an appreciative sigh.

Halbarad bid him return home, to ease the worries his family was no doubt experiencing at his disappearance. He assured him one last time that there was no need to fear him before he turned his steps northward and departed. 

For nearly a kilometer he felt Bard's eyes upon him before he forced himself to turn his attention ahead. He only hoped that the information he had received was enough.

Smaug was vengeful. If a Man confronted him and angered him enough, the town on the lake would no doubt become a target. He hoped that because he was going to face him as a dragon, it wouldn't be a problem - or would the serpent still lash out at anyone nearby?

He forced himself to not think about that possibility and made his way up the ever-increasing incline of the ground. It was early afternoon when he reached the ruins of Dale. He took a moment to rest there and ate more hard tack than he should have - the dragon side of him was growling for more, more than he knew his human stomach could handle, but he didn't have the time to satiate it. And he couldn't afford to go flying around, looking for something when time was counting down and people could see.

He pushed on, and a few more hours later the front gates of the dwarven kingdom loomed high overhead, massive and towering and utterly impressive despite the damage Smaug had inflicted upon it. They gaped open, hemmed in on each side by massive stone dwarves that held their axes at the ready, proclaiming to all who this mountain truly belonged to.

And he was going to take it for his own.

He turned and looked down the valley one last time. The sun was well on her way down toward the horizon, casting bright orange light and long shadows across the landscape as she did. Streams of smoke rose from the chimneys of Laketown, and from this distance, it seemed peaceful.

Turning back to the gates, he hesitated.

This is it, he thought.

"Are you ready?" asked Gostir.

I am not. But it cannot be helped. We must go in.

Light lit up the gates as he unfolded himself into his dragon form. He stood there for a moment, pausing only to fold his wings tightly to his back and regard the gates—they seemed a lot smaller now—before he charged forward.

His shoulders crashed into either side of the gate frame, the stone grinding against his scales as he forced his way through. Claws scraped against the once-smooth floor as he forced his way through. When he finally made it through, scales sprinkled to the floor, but he paid them little mind as he began to make his way deep into the mountain.

It was not hard to follow where the dragon had gone. Claw marks gouged out the stone and ash sat where fires had burned. There was evidence of later excursions, where Smaug had no doubt left the treasures deep within to root out any dwarves who had hidden instead of fled. The very thought conjured up memories of settlements he and his fellow Rangers had chanced upon after they had been raided by orcs. It stoked the bubbling cauldron that sat at the base of his neck, but he forced them away before they could truly make him angry. He needed to stay in control.

Down and down he went. Eventually, the musty smell of the kingdom changed, and this new smell grew until it was a strong musk mixed with the sharp notes of tarnished silver and copper. He knew what it was before he could even dwell upon it—it was the smell of dragon. The smell of a dragon who lingered in place for years and did not routinely clean up his lair.

Remind me to tell Aragorn that he is allowed to smite me if I ever let myself go like this.

The only response he got from Gostir was a snort of amusement.

The chill of the empty halls slowly disappeared as they went, the air warming gradually as a golden light soon joined it. The familiar sound of snapping fire in braziers was joined by a steady sound that was hard to place at first. Though it quickly clicked at what it was. Halbarad tried his best to quiet the sound of his claws clacking against the stone.

But it was too late.

The pattern of breathing changed as Halbarad stuck his head through the entrance to a massive, cavernous hall that seemed to go on forever. He was stunned by what filled it—everyone knew that Erebor held riches beyond compare, but he had never, truly, realized that it was, in truth, beyond comprehension.

Gold went on as far as the eye could see, rising and falling in waves like a great gilded sea. He was impressed, at first. But the more he looked, the more his impression faded. Soon, disgust rolled around inside his belly.

"Oh~," Gostir gasped, wonder and too much envy in his voice.

Halbarad gave Gostir a mental slap and shook his head. 

The air was heavy, but not because of the stench of dragon that hung there. It grabbed his attention once he had comprehended the hoard—it was noxious, choking. It reminded him of what he had smelled in Mirkwood.

