The Ties That Bind

Chapter Eighteen

If she thought the air near the Long Lake was cool, that was nothing compared to what it was like in the middle of the lake. The temperature felt like it had dropped below freezing, and what had been a gentle spray at docks was now a thick, frosty fog that settled everywhere.

Eirlys wrapped her arms about herself, for all the good it did, as she continued to shiver. The harbormaster-turned-bargeman spoke very little, instead concentrating on guiding them through the heavy ice dotting the lake's surface. It thudded dully against the barge's hull at regular intervals and with enough force that it reverberated through the wood. Coupled with that icy mist, Esgaroth gave off an ominous air as they floated past it. Like the lakefront, the lake town at first offered an impression that it had long since been abandoned, but as they reached it, not only could Eirlys make out people moving along the docks and bulkheads, but heard the distinctive sounds of busy town life buzzing along those same docks and bulkheads.

They slipped by the town without problem and all that lay ahead of them was the other half of the lake. Eirlys tried to ignore the shivers wracking through her as she sank onto the wooden plank that doubled as a bench, and peered down at the swirling, blackish waters. The water's surface rippled, which distorted her view, but she started when she caught the first flashes of ruby and gold in the depths.

"What is that?" She looked over at Madris, who sat beside her and looked just as miserable as Eirlys felt.

"What is what?"

"Down there," Eirlys pointed, "in the water."

Madris squinted, leaning further over the barge's side. "I haven the foggiest, Your Majesty."

"It is all that remains of Smaug the Terrible," the harbormaster replied without turning toward them.

Eiryls sat back from the barge's side as if Smaug himself was about to burst from the lake's black depths. "What?"

Now the harbormaster looked her way. "Aye, it's Smaug, sent there by the Bard, Master of Dale, the night the beast set fire to Esgaroth after it was awakened by the dwarves."

She looked over at Thorin, who had a bit of a pained expression on his face. "Is that what happened? I knew he'd incinerated Esgaroth, but not the details."

"It is." Thorin sank onto the bench to her right. "We didn't mean for it to happen, and we tried to prevent it, tried to kill Smaug ourselves, for all the good it did."

To Thorin's right, Balin nodded. "A dark night, to be certain. And followed by days that were darker still."

Now Thorin's expression grew decidedly more pained. "And I shoulder the blame for that."

Balin's expression grew contrite. "I did not mean it that way, Thorin."

"No, I know that. But the truth does not change because it makes me uncomfortable."

Eirlys rubbed her upper arms with both hands. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you think you shoulder any blame for what happened to Esgaroth?"

Thorin stood, whisking his heavy leather and fur coat from his shoulders to drape about hers. "Because it is my fault the dragon was disturbed and my fault when he flew free to torch Esgaroth."

Warm sank into her, and Thorin's scent—leather, sunshine, and hints of pine—wafted up to tease her nose. Sitting back against the barge's side, she gazed up at him. "Weren't you just reclaiming what was already yours?"

"Yes," Balin replied, his pale hair fluttering in the wind. "He was and then came the dragon sickness but," he gestured to Esgaroth, now behind them, "that is all in the past and we look instead to the future. A future that you, Thorin, made possible."