Iron and Oak

Chapter Four

It took Esja almost a fortnight of non-stop riding to reach Esgaroth, now known as Lake Town.

She purchased a second pony from a farm she passed. Becoming frustrated with the pace her single pony required, she felt the distance covered by trading off between the two of them much improved. She had ridden reverently past the ruin of Dale and crossed the river Running at a shallow she remembered. There was no sound to be heard besides her ponies' clopping hooves, and she saw no birds. But inside her head, Esja was tormented by ghostly cries of fear and pain and the oily, smoky scent of charred flesh falling from the bones of the dead and dying as she passed the desolate ruin.

She rode till almost midnight before she felt herself far enough from Dale and her memories to stop and rest. Even then, she spent a restless night battling her own demons. And now, here she was, in sight of Lake Town. She had been here once before, years ago, to buy supplies. She found the town very well stocked but could never force herself into such proximity to Erebor again. Until now.  

Esja easily made her way into Lake Town and secured lodgings for herself, leaving her ponies with a farmer renting stable space near the shore. Her rooms were very well appointed and had two large windows, one looking out to the bridge and the other overlooking the central market. Esja wandered the market bridges, listening to gossip, and purchasing small necessities for her trip home. After the fourth day of wandering and hearing nothing of dwarves, Esja wearily wrapped her silver cloak about her, pulling her mink lined hood up, and walked across the great bridge. She nodded at the guards as she stepped to the shore. They were familiar with the wealthy woman who was rumored to be here for the healing waters. A rumor Esja, herself, had started. Truly, Esja was sick of the stink of Lake Town. The smell of rotting wood and human waste watered her eyes, and she longed for fresh mountain air. She needed an afternoon filled with pine and wood and dirt. She wandered a short way up the Forest river's bank and settled herself amongst a tumble of massive granite boulders, able to see the river and bridge but hidden from view. The weak autumn sun was shining, and Esja inhaled the warmth of the stone. Her fingers traced the dark chips of Mica and pale, sparkling quartz. She rested her cheek against the rough stone and felt her eyes welling up. The last months had been so difficult, so emotionally charged.  She wondered how long she could continue. Tears silently slid down her cheeks. Frustrated and so very tired of being alone, Esja let them fall. The warm stone under her cheek, bearing them away. She hadn't allowed herself to cry for a very long time. Not over him for more than a century. The first forty years had been difficult enough. Curled in the comforting embrace of stone, she quietly cried a hundred years' worth of tears.  

She must have slept for a time because the sound of voices startled her. She lifted her head from its pillow of stone and listened. She heard the voices of men from Laketown, realizing when she saw several barrels float past her hiding place that evening had arrived. The Laketown men had come to catch the empty casks sent from the halls of Thranduil and other places westward. She watched them lash them together and beach them securely on the shore, then depart again in their boats.  

Esja walked down to the shore and rinsed her gritty eyes with the cool water. She sat still for a moment, contemplating the colors of the lengthening sunset. She was about to skirt around the boulders and head back to the bridge when a small sound caught her ears. Moving slowly, she flattened her back against the nearest rock, thankful for the camouflage of her silver cloak. She stood silent and listening. Momentarily she was rewarded with the sound of furtive knocking. Knocking? She cautiously looked around the boulder and was shocked to see a small figure sneaking around the beached barrels knocking and speaking softly. She moved soundlessly closer, trying to discern what was happening. She hid in a small copse of trees, watching the child trying to wedge the lid off of one of the barrels. The child spoke quietly enough that Esja couldn't hear what he was saying. She was stunned when he reached into the barrel and, seemingly using all his strength, pulled and heaved a wretched, soggy lump from the creaking barrel. He whispered urgently, and the lump moved, crawling stiffly a small way up the bank. In the growing darkness, Esja couldn't make out what exactly that lump was. Hoping it wasn't an animal that would scent her in her hiding place, she climbed the tree she had sheltered under, for safety's sake. Perched on a branch and hidden by fall leaves, she watched the child hover over whatever he had freed only to be waved away by a massive hand. And the thing sat up. The child moved away and tapped at another barrel, and Esja clearly heard the voice from inside. 

"Bilbo! Are you going to let me out? I'm ready to get out now." a male voice said.  

A strong, deep voice. Esja shivered. A dwarven voice or she was a fool.  

She watched Bilbo unfasten the lid and a bit her lip as a young dwarven man climbed out of the barrel and clapped his rescuer on the shoulder.  

"Now that was trip!" he said.  

"Fili, are you well?" Bilbo asked. 

"Well? I am hale and hearty and glad to be free of that barrel! Where is everyone else?" he said. 

"Yours is just the second I've opened. I'm glad you are so well; I need help; we need to get the rest found and out. " 

Esja covered her mouth with her hand and clung to the tree trunk. Her heart beating out of her chest, sure they must at any second turn at the pounding noise and discover her. A movement caught her eye, and she looked back to the lone figure on the shore as he stood.

Long wet hair pushed back from his face. He stretched and spoke. "Bilbo, Fili, get the rest of the barrels opened; we don't know how long we have until the men come back," Thorin said. 

Choking on a strangling gasp, Esja's breath stopped when his head turned to her hiding place, and she saw his face clearly in the dying light. He had hardly changed. His long, proud nose, pleasing lips, long braids falling in front of his ears, and dark hair now streaked with grey, as was his thick beard.  And there were his eyes. Those devastating eyes. They searched the forest around her, filled with suspicion and concern. Those beautiful blue eyes now carrying the weight of all the history of the line of Durin. Esja looked away, wishing not to recognize to the pain she saw there, unable to bear it.  Her body felt as though it were coming out of long dormancy, waking to the dark rumble of his tone, tasting his scent, iron, and oak, on the breeze, her eyes, caressing familiar angles and her skin aching for the return of his touch. 

Thorin looked about one last time and then stiffly set to work helping open the barrels. He felt they were being watched but could do naught about it right now. The first barrel he opened was Kili's, and he embraced the young dwarf joyfully. He pointed out the next barrel to Kili and turned once again to the woods, his eyes searching for the slightest movement.  

The young dwarf Thorin freed looked so much like the young prince she remembered it brought Esja to tears again. Taking in his dark hair and sparse beard, she wondered that he was even old enough to accompany the quest. Kili exuberantly greeted Fili, and they went to work pulling sopping dwarves out of barrels. When Thorin slumped wearily by an empty barrel, Fili quickly began giving quiet orders, telling the others to find Dwalin. And Esja knew she heard Thorin's quiet commanding voice and manner issuing from what must be Kili's brother. As the seventh or eighth dwarf was freed, she gave herself a mental shake and took stock of her situation. Not ready to face him or his company, she quietly made her way down her tree and back into the forest. Giving them as wide a berth as she dared, she came to the path at the bridge and quickly made her way back to Lake Town, knowing they would be coming soon.  

It seemed hours later when she heard the ruckus in the central market and pushed her window open a bit to hear what would be said. People thronged the market, and she watched as they made way for the ragged procession—Thorin's presence not even diminished by his tattered, damp clothing.  

"I am Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain. I have returned," he said.  

Esja perused the rest of his company, looking for familiar faces. Seeing none, she looked again at the sons of Thorin. A wave of regret and sadness so grievous, overcame her and she rushed to her chamber pot and heaved and heaved, though nothing came from her empty stomach. She fell exhausted across her bed and cried herself to blessed oblivion for the second time this day.