mithril

III.

— III —

My path from Imladris does not immediately follow the Dwarves. I did have intentions of leaving before the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, but by some way or another they were gone before I knew it. I followed shortly after, jogging lightly for nearly twenty minutes before I realized I was actually on the tail of the Dwarves. They weren't hard to miss, after all. They were loud, noisy, and certainly rather slow in their pace. At that point, I wrapped my mottled cloak around myself more tightly and slipped easily into the shadows of the cliffs that lined the road.

It took the Dwarves several long minutes before noticing that they were, in fact, being followed. I make myself more and more obvious, walking loudly and more like a human than I ever have. It's the dark-haired Dwarf, Bofur, that finally glances back casually. He looks again with a sharp snap of his neck. His cry of alarm has the rest of the company turning to see what the disturbance is.

The leader of the party falters as I slip fully into the open road. He doesn't relax as I slowly peel the dark green cowl away from my head.

Thorin knows me in an instant. His eyes snap to mine, locking there like he can't look away. For once, I can't fully read the darkness of his expression, but it is more rage-filled than the night before. The Dwarves of his company are starting to pull weapons on me, but Thorin holds out a commanding hand.

"What are you doing?" He speaks quietly. Dangerously. Not hiding the anger in his voice. A quiet Thorin might just be more dangerous than a loud one.

"I am simply following the stars, Master Oakenshield."

"But it's day," I hear a Dwarf whisper to my left. I fight a smile as I step forward.

"And those forsaken stars conveniently led you to my party?" He growls, reaching for his sword. The elven blade, even with the mere handle visible, catches my attention. I pause, recognizing the make of it. Another question for another time. I breeze through the party, pausing in front of Thorin. I sweep a bow at the surrounding Dwarves. And to the Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins.

"Léra Celebdraug, Dúnedan of the North and Friend of the Elves, at your service. Thorin," I turn back to him slowly, tilting my head and flashing him my Draug Rae. "If you wish to know those terrible 'black words' I spoke last night...I said 'I will find you in the morning, Thorin Oakenshield. My sword is yours from this time on.' You did not reject my oath, so I came."

His anger only grows, mounting until I fear he will turn the very air dark in the fashion of Gandalf. His company shifts, stepping back and eyeing him warily. I note the many hands that rest on the hilts of swords or handles of axes. Cautious. Waiting for the call of their leader. Good. Very good.

"I did not reject it because I did not understand your black speech," he snaps, stepping forward. A challenge. Daring me to back down. I raise my chin and stare him down.

"At ease, Dwarf. At the very least, allow me to take up arms as your...Burglar-Protector," I gesture at Bilbo. Thorin stares at me, shock lightening his features. I study him, narrowing my eyes in a response to that earlier challenge. He needs this Hobbit alive. And I, knowing something of the Halfling race, understand that the Hobbit's death is more likely than not in the Wild.

"Absolutely not."

His eyes betray him. He is studying me just as closely as I am him. His gaze rests on my hair, now braided back with the pale strands intricately woven in the fashion of the Elves that will not allow it to fall into my face. So different than the night before where I allowed my hair to lay long against my figure. I note the way he repeatedly returns to the silver circlet I still wear against my forehead. It's a token, a reminder, of my good standing with the Elves. A tiny piece of elegance I will not part with in the Wild.