mithril

XIII.

— XIII —

Bard leads his people through the streets, kicking occasionally at the snow covered ground. Tilda and Sigrid are behind me, their skirts swishing in a steady rhythm as they follow their father and I. My eyes scan the ruined buildings. Cracked stone. Gaping holes in the thick walls. Vines covering bricks, moss inching across cobble. This place was once so rich and prosperous. Now? It is as good as a tomb.

I jump slightly as Alfrid ( the weasel actually has a name, much to my surprise ) cries out from atop the stone wall next to us. Bard moves towards him with me at his back, both of us nimbly climbing to the overlooking position.

"Look, sire! The braziers are lit."

I have to support myself against the stone railing as I behold Erebor. My knees are weak with relief.

Tug tug. Tug tug.

Like the steady thundering of my heart. Stronger with each passing hour.

"So," Bard murmurs, "the Company of Thorin Oakenshield survived."

Alive. Alive. Alive.

My heart chants the word to me in a steady mantra.

I had been so sure of it. Thorin was smart. He would not let a dragon outwit him. And yet having it confirmed to me stirs a brilliant kind of joy I have been needing for days now.

"Make camp here tonight," Bard commands as he turns to survey the people below. My head is still swimming. My knees are still weak. "Alfrid, take the night watch. Léra...Léra? Are you alright?" He asks, concern turning his voice soft. He steps to my side, a hand lifting to ghost against my back.

"Fine," I whisper.

"You look unwell."

"I'm fine," I mutter, pushing off from the railing and straightening my shoulders. I shake my hair out in an attempt to regain my self control. Bard doesn't take his eyes from me. Watching so closely I think I will suffocate in that dark gaze. "Go. See to your people," I urge him. "They look to you as their leader now."

"Come with me. They should trust you too."

"Why?" I ask stiffly. The corner of his serious mouth turns up slightly.

"So they do not fear you instead. A woman with a blade is a rare thing, Léra. Even rarer is that woman such a fair warrior."

"I do not bend to flattery so easily, Dragonslayer," I sniff. I'm turning away when he speaks again.

"But you would drop everything for a Dwarf who would never do the same for you?" I pause, looking back over my shoulder slightly.

"You know nothing."

Bard doesn't stop me from leaving, but he does follow me. I don't push him away as I move through the town. I help the wounded get comfortable, treating what I can. My skills have never been stellar as a healer, for I am not Elrond nor am I at the level of my cousin, but my Elven guardian took great care to ensure the healing capabilities I developed were enough to get me by. I spent many long days in Imladris healing the tiny broken legs of squirrels or drawing an illness of the lungs from a small rabbit.

The tall man watches me work, a strange sort of guard over me, until my eyelids are drooping and my hands are numb from the salves and poultices I have been working with day-round. The sun has long since set. The darkness prevents me from arguing with Bard as he leads me to a bed of straw and various scraps of cloth. Tilda and Sigrid are already asleep in the room, a fire crackling in the decrepit fireplace. Bain sits watch over his sisters, though it's obvious he is beyond tired.