Over Hill and Under Tree (Shiva x Traveler)

[Traveler]

The Ranger’s gruff voice was a good sound to hear. If he could be irritated at Maerwyn then that mean that there was a lot of life left in the man. And life… well, it was better than having to dig a grave. Especially for someone who had done such an excellent job of ridding the world of so many orcs and goblins. Orin’s respect for the wounded Ranger was growing threefold.

At Maerwyn’s request that he see about patching up their new companion, Orin grunted. What did she think he was trying to do? Prepare lunch? He glanced over his shoulder at her, gave a little “Huh,” in response, and then pulled out some bindings and cloth, as well as a small, sharp knife that he laid to the side. He pulled out the flask of pure spirits; good for infections, and then looked at both the man’s right shoulder and thigh. He pulled the cloth away from both shafts, noting the depth and angle of their entry. The one in the shoulder would not go through; it looked to be pointed straight at his scapula. The thigh, however, seemed to pierce the muscle along the outside of his femur. Orin reckoned that one should be pushed all the way through, rather than backed out.

“Good job, only getting shot twice in all that,” he said quietly to the Ranger. “You must be very quick, or damned lucky.” He met the Ranger’s eyes just as Maerwyn bid him not to bind up the Ranger just yet. He felt like a sense of understanding passed between them at that moment. Women.

Then the Ranger saw what Maerwyn was up to and bid her not to start a fire. Orin could have laughed at the man for thinking he could sway her once she was on a path. Instead, he used the moment to his advantage, and as the stern-faced man glared at Maerwyn as she boasted, Orin used the small knife to swiftly find the arrowhead as he yanked it out.

The Ranger growled, grabbed Orin’s throat with his left hand, and looked like he was about to squeeze the life out of the robust dwarf. Orin grinned apologetically (as well as he could while being held by his throat) and wiggled the freed broken shaft where the man could see it. Understanding what had happened, the man released him.

“Warn me next time,” he said, his voice dangerous and low. Orin nodded.

The scent of herbs wafted towards them. Maerwyn brought over wettened cloth and began sponging at the dried blood.

Orin sniffed, curious of the familiar scent. That was very much what her father had used on her wound. His eyes rounded as he regarded the Ranger; how the man knew of healing herbs was beyond his knowledge. The most Orin knew was simple; take out the bad stuff, drown the wounds in strong drink and wash away the dirt, and sew things shut if they wouldn’t heal together on their own. But the herbs… that was learned knowledge. Wisdom.

He absent-mindedly handed Maerwyn the bandages when she asked for them. His eyes were still on the strange human, who claimed to be a person of enough importance that the Dúnedain would be in their debt for saving him. “I think you’ll survive just fine,” he told the man. “I also think… I need to push the other shaft through the rest of your leg. It’s too far in to remove it with a new cut,” he surmised, “and I don’t think it will do as much damage if I do.” He looked at the square-jawed man before them, noting the wide hat nearby and the man’s dirty, shoulder-length hair. Despite his ragged appearance, the man held himself like one who had authority and humility. It was an interesting combination to see.

He squatted to the Ranger’s left as Maerwyn worked on bandaging the shoulder. “Well met, Arathorn, son of Arrassuil. I’m Orin Indrafangin, of the House of Durin.” His eyes roamed the face before him. “You wouldn’t have been on your way to Rivendell when you encountered these vermin, would you?” He had ceased being in a grumpy mood over Maerwyn’s apparent distance towards him the last few days, and had found a new prospect of interest to him; the chance to gain permission via their new friend to study the libraries of Rivendell thoroughly one day.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Arathorn nodded in assent and gritted his teeth as he waited for Orin to remove the other arrow. Judging the dwarf to have much better skills as a healer than the woman (though the athelas she applied was swiftly doing its work in numbing the pain and driving the cold from his limbs), the Ranger turned his gaze back towards Orin, a mixture of suspicion and curiosity in his eyes. "I had not planned on going there directly, but that place is known to me, yes," he admitted, stifling a yelp of pain as the arrow was removed. "I was tracking a band of orcs through the mountains--they've been gathering in larger numbers in the High Pass--"

Maerwyn paused in her bandaging to exchange a raised-eyebrow look with Orin, more prideful than ever that she'd led him on a more hidden, if precarious, path on their journey westward.