It was magic.

The gold shifted, cascading down a nearby pile as a large head on a long, snake-like neck rose up into the air. Both Halbarad and Gostir's attentions snapped to it as two piercing, golden eyes turned to them.

The red dragon grinned at them and stood.

The thunder of gold crashing down was like loud and abrasive rain on water. Halbarad scowled. His tail snapped, slapping the wall in the connecting hallway behind him.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" the red dragon drawled in a voice so deep that it was mostly a growl that shook the very air. He shook gold from the wings attached to his front limbs nonchalantly, but Halbarad could see the way his foe's muscles tensed.

"By the way you move, I can guess you do not host guests very often," Halbarad said in return.

Smaug snorted. "Long has it been since I have seen another of my kind. But why should I bother to meet with such a rude guest, if that is what you are?"

"No guest am I," he countered.

"Oh? Then who are you? Kin, perhaps?" Smaug prodded, taking a few steps closer.

"You have to make him take you seriously!" Gostir advised. "Dragons give themselves impressive names. It's a way to show pride. Ospuruth the Night-Terror, Maglanaes the Horrible, Glaurung the Golden, or Hrímil Frost-Heart for example!"

What were you? Halbarad asked.

Gostir was silent for a long moment. Finally, "I… never gave myself one."

Oh.

Smaug quirked an eyebrow at him and Halbarad's heart began to pound. Scrambling, he quickly came up with something. Steadying himself so that he didn't sound like a child, he said, "I am Gostir the Gilded, or Gostir Rake-Claw. It depends on who you ask." He mirrored Smaug's quirked brow and asked, "And you are?"

Smaug sneered at the question. "You know exactly who I am, 'Gostir'. Else you would not have come. I am Smaug the Terrible, and you would not have come here so blindly."

Gostir began to chuckle at this. He pushed forward inside Halbarad's head and took control. His eyes sparked as a sly smile came over his face. "True—I do know you are," the words hissed from between his lips as he stepped forward and farther into the treasury. 

As he came closer, Halbarad noticed, with no small amount of satisfaction, that he was bigger than Smaug. And Smaug had done some growing since he had come here, if the hole in the gate was anything to go by.

"I had surmised that dragon-kind may have lessened some over the years," Gostir mused. "After all, Scatha wasn't all that impressive—for a Long Worm. The average dragon was at least as tall as a city wall back in my day."

Smaug seemed to have noticed the size difference as well, and puffed himself up to try to make up it. "I have not heard of you! Have you not found a hoard of your own? This one is mine!"

The skin of Gostir's lips pulled back in a snarl that revealed all of his teeth. "Petulant drakeling! Do you not know how to speak to your elders? Your betters? You have lived for only a fraction of the years that I have, and yet you question me?" He gestured to the gold all around them with a toss of his head. "This is a hoard befitting for the eldest, most ancient of our kind, yet here you are. In truth, this hoard would befit only Glaurung the Golden! Any dragon would come here, seeking to claim it, if they knew it was guarded by one so… inexperienced."

Smaug's eyes blazed with fire as he bared his teeth at him. So great was his anger that he lunged at him, stopping only a hundred feet away as he postured threateningly.

"Aww, he is like the camp cat," Gostir chortled.

"Oh, so threatening," he mocked, huffing a laugh as he did so. "Come then, little one. Keep posturing. Or are you going to defend your hoard?"

That seemed to be enough goading. With a roar, Smaug leapt the rest of the way and slammed into him. 

The attack pushed them out the entrance and back up the connecting hall towards the mostly open lower floor of the mountain. When he had regained his footing, Gostir handed back control to Halbarad in time for Smaug to slam into him again.

Halbarad let the blow carry Smaug up and over him. Smaug shouted as this carried him over to a massive hole that lead down to one of the pit mines. As Smaug plummeted downwards, Halbarad took the opportunity to make for the front gate, propelling himself forward with everything from his limbs to his wings.

Smaug regained his orientation quickly and followed after him like a hurricane of fire and smoke.

