Chapter Text
“It’s not too late to turn back.”
Ulvhild tightened her grasp on the reins of the steadfast pony pulling their small cart and swallowed a sigh.
It broke her heart to hear how cold and bitter Iora had grown, and her soul couldn’t bear any more strain in the given situation as it was.
She felt a cold chill run down her spine at the sight of the last resting place of the one she’d loved.
Having always solely yearned for a place and a person to belong to, Ulvhild had abandoned two homes, and now, she stood to lose Iora as well if she didn’t pull herself together quickly.
“We’ll stop in Laketown,” she replied, even though she knew that the child she’d raised as best as she’d been able to was no longer listening to her. “And then, we’ll be on our way again.”
Her knuckles were white, but she didn’t voice the helpless scream of frustration and grief as she swallowed the word “home”.
What did so flimsy a term even mean now to people like them, who’d spent so much of their lives on the road, running from things that had never even tried to pursue them?
A small, calloused hand came to rest on her tense shoulder then, and Ulvhild flinched.
“I’m sorry,” Iora sighed. “That beastly rock looming on the horizon makes me nervous, I guess.”
As so often before, her minder—more than a sister and yet never quite enough to replace the parents Iora had lost—swallowed the words burning on her tongue.
Ulvhild knew that her companion didn’t remember the place in which she’d been brought to life, and so it made sense that Iora wouldn’t have any desire to return to roots that had been left in ashes such a long time ago.
“It’s for your sake,” Iora added softly. “There’s nothing there for you anymore.”
Hanging her head, Ulvhild nodded jerkily.
“’twas not all bad,” she muttered under her breath. “I have fond memories of…”
“The dragon? The mewling orphan you pulled from the wreckage? The long flight?” Iora’s voice was as sharp and cold as shards of ice, but her hand still lay heavy and comforting on Ulvhild’s shoulder.
“My youth,” the other replied calmly. “And yes, the innocent life I’ve saved.”
“A thousand times over,” Iora interjected, genuine affection tinging her hollow voice now.
“And him,” Ulvhild added with a tremulous sigh. “Young Prince Thorin was glorious to behold.”
An uncomfortable silence descended, only broken by the muted sound of their pony’s hooves on the dry mud and the squeaking of the wheels.
It had been tacitly agreed that, if they were to set out together once more after Iora’s long absence, all talk of the love they’d lost would be forbidden.
In the distance, the warm lights of the human settlement came into view, and the two dams averted their gazes stubbornly from the Lonely Mountain, beckoning to them in the chiaroscuro of the dying light.
“Ori should be back by now!”
Leaning heavily on his cane, Thorin limped to the high window and frowned at the deepening night.
He usually avoided relying on such implements overmuch, for he was a proud creature and hated the idea of being seen as weak or ailing, but the damp chill pervading his chambers made his old wounds ache fiercely.
“I shall ride out,” Dwalin replied gruffly. “Perhaps the lad was tired and stayed the night…”
“Out in the open? Not he!” Thorin chortled darkly as he returned to the blazing fire in the hearth. “No, he’s too dutiful to linger. I have a bad feeling.”
Far from doubting his commander and king, the tall warrior insinuated a crisp bow and withdrew quickly, already bellowing for a pony to be readied.
It had been a tremendous blessing that Thorin II hadn’t succumbed to his grievous injuries, but his convalescence was slow and arduous, hampered considerably by the countless setbacks and losses he’d suffered since leaving the Blue Mountains.
What the King needed now was certainty, and—because Dwalin couldn’t very well scour the whole world for the dam his friend had left behind, believing that she’d wait for him—he was all the more determined to find their misplaced scribe.
Guilt gnawed at his insides; he himself had wondered whether it would not have been better to send an armed guard with Ori, but nobody had wanted to insult the brave soul by suggesting such a thing.
Something was amiss, Dwalin could feel it in his guts.
As he rode out, he craned his neck to see Thorin standing on a parapet, overlooking the scarred emptiness outside his mountain.
Even without seeing his face, Dwalin knew that his king’s mien was stern and his brows puckered with worry as he gazed into the distance, wondering whether he’d ever retrieve all he’d cast aside in the name and course of his great quest.
Thorin smiled grimly as he saw the perfunctory salute of a man he’d known and trusted for as long as he could remember.
This train of thought inexorably led back to Ulvhild, whose gleaming hair had caught his eye from the first time they’d met—he could barely recall a time when he’d not equated the word “beauty” with her stalwart heart and twinkling eyes.
Before the arrival of Smaug, he’d been bound by his duties to his family, but—in exile—they’d soon slipped into a beautiful friendship that had promised to blossom into a deeper connection yet.
Consequently, he couldn’t fathom why all the letters he’d sent to her since he’d been well enough to hold a quill once more had returned unopened and unread.
The thought that something terrible had happened to someone so precious was unbearable, so he chose to believe that she’d simply grown tired of waiting for him.
And yet, he sometimes couldn’t help but wonder where she was now and whether she still thought of him from time to time.
