mithril

XXIII.

— XXIII —

Mirkwood is dark, but somehow less so than when I was here last. The trees are just as gnarled, just as foreboding. However, that overwhelming fog of confusion was gone. There was an Enemy here, intent on bringing ruin and death to the world. Now, the forest is filled with the calming birdsong once more. The tree leaves are green, and the normal fauna of the Woodland Realm preserves. It almost makes me wonder how the Silvan Elves and their king allowed the forest to fall under such dark enchantments in the first place.

Tilda's eyes are wide as she takes in the expanse of the ancient forest. She was probably warned about Mirkwood her entire life. After all, her father was a bargeman on the waters of the Forest River for many years. He undoubtedly knew a great deal about the forest's less savory aspects, though I'm not sure anything could truly measure up the ravaging Orc pack that ran through these woods not too long ago.

It took four days to convince Bard to allow me to take Tilda on my journey. It delayed the start of our trip, and made the rest of my company impatient. But eventually I wore the man down. After all, his daughter was going to be surrounded by three of Middle Earth's finest Elven warriors, not to mention Gandalf. With reluctance he saw us off, making Tilda swear a variety of promises. That she would let us fight if there was danger. That she would listen to our instructions. That she wasn't to wander away from us.

She was smarter than that, and Bard knew it. I couldn't blame his worries, though. He was a father sending his youngest hundreds of leagues away from his presence. He had a right to be concerned. I couldn't do much to quell the fear in his eyes as he watched us set off from Erebor and Dale.

Half a day has passed since we left that realm on foot, our course set for the fine Woodland Halls of Thranduil's great Elven kingdom. I went rather grudgingly into the trees, only just convinced by Gandalf and his waning words about sparking a better relationship with the Elvenking in the aftermath of the battle. I was fully entrenched in the kingdom of the Dwarves now. My presence before Thranduil means more than it ever has before. I'm an ambassador, the voice of Thorin in his absence.

Tilda's reaction as we approach the massive doors of the Woodland Realm tells me I've made the right choice in choosing this path. The girl sticks by my side cautiously, but her eyes are wide with wonder. Curious, but wary. A good precaution. I nudge her as the great doors swing open before us in an invitation.

"Do you remember the greeting?" I ask her in a soft tone.

"The one with or without cursing?" She asks, eyes still on the now-exposed interior of the Entrance Hall. I fight my smile, trying not to react to the question too openly. Elladan glances back at us, his dark eyebrows raised.

"Without, preferably," I hiss back.

"Then no, I don't."

"Hope the Elvenking doesn't dismember you for your disrespect, then," I answer. She pales. "I'm joking," I ease. "You have nothing to worry about here.

Thranduil greets us himself just within the Entrance Hall, a show of flattery I'm not entirely sure is necessary. We enter into his hospitality with grace anyway, bending to his expectations of us as his guests. I deposit my weapons alongside Elladan into the arms of a waiting guard. We will go without the need for such arms while we reside here. Bofur looks hesitant to part with his steel ( I can't blame him, considering his last experience within these halls ), but he does so anyway. As I finally unclip the harness that holds Angolain against my shoulders, I feel sharp eyes on me.

"You come to me again with a Wolf Cub at your side," Thranduil speaks to me in Elvish. Tilda looks up quickly, following his line of attention to me. She straightens as she steps to my side, hardly containing her eagerness to receive that same attention. As the Elf's head shifts slightly and his eyes land on her, she bows deeply at the waist.