Halbarad burst through the gate, paying no mind to how more scales were torn from his shoulders. He snapped his wings open and took to the skies, his feet clearing the ground in time for him to dodge the stream of fire that proceeded his pursuer.

The red dragon let out a roar of fury and followed him upwards. Halbarad turned to face him, feeling more than a little off-balance as he used his wings in new ways.

Taking a deep breath, he blew downwards. To his relief, a fireball shot downwards towards Smaug. It hadn't occurred to him until right then that he had never had to use his fire breath before, and he wasn't quite sure how to use it.

Smaug dodged the fireball with ease and countered it with a stream of his own. Halbarad twisted out of the way, barrel rolling downwards and underneath Smaug. The fire arched, more of a liquid than flames carried on his breath.

Halbarad watched as the liquid flame fell to the ground out of the corner of his eye and rose to meet Smaug. He spat flame at him again, this time managing to sustain a stream of gaseous flame for several seconds. The attack crashed into the red dragon's chest, and Smaug reeled back with a surprised shout.

"I would like to point out that we are dealing with a dragon of the Third Age," Gostir piped up as Halbarad dodged a swipe from Smaug's rear claws.

What? The sudden observance broke Halbarad's concentration for the briefest of moments. Unfortunately, that was enough for Smaug to pour a massive stream of fire upon him. A yelp sprang free at the sudden blow, but died quickly as the burning liquid passed over him and dripped downwards, feeling no warmer than what he felt when sitting by a fire.

"Let's just say that I have a theory that our kind has… diminished… over the ages."

Smaug backed away a bit and regarded him in surprise. Halbarad matched his gaze, though he took care to not let anything show on his face. His gaze drifted downwards for a split-second, and it took all of him to not show surprise at what he saw. What scales and jewels and gold that had coated his chest had blackened and melted slightly. But what drew his gaze most fervently was the gaping wound on Smaug's left breast.

A weakness.

Halbarad lurched forward and rammed his claws against Smaug's chest. His right hand sought out the ravine in the scale plating but missed as Smaug threw his weight forward and latched onto Halbarad's abdomen with his rear claws.

Smaug snapped down on the joint between Halbarad's right shoulder and wing, his long neck easily allowing him to sink his teeth deep between the softer scales there. The pain was like fire, a burning conflagration, and Halbarad lost feeling in the appendage.

He plummeted downwards, back to the ground as he tried to fend off the red dragon. Smaug held fast to him, riding him down with his wings outstretched to control the fall.

Halbarad's back slammed into the unyielding ground and it was only by some miracle that he didn't destroy his wings. Things compressed uncomfortably as Smaug landed his full weight upon him, but somehow nothing broke.

He heaved his opponent off of him and blasted him with more fire. Smaug cried out as he caught the blast on his side, his scales sizzling loudly.

Smaug retaliated with fire of his own and it landed on Halbarad's shoulder and side. It dripped from his scales again, somehow cooler in sensation than the pain the bite had given him.

"So... the fire in our kind has cooled since the First Age," Gostir remarked as Halbarad turned and charged.

He paid him no mind as he slammed his head into the underside of Smaug's jaw, hoping to dig his long and sharp horns into the flesh there. But Smaug pulled his head away at the last moment.

Halbarad rose up on his hind claws and grappled with his foe once again. Smaug countered by blowing fire into his eyes.

At point-blank range, it didn't matter that the fire was cooler than what Gostir remembered. Darkness descended upon his vision as the fire poured over his face, covering his eyes and blinding him. The pain was unlike any he had ever experienced. It felt like a thousand knives that had been left in the fire before being rammed deep into his eye sockets and left there. He screamed.

He flailed. All orientation was lost as Smaug shoved him backwards. His back slammed into the ground and whatever shrubs grew there dug at the spaces between his scales.

"Pathetic," Smaug sneered, his forelimbs slamming down to earth before he stepped forward and onto Halbarad's chest. Halbarad wheezed as his weight pressed down on his lungs. "With all that posturing, I thought you would have put up more of a fight."