Ori knew that he was running a fever, and the agonising pain where a blade had cut through his breeches had long since melted into a dull, hypnotising ache.
“I can make it,” he muttered, squinting at the dancing light in the distance.
In truth, he was no longer sure if he was heading in the right direction, but he sincerely hoped that he wasn’t about to ride into a foreign town, full of unhelpful strangers.
It had been stupid to take a shortcut, after all, scouting missions were meant to be surreptitious and secret rather than comfortable.
The small, pathetic band of stragglers had jumped out of the bushes, and had there been but a single other person by his side, Ori might well have made a clean getaway.
Alas, the haphazard thrust of a desperate, probably starving wretch had found its aim, and he’d had to ride hard to outrun them.
A new wave of dread overcame him as he realised that he was probably still leaving a trail of blood that would lead any pursuers straight to his whereabouts if he didn’t reach a safe haven soon.
Weakened and delirious, he would be an easy target for roaming bandits, and—having grown up poor and wanting—Ori was loath to part with anything he proudly called his own.
By now, his numb fingers were clawed into the mane of his mount, and he was swaying precariously as they entered a magical world of twirling and twisting lights.
The fact that he was far more severely injured than initially thought became evident to him when, upon sliding from the pony’s back onto the blessedly cool ground, he had a vision of Meliora.
“Is it then time to come to terms with all my failings?” he thought dazedly, for he was sure that his former friend couldn’t possibly be here, so close to a place she’d sworn she’d never visit.
What felt like a lifetime ago, sweet, passionate Iora had been the light of his life…and then, she’d just vanished.
As always, when he was tired or indisposed, Ori was haunted by the ghost of what could have been again. Well-loved and daring, Iora had been an integral part of all their most inane and reckless games, and it had been in the context of such a puerile dare that she’d kissed him.
Even now, years later, Ori’s heart quailed at the recollection of how she’d thrown back her head to give a peal of bellowing laughter as if he were little more than a simple toy to pick up and discard instantly.
From that day onward, he’d avoided her, devoured internally by shame and longing.
Of course, Fíli and Kíli had sworn that there had been a misunderstanding, but—by the time Ori had mustered up the courage to confront her—Iora had disappeared without a trace, leaving her sister and the community to worry endlessly.
Her name was on his lips as blessed oblivion finally took him.
“No marriage braids?”
Iora baulked at the innkeeper’s broad grin; she was unused to strangers being so unduly familiar with her people’s mores and traditions, and she didn’t like it.
“No,” she barked and slammed a pouch of jangling coins onto the counter. “Dinner, ale, and two beds for the night, please.”
“Suit yourself, Mistress,” the man said, barely chastened by her gruff reaction. “What is your business if I may ask?”
Again, Iora gave him a long, suspicious glance.
“Medical supplies,” Ulvhild answered quickly before Iora’s bad temper could come to the fore and cost them a roof over their heads. “Tinctures, tonics, and tools.”
Iora gave her an incredulous look; Ulvhild was a marvel at devising implements and gadgets to help others, and she’d herself spent much time with various Elven clans to study their lore and practices.
Nevertheless, she wasn’t foolish enough to disregard how dangerous it could be for two unwed women—no matter their race—to travel without guards.
At best, people suspected that they sold other remedies and sources of solace than mere potions.
At worst, they tried to rob them of these very same things.
Therefore, she nodded solemnly and shuffled towards a small table in a dark corner, far away from any windows or doors, because the oddly familiar smell of the lake made her heart clench with inexplicable Sehnsucht.
“I didn’t mean any offence,” the innkeeper said as he brought them two steaming bowls of stew and a loaf of dark bread, straight from the oven. “We see a good deal of the dwarves here. They stop over sometimes, and we trade with them a little.”
Iora cocked her head, wondering whether the man was genuinely proud of that connection or whether he was merely trying to put them at ease so he could trick them more easily when the time came.
“Is that so?” Ulvhild muttered politely without looking up.
“Yes…Oh, excuse me!”
There was a ruckus somewhere outside, and the rotund man rushed out of the room hastily, leaving his two foreign guests to enjoy their dinner in peace.
Or so they thought.
“Forgive me, ladies,” the innkeeper—now flushed and panting—wheezed as he returned. “I’m afraid that the room I’ve promised you was needed urgently.”
Just as Iora was about to fly into a blind rage, his gaze grew shrewd.
“You said you were medical people?” he muttered.
“Not really, no,” Ulvhild exclaimed hastily, unwilling to be dragged into a matter that would delay their immediate departure as soon as the sun came up.
“It’s one of your kind,” the man explained sheepishly. “Took a bad turn; they found him outside, unconscious.”
Ulvhild’s bright, warm eyes settled on Iora’s flushed face.
“Wouldn’t hurt to take a look as we’re going to share a room apparently,” Iora said, relenting, and followed the bumbling fool to the upper floor.
As soon as she entered the room, though, she gasped and tumbled backwards in wordless shock, clutching at her throat.