mithril

XXV.

— XXV —

Morning filters through the thick tree limbs in a cold light. The winter day is cold, and even the stoic ever-green trees seem to hold their green branches closer together. The woman rises easily, her strength returned by the fitful sleep. Beorn follows Ellidor through the trees, his keen eyes watching her flit through the shadows like a bird.

She's completely at home in the wilderness of the Coldfells. She knows the animal types of this region, easily identifying the tracks they come across in the muddy patches of the scarce clearings. A bird will sing in the distance and Ellidor will tilt her head to listen. A second later, she will imitate the call so accurately that the bird will move closer to them and Beorn can see the round brown hues of the wood thrush she has summoned.

A Little Bird in the great wide world of the cold winter.

Snow falls on them that night.

Beorn forgoes the cloak they have fashioned into a makeshift kilt for him. While his hot skin never grows truly cold in the North, the same can't be said for the woman. She wraps herself in the cloak once more, and Beorn encases her in the large expanse of his furry bear body. The thick, oily black fur blocks out the snow and the wind, keeping her warm until the morning comes again.

They move steadily South through the snow, heading for the High Pass that will take them across the Misty Mountains. He trudges through the thick drifts, his paws splayed wide in order to break a path that will be easier for her to traverse. She shivers as the temperature continues to plunge, and Beorn worries for her slight stature.

They start a fire in the darkness of the second night, the sap-filled branches of the ever-greens popping and snapping as the flames devour them. Leagues away, a low howl rises through the trees. Far enough to not yet be a worry, but still something to keep them cautious.

"Wolf?" He asks. Ellidor shakes her head.

"Warg. The Orcs have been breeding great packs of them as of late. They're larger and fiercer. Big enough to act as steeds." That fact concerns Beorn. His bear form is massive, larger than other furred beasts in the North. The presence of larger Wargs is worrying. Before, he might have been able to take on an entire pack without issue. Now? Several might be enough to bring him down.

"How you know?"

"I arrived in the North a long time ago. Most of that time has been spent spying on the Orc camps. They're organized, Beorn. More than they ever were before. They have a leader now."

"The pale orc."

"They call him Azog the Defiler. He's dangerous. I don't like his presence this far North."

"He dies."

"Revenge may seem tangible right now, but trust me, you do not want to die to his evil ways while he continues to torment others."

"So he lives?" Beorn asks, disgust turning his voice deep and angry. Ellidor leans forward, her eyes flashing.

"He lives until I figure out a plan to ruin him. I promise you this, Beorn, Azog will die by my blade. Now, or in a year, he will die. I don't care if I have to take half of Middle Earth with me, but I will see that his filthy kind falls."

Beorn takes in the heat of her stare. The fire in those molten eyes. She's telling the truth. With a start, he realizes he trusts her word. She will make good on that promise. Something warm burns in his chest, ignited by the spark of her ferocity.

He knows so much, and yet so little about her. He knows her drive, her prowess as a warrior. She possesses the ability to be cruel and ruthless, and yet she is kind to the creatures of the forest. Warming a half-frozen rabbit by their fire before setting it on its way again. Pausing to let a herd of doe elk cross their path undisturbed. Lifting a small bird and carrying it close to her heart until it has enough strength to fly again.