mithril

XV.

— XV —

Bard angrily hits the wooden door frame of the empty house, his anger palpable. The villagers have seen nothing of the fair woman for hours, and the Elvenking Thranduil is hiding something from him. He pushes away from the house, stalking through his people as they prepare for the next morning. They wield blunt swords, hold stiff bows. A sad host, but he will never fully admit it to himself.

The Dúnedan has gone into the night without a whisper of her plans. It still feels strange to think of her by that title. As a Dúnedan of the ancient blood of the North in her veins. Bard knows where she has gone. He's not a fool. He saw the way Thorin Oakenshield looked at her. He felt her reacting to every word the Dwarf spoke. Arching towards him as if he spoke whispers of affection to her instead of the tides of war. She was enthralled by him, unable to stay away. And now she has spoiled what little hold he had over the Dwarf. He has a right to be angry about losing such an important foothold.

Bard looks up as the sound of clopping hoofbeats rings out between the clashes of metal being worked in fire and mallets hitting the weapons as they are repaired. Men are sparring in the square, but they pause at the newcomer.

"Make way!" The rider shouts with authority. As the tall man watches, a large black cob horse rounds into the square. A tall, disheveled figure, clad entirely in grey and clutching a long staff, slides from the horse. He stares at the Elven battalion that marches past him before turning his piercing gaze to the sparring men. His expression darkens.

Alfrid's nasally voice rings out as he attempts to address the man, but his words are thoroughly ignored as the newcomer turns. His staff whips dangerously close to Alfrid's face and the man stumbles away with a cry of outrage.

"Who's in charge here?" The figure asks, his voice deep and thrumming with an unsettling kind of power.

"Who is asking?" Bard responds, stepping forward. The grey-haired man twists. His fierce eyes size Bard up, studying him so intently the man feels like the robe-clad figure can see his very soul.

"Gandalf the Grey. Where is Thranduil?"

Bard recognizes the name of the powerful figure. A wizard. He gestures with his head and Gandalf follows him. He leads the wizard to the Elvenking's tent. Thranduil looks neither pleased nor annoyed to see Gandalf. He merely watches him enter with a placid expression on his features.

The three speak quietly and quickly until the sun is setting in the West, discussing the events of the past weeks. Thranduil speaks in part of the occurrences in the Woodland Realm, which Bard listens to with great interest. Especially the parts where Léra's involvement sets the tone of the very events they are witnessing in the present. Bard speaks of the attack on Lake-town and his defeat of Smaug, and then his conversation with Thorin. Gandalf listens to them both, his expression darkening with each and every word.

"You must set aside your petty grievances with the Dwarves. War is coming!" Gandalf scolds Thranduil. "The cesspits of Dol Guldur have been emptied." Thranduil sighs, exchanging a look with Bard. "You're all in mortal danger."

"What are you talking about?" Bard asks, stepping forward with his arms crossed.

"I can see you know nothing of wizards," Thranduil rises from his seat to pour himself and Bard goblets of wine. "They are like winter thunder on a wild wind rolling in from a distance, breaking hard in alarm." Bard stares blankly at the Elf. "But sometimes a storm is just a storm."

"Not this time," Gandalf replies with a snap. His eyes flash darkly. "Armies of Orcs are on the move. These are fighters. They have been bred for war. Our enemy has summoned his full strength."