"You… you merely landed a fortuitous blow, wormling," Halbarad coughed. His inability to see was alarming, and it took all he had not to panic.

Smaug let out an amused snort. "Your words are bold for one who fights worse than a dragonet." He took one of his clawed forelimbs and pressed it down upon the middle of Halbarad's neck. Halbarad tried thrashing, but his flailing went wide and served only to make Smaug laugh.

Fists of Tulkas! Halbarad growled inwardly. He reached up and tried to claw at his foe's chest, to try and feel for the chasm he had seen in his scales. But Smaug pressed down upon his neck, putting a swift end to his feeble attempt.

He gagged against the pressure, which didn't let up one iota. Gostir panicked at the back of his mind, frightened at the fact that they had been blinded and now were suffocating. Halbarad scrambled to try and figure out a solution, but was quickly coming up empty-handed. He could only hear and smell and feel. All he had ever known and done was by sight. It was as if he had been left adrift at sea in the midst of a terrible storm.

He gripped at the limb pinning his throat and tried to chase away the darkness growing at the edges of his vision.

"Any last words?" came the gloating words of Smaug. The sound of a fire roaring in a hearth blossomed into being somewhere above him, and he felt heat on his face.

He couldn't die here. Not like this…

There was a sharp twang.

Smaug cried out and the weight on his neck disappeared. Halbarad sucked in a deep breath and coughed long as hard and the red dragon seemed to stomp around. The ground shook and bucked beneath him as Smaug cried out in agony.

Then, with one last earth-shattering thump, all went silent.

The smell of iron permeated the air, joining in on another scent that had crept up on him.

"Human," Gostir supplied, his voice faint and more than a bit dazed.

...

"…Sentinel?"

It was Bard.

Halbarad let out a sigh of relief. "Bard? What… what are you doing here?" He rolled up onto his belly and sniffed at the air until he got the general location of the man. "I thought you were going to return to your family?"

"I did. But then you and Smaug came down the valley towards Lake-town, and people grew worried. I… grew worried."

His head suddenly seemed so heavy. With a groan, he let it thump to the ground. It made his teeth clack together, but he didn't have the energy to care right then.

"Do not move," Bard said, suddenly much closer.

He felt a small, human-sized hand grab the lid of his right eye and hold it open. A moment later,  something wet and freezing cold was splashed into his eyes and he jerked back with a yelp.

"Easy," Bard soothed. "It's water. We have to flush his fire from your eyes."

Halbarad sucked in a deep breath as Bard let go of that eyelid. He listened to the man's footprints as he quickly rounded the end of his muzzle and came to his left eye. A note of nervousness permeated the air, and he let out a tired chuckle.

"You need not fear me anymore, Bard. The fight has left me for today," he chided.

Bard said nothing. He went about flushing out his left eye, and when he was done, he stepped back. "How is that?" he asked.

The utter darkness had seeped from his eyes. Halbarad waited and blinked several times. They still stung, but he could see light and shapes. It was better than before.

But it was not ideal.

He lifted his head and looked at Bard. "Thank you."

Bard gave him a shaky nod.

Halbarad cast his gaze about, eventually turning and spotting the vague red shape of Smaug's body. "You killed him?"

It took a moment for Bard to respond. He sighed unsteadily, and when Halbarad turned back to him, he saw his shape shift nervously. "…Aye. I did."

"How?" It was a marvel, truly. But if it hadn't been for him, Smaug would have no doubt emerged the victor.

Bard sighed again. "A black arrow. My… family managed to hold on to one over the years. I brought it with me when you neared the town. I saw the gaping wound on his chest and thought back to the tales my father had told me growing up. It seems… if Guthmundr was given one more chance, he would have been able to finish Smaug."

Halbarad grimaced as the words were weighed down by the constant possibilities of what these lands might have become if Vairë had woven differently. "And for that, I am sorry."

"...Aye."

The distant sound of marching footsteps came into hearing range right then and Halbarad raised his head. "What is that?"

