The Halls of Erebor

Identity

Frin had awoken, curled up on the cold ground where Thorin had left her. The metallic scent of the damp earth filled her nostrils. Cold air nipped at her skin but she didn't care. All she could think about was Thorin. The pain of his words lingered but she didn't cry. She wasn't sad. She was furious.

The reckless, dwarven side of her wanted to march back into the city and demand he fight her. It wouldn't be to the death, no, she wanted him to suffer a defeat to her, an elf. She wanted the whole city to see it. She was the better fighter and could beat him but that wouldn't change anything.

The wiser part of her, the one her parents had nurtured, told her to walk away. He didn't want her any more. She could walk away and start anew somewhere else. After all, she had everything she needed on her, her coin purse and her weapons. In the end, she could take care of herself. She didn't need him, so she would head West away from the Iron Hills.

The familiar road wound through the barren forest and out into the open landscapes. It was all so familiar and welcoming. She recognized each turn and hill, remembering the last time she passed by with him. Despite the known road, she kept a hand on the hilt of her sword.

Traveling alone was always dangerous. Orcs and thieves often kept close to the main roads hunting. It would have been bad enough if she'd been on horse back but she was on foot. Speed was not her ally. Her only comfort was her sword, bow and knives. Anyone could see she was well equipped, she made sure of it.

One knife was strapped openly against her belt. Her bow was slung lazy over her shoulder with the quiver hanging off her hip. On top of all her weapons, her face wore a permanent scowl. She hoped the intimidating visage was enough to be left alone.

She didn't know where she was going; all that she knew was that she needed to get away. The road would lead her through the Misty Mountains and eventually to Bree. Though, the thought of returning to Bree caused her anger and frustration to flare. The memories of her time with Thorin were still fresh and bitter. Eventually she would have to make a decision, pick a destination, but not immediately.

The days passed by easily. Occasionally she would pass by fellow travelers. On one, dreary morning, just before the mountains, a small cart came to a stop in front of her. A pair of elves, appearing to be from Mirkwood, greeted her.

"Any trouble ahead?" The older of the two asked in Westron.

"No trouble." Frin greeted them in Sindarin. With a slight bow of the head, she continued fluently. "The road is good. You shouldn't have any trouble."

"Are you alone?" The younger asked, her face unreadable.

"Perpetually." A sense of uneasiness overcame her. Unsure of the elves' motives she let her fingers tighten slightly against her sword.

A moment passed as the two elves glanced at each other. When the elder shrugged, the younger smiled. "Perhaps you would join us for some food."

"Why are you being so kind to a stranger?" She couldn't help her suspicion.

"You are not strange to us, " The elder put up his hands. "I am Elatheral and this," he gestured to his companion, "is Alanin. We are both from the Woodland realm. We mean you no harm, daughter of Farin."

"You know me." Frin instantly relaxed at her father's name. It had been so long since someone said it.

"We've heard of you and seen you but you appear older." The elven woman, Alanin, offered a small smile.

"Much has happened." Frin stated.

Both elves nodded.

"Come let's eat." Elatheral jumped down from the cart.