How I Leave You

Blood of My Blood

Gandalf leads us through the thick of the forest, lighting up the night with his wooden staff.

"What was that?" Bilbo asks, out of breath as he tries to keep up with us.

His question is answered by more howls, but this time from behind us, and from more throats than just one.

The wargs. They picked up our trace again.

"There," the wizard calls out, pointing ahead at what seems to be only a small spot in the dark horizon.

A cottage.

But that can't be, because that would mean Gandalf is leading us to...

Behind us, a beast runs full speed, coming closer by the second.

"Get the gates!" Dwalin yells, rushing to get every dwarf inside the closure.

Right as the last of the company is pulled in, the gates close, and not a second too soon. We all lean against the black wood as the impact hits. The beast is trying to break in.

"What is that thing?" Bilbo asks, out of breath.

I'm afraid the gate might dissolve into splinters. Right as I'm certain the wood will lose its battle against the beast, the impacts cease.

"That, my dear hobbit," Gandalf says, checking to make sure the beast has really gone, "was our host."

The cottage is quaint, if that's a word one can use to describe a place whose furniture is twice the size of regular homes. A beast of a man lives here. Of the dwarves, only Thorin is able to feel at home, as the blood of Durin runs through his veins, and his height is much taller than the rest of his people.

Not that this is something I've particularly noticed, only it's hard not to when he keeps getting within an inch of my face to insult me.

"We'll rest here for the night," Gandalf declares.

Some members of the company are already rummaging through the cabinets, looking for something edible, probably. I cannot blame them. I, too, need to eat, even if I can go longer between my meals than they can. Come to think of it, I don't remember the last time I went on a hunt. Perhaps tonight is the night to make prey of something wild.

"I'm going out," I say.

"What?" Thorin looks at me like I just stabbed him.

"Going-- going out?" Bilbo says, shifting his feet at the thought. "But that thing... sorry, our host, is out there."

"Nothing I cannot handle," I say, winking at him as I ignore the way Thorin's eyes burn through my skin.

"But there's plenty of food here," Fili says, holding up a jar of honey.

"Ilwien doesn't eat... that," Gandalf says, nodding at the liquid gold.

"What does the witch eat, then?" Thorin inquires.

Slinging the bow over my shoulder, I smirk at him as I say:

"Men."

The forest is dark and lovely. I enjoy the peace it brings me, even if I don't sense any bodies of water nearby. Of course, what I told Thorin was mostly to see the look on his face, but it's not entirely a lie. Plenty men have met their deaths at my hand. Or, at my mouth, rather, which is what I usually use to tear their flesh apart after dragging them down into the depths.

Men. Stupid, foolish men, who don't listen to anything but the head between their legs. For centuries, they've ached for me, leaned over the railings on their ships so that they might taste me, if only for a second.