Bard turned and looked. "Oh no… It is the town guard!" He heard him draw his bow and he knew he was aiming it at him. "You must go. Finish whatever you have to. The guards are coming and I have to make it look like I am fighting you off!"

Halbarad stared at him for a moment before it clicked. He chuckled at the absurdity of it all before he heaved himself back to his feet. "As you wish," he said in a low tone.

He took a deep breath and bellowed a great roar toward the man. The force of it was enough to send the man sliding back a few feet, his hair buffeted by his breath. There was a twang and something tapped against the descaled part of his left shoulder. He took it in stride and let out a pained noise, one loud enough that the guards were sure to hear.

He gave Bard one last roar, before clumsily taking to the skies. He flew in the general direction of north, and disappeared into the valley between Erebor and northern Mirkwood.

The sun was beginning to set as he finally finished crawling back to the front gate of Erebor. He hoped that he had given the guards the right impression and that they had assumed that he had flown off back towards the Withered Heath or somewhere even farther away.

At the gate, he condensed himself back down into his human form and took a moment to stretch his muscles and adjust his clothes, turning to look down the valley to Lake-town as he did so. Though his sight had grown only slightly better, he could still see it. It sat there in the distance, tired, yet defiant against fate.

"Well... Smaug is dead," Gostir mused. "Who knew that it would be that Man who would slay him?"

 Halbarad smiled softly. "I believe it was destiny for him to finish what his ancestor started," he remarked aloud as he walked inside, letting his voice fill the air and lessen the lonely air that hung within this place. "And you forget—your forefather, Glaurung, was slain by a Man."

Gostir harrumphed, sounding more like an old, disagreeable Hobbit than a dragon.

The Man shook his head with a tired chuckle.

He found a small alcove not far from the gate and decided to stop there. He needed to rest. And heal.

The days passed slowly as he waited. He spent most of the time sleeping or chatting with Gostir—and trying to not dwell on how his stomach growled needingly. When the hunger pangs grew too much, he would tame his stomach by filling it with water. But that left his waterskin empty by the third day.

Thankfully, his eyes seemed to have returned mostly to normal by then. His eyes would grow dry from time to time, becoming aggravatingly itchy, but he felt it was a worthy price for having his sight back.

It left him to marvel at the speed at which he healed. Gostir pointed out that it was probably because of his draconic nature, as dragons could heal quickly compared to the mortal races.

On the morn of the fourth day, Halbarad rose and stepped out to the gate and peered out. After scanning the horizon for a few minutes, he caught sight of something that made his heart skip a beat.  Something large and dark was creeping up the valley towards the mountain. It was moving incredibly slowly, and didn't seem to move at all if you let your eyes skip over it or linger upon it for a few seconds. But he stared at it long and hard and realized that it was moving. And it coming closer.

It was people.

People from Lake-town.

And if Bard had been correct, Halbarad knew that the Master was at lead. Dragon was gone? That meant the gold was unguarded. And the Master wanted it.

…But unbeknownst to him… it wasn't unguarded.

Halbarad's brows furrowed and he watched them for a moment longer before he turned and went deeper into the mountain. He was not prepared to face them. Not yet.

He followed paths carved from the rock. His eyes traced the golden lines inlaid at the edges and noted how they bent and looped in intricate patterns. The stone, even in the dim light of what sunlight managed to penetrate the inside, was an earthy green with faint veins of white, a colour that seemed to bring life to this underground place. Even after all these years, the dragon's occupation had not lessened the dwarven craft that now surrounded him.

Yet, such was the silence that hung about Erebor that his footsteps thundered no matter how light he walked. Somewhere, a draft moaned through the mountain, and a door creaked upon its hinges—a long, drawn-out sound that had his nerves vibrating as if someone had run a fiddle bow across them. It brought to mind the thoughts of ghosts and restless spirits, and he shuddered despite himself.

