mithril

VII.

— VII —

The shadows swallow us whole. And I, normally so at ease in the darkness, feel like I am in enemy territory. The Dwarves are affected almost instantly. Bilbo keeps his wits longer as he sticks to my side. Together, we lead the Dwarves along the path.

"What's wrong with this place?" He whispers to me. I grit my jaw against the stupor that tries to enter my head. I will tolerate none of it in this moment.

"The woods were not always like this. I have not been here in a decade, but I would remember if they felt this...wrong. The Elves should never have allowed it to turn this sickly."

"A decade?" Bilbo asks, looking at me more carefully. A trivial question for this moment. I smirk, shaking my head slightly.

"We Dúnedain age like Hobbits, my friend. Long lives for a kingly bloodline."

"I did not know that," he tells me plainly. I pat his shoulder.

"Few do. Most believe it a legend, especially considering how few of my race have survived into this age."

"Air," someone gasps from behind us. "I need air." Bilbo inches closer to me, looking at the trees nervously.

"It's starting," I tell him. The branches grow thicker over our heads, blocking out the sun the farther we walk. The trunks of the trees are broad, the growth so ancient even shallow into the forest's edge. The path, usually well-kept and obvious, is overgrown. The roots are lifting the cobblestones, sickly dark green moss growing over the route I once knew so well. Everything looks unfamiliar with this unhealthy cast and I fight to find the right memories to lead us in the correct direction. It's almost like the dark fog affecting the Dwarves wants to prevent me from finding the way. It wants us to get lost.

"My head. It's swimming!" Another Dwarf groans.

I ignore the complaints, leading the company onward with a gritted jaw. I know if I look back at Thorin, I will be lost too. This magic wants me to give in to its urges. Wants me to fold. I will not. The Dwarves are blinking sleepily and groaning with each step. I don't relent or slow my punishing pace through the trees until we reach the bridge. I curse loudly, stopping in my tracks. Bilbo jumps as he runs into my heels, not yet seeing the object of my frustration.

"We found the bridge," Bofur calls back from behind me.

"What was the bridge," I groan.

How long has this been out? Something fell is at work here. Bilbo is right. This place is far too sick. There is darkness here.

"We could try and swim it," Bofur offers. I appreciate the Dwarf's optimism, but Thorin steps forward angrily.

"Didn't you hear what Gandalf said?" I turn to him, eyebrows raising in surprise as he reminds the company of the words of the wizard. "A dark magic lies upon this forest. The waters of this stream are enchanted."

"Doesn't look very enchanting to me," Bofur grumbles. Bilbo nods in agreement, his lip curled in disgust at the tar-black water. A foul odor wafts from it, thick pools of shining oil contaminating the surface. The plants half-submerged in the stream are slimy and appear dead. Flies buzz just above the water, as does a film of thick greenish fog that makes it hard to see too far down the stream.

"We must find another way across." Thorin turns to me. "Léra, do you know of any other bridges?" I'm shaking my head before he finishes the question.

"None within fifty miles of this point." I frown, gesturing at the splintered edges of the bridge. "And if this one is out, it's likely the others are too."