"One of their trackers must have caught my scent," Arathorn continued. "Or the horse's," he added with a nod toward the beast grazing placidly nearby. "Every one I got within hearing distance of was complaining about being hungry. Hunting's been scarce up there this summer; if we're lucky a good number of them will starve to death even before the winter. Otherwise I expect they'll start getting more brazen in their attacks. The only question is: which side of the mountains will they choose?" Now he looked back towards Maerwyn, and as the mercenary met his eyes she recalled how few people lived on the western slopes of the Misty Mountains, outside of the impenetrable fortress of Rivendell, at least.

"I don't think that's our concern for the moment," she said finally, tying off the bandage and rising to her feet. Orin would have no trouble tending to the rest of the Ranger's wounds, and she didn't care for the strange way he was watching her. It was making her think too much of the attack on Hulgrim's house, and making a nauseous feeling of guilt rise in her stomach. They'll be fine she told herself, willing the thoughts away before she could doubt them any further. "I think what you ought to worry about, Ranger, is finding your way to some proper medicine. We aren't terribly far from Rivendell, are we? They must have someone there who can help you. Aren't elves supposed to be great healers?"

The Ranger looked surprised, then glanced towards the dwarf momentarily as though he could explain the obvious skepticism dripping in Maerwyn's voice. "You don't sound overly fond of them, Mistress Maerwyn," he observed. "I would hate to trouble you by forcing their company upon you. I will manage well enough on horseback to find my way there alone." Bracing himself on the slippery boulder behind him, Arathorn tried to pull himself into a standing position, but the weight on his wounded shoulder was too great, and with a snarl of pain he crashed downward again.

Immediately the mercenary was at his side again, checking to see if he'd torn through any of the bandages or caused any serious new wounds. But unless she wanted to strip him naked right there (something she doubted Orin would approve of) it was impossible to tell, and a fresh sense of urgency began to descend upon her. "Aye, and try that again and I'm sure whatever orcs are nearby won't need to worry about starving tonight," she added dryly, turning towards the horse and beginning to chirp enticements to him in the hopes of calling the stallion nearer. Arathorn was right at least that if they could get him on the horse he could probably find his way well enough, and they would only need follow him in order to make their way to Rivendell along with him.

"His name is Rhawnaur," the Ranger said finally, nodding his head towards the stallion. In response to his name the horse immediately approached, even kneeling down beside his master. But before she could lift Arathorn onto Rhawnaur's back--a task she would probably need Orin's help with anyway--Maerwyn decided it would be best to lay out terms then and there, before the man would have a chance to change his mind and ride off, leaving the pair of travelers behind him.

"Now look, I think we ought to have an agreement before we go any further," the mercenary stated. "Orin and I will see to it you reach Rivendell alive. We can keep up with the horse on foot, at the pace you'll need to take. It'll be hard enough to keep you on his back at a trot, much less a gallop. But we need to rest and resupply after our own long journey as well. Can you see to it they let us in when we get there?"

Again, the shadow of suspicion returned to Arathorn's face, but after a few moments' thought he nodded. "It's two days from here. I suppose if neither of you stab me in the back by then you'll have proven yourselves worthy enough. If I'm in a condition to speak when we arrive--and you do look doubtful of that fact, Mistress--you have my word I shall speak for both of you."

Maerwyn laid a hand gingerly on the Ranger's wounded shoulder. "Agreed. Orin, does this suit you as well?" she asked, looking across at her partner and more than a little curious as to what he thought of this new member of their party.

 

[Traveler]

Orin grunted at the ranger’s mention of more orcs present in the high pass. One could almost throw a rock blindfolded and hit them, so great were their number. When he looked up to see Maerwyn’s prideful look of ‘I told you so,’ he wanted to remind her that he never doubted her guidance. Instead, he firmed his lips into a hard line and made sure that there were no splinters left in the wound.

He felt a twinge of concern for her people at the mention of orcs searching for food. He thought of her family in their little fortress, and the attack they had fought back, and feared that the next time they passed through there would be no home left to visit. Worse, the children and families... they would be left defenseless.

"I don't think that's our concern for the moment," she said finally, as if she could hear Orin’s innermost thoughts. He glanced at her, then set the arrow shaft aside. He took up some of the tea and the cloth, and began to dab the tincture on the man’s wound. He was fortunate; it seemed the arrow slid between the major muscle walls, and