Eventually, he came to a long bridge that lead straight out into a massive cavern. At the center of that cavern stood an impressive platform carved from a wide column that stretched from the depths to the heights of the cavern, and at its centre sat a mighty throne, its back one with the column. Colossal stone dwarves stood at attention along both the right and left sides of the cavern, each holding an axe with a head the size of a house at the ready. Gold channeled along the walls in great rivers. It all made Halbarad seem small again.

He walked down the bridge towards the throne. He took care to ignore how this bridge had no railings, as if the dwarven architects of old had wanted the king to have a clear line of sight to the entrance of this chamber and  the opportunity to commit suicide by jumping whenever he chose.

At the throne, he caught sight of a large notch carved into the stone around three feet above the throne, and for a moment he wondered what used to sit there. It seemed strange that there was an empty place amongst such splendor.

His gaze drifted down to the throne and he regarded it for a moment. He hadn't sat in a seat in days now, and he wondered what this one felt like to sit in. It was a boyish compulsion, to be sure. But no one was here. They wouldn't mind, would they?

He turned and sat down on the throne. A grimace pulled at his face when he felt how hard it was. How could the king stand to sit on this for hours on end, like a king would while presiding over his kingdom?

A moment later, he stood, and thanked the Valar that he hadn't been fated to be the heir of a kingdom.

A while later, he had wandered into the Halls of Homes and found one dwarven home unlocked. He had to stoop low as he entered, but was able to straighten to his full height once inside.

Out of curiosity, he toured the home, taking in its quaintness, though it was greatly diminished by the dust. He eventually came to a bathing room, and saw an opportunity.

An hour or so later he emerged, clean and with his hair brushed through. He had changed into the clothes that Galadriel had given him, but hadn't bothered to wash his usual attire. He stopped at the room's mirror and dusted it off, peering into it as he checked to see if he had missed any dirt. His eyes locked upon the stains that clung to the skin under his eyes to just above his cheekbones. Frowning, he rubbed at it with a cloth, only to hiss as it stung at his touch.

"Manwë's mercy..." he breathed. Despite his tough draconic skin, he had still been burned. And worse: the injury had carried over to his Dunedan form.

He left the home a few long moments later. He took to wandering the paths and catwalks, not going anywhere in particular. The circlet Galadriel had given him was in his hands but he did nothing more than stroke it with his thumb. He was reluctant to put it on.

After an hour or so, his feet carried him back to the treasury. He sat upon the steps that lead down into the golden waves and regarded it all with a dark look on his face.

"The amount of gold here is enough to pay for rebuilding Annúminas a thousand times over," he muttered aloud. 

"It is amazing, isn't it?" Gostir purred.

"It is sickening."

The greed was almost palpable, rolling off the gold in invisible waves. He could practically taste it.

"You are sensing the magic imbued in the gold."

Halbarad hummed. "Magic, you say?"

"Yes. Dragons are magical as I have said - and the greed of dwarves can culminate magically as well. At least... it did for the Petty-dwarves of the First Age."

Halbarad didn't recognize the term Gostir had used, but he didn't bother to question it. "So, that is the dragon-sickness, then. Or 'dwarf-sickness'. Not that they would call it that, though both races can be equally as greedy."

Gostir chuckled at his quip.

He looked down at the circlet and sighed. "Why did she give me this?" he mused. He turned it so the star faced him and he stared at its ornate simplicity. "Did she think I would like to play king in the days before the dwarves arrive?" The thought disturbed him.

"Perhaps..."

Halbarad shot Gostir a mental glare. Yet, Gostir did not know the Lady of the Golden Wood. Halbarad hardly knew her better, only having met her once when she had come to meet with Elrond in Rivendell while he was a guest of that house. But he still knew her better.

She was wise beyond all others who lived in Middle-Earth. It was terrifying how she could look through you and seem to know your very thoughts. 

The circlet glinted in the light of the crystal lamps. She had sent this to him for a reason. It wasn't to stoke his pride. It wasn't to let him 'play' king.

There was a reason.

And he wanted to know what it was.

With hands that shook he lifted the circlet and placed it upon his brow, adjusting it so the star sat squarely between his eyebrows. He let his hands drop and then he climbed to his feet.

He stood there and listened to the rumbling silence, waiting for an epiphany. Gostir grumbled a bit, but nonetheless remained quiet.

Suddenly, he was rushing down the stairs and out onto the endless gold. His body moved against his will and he scrambled up and down the golden waves and deeper into the cavern. Gostir thrashed in alarm, but an invisible forced them deeper into his mind before bringing invisible bars down, locking them in.

It forced them to watch as his body sought out the general centre of the treasury before stopping. His head tilted down to watch as water and light gathered about his hands. Heat gathered in his still-healing eyes as they lit up with all the radiance of the stars. His hands lifted up and a mighty cry left his lungs as he plunged his hands down and deep into the gold beneath his feet.

The gold rustled and a low thoom rocked through the treasury as a shockwave rippled out from him and raced off into the distance. He felt power rush through him, as hot as the sun, and scorching heat gathered on his brow.

And then, with a snap, it stopped.

Silence rushed back into his ears and he was suddenly back in control. His whole body was shaking; he was going into shock.

His breaths, gasping and ragged, echoed in his ears as he tried and struggled to pull his hands from the gold. Eventually, he managed to succeed, but he felt as weak as a babe. He rolled onto his side and passed out.

He woke up a few hours later to Gostir chastising him about letting his body do as it pleased and not making sure he wouldn't die before he let himself leave the land of the living for a time. Halbarad had to listen to him bellyache about having to steady him for nearly ten minutes before the dragon abruptly cut himself off with a question laden with dawning horror.

"What happened when you put on that crown?" he asked, his voice breathless with his horror.

"I..." Halbarad stuttered. "I... do not know..."

"Someone... was here. They took control! They..." Gostir shuddered. "The magic they used - it was agonizing. If you were not here... I would have surely been vanquished."

It clicked together, and Halbarad reached up to the circlet on his head. But when he touched it, it splintered apart and dropped to the floor in a shower of dust.

"It was Galadriel," he said, his voice so quiet it was nearly inaudible. "Somehow..."

Gostir chuckled bitterly. "Clev-er," he rumbled, drawing the word out in his disdain. "The crown extended her reach and she used you to do her work." He let out an angry snort. "If only she had made herself clear beforehand—perhaps I would not feel so enraged."

Halbarad felt violated, to be sure. He knew that Galadriel liked to shatter boundaries if she foresaw something and saw a solution for it. Elrond had warned him of this, as he had warned Aragorn once he was old enough to understand. Gilraen, when she had been warned, had taken it alarmingly in stride—but he knew it was because she had possessed some foresight of her own. But that did not make him feel any better when he thought back to it.

The next day, when he checked the progress of the Lake-men, he saw that they had made it to the ruins of Dale. Trails of smoke curled up into the sky; they had made camp in the ruins.

Even so, a trail of Men were making their way, still, toward the gate of the mountain. Halbarad knew that they were close enough now that they would reach the gate in a few hours, and he decided to wait there and watch.

He watched their steady march with keen eyes, mentally preparing himself to turn them away when they got there. No one was getting inside this mountain unless they were dwarves.

As the day wore on, he ate some more hard tack and tried to ignore how his stomach cramped when the tack did nothing to fill him. He tried to ignore how his mind automatically conjured up images of meat, both cooked and uncooked, but how his mouth watered and stomach growled made it all the harder.

It was early afternoon when they finally arrived. When they were still a kilometer out, Halbarad stood and gripped the hilt of his sword. He watched them come with the eyes of a hawk, searching the crowds hopefully for any dwarven shapes.

There! Amongst the tall forms of Men, he spotted five, ten, thirteen (thirteen!) dwarves. And a hobbit!

But someone was missing. A pointed hat did not rise among the man faces of Men—Gandalf was nowhere to be seen.

Yet, before he could dwell on that, something tickled his nose. As they came closer, it grew into a smell, then a strong and unignorable scent.

It sent a chill down his back.

It was the smell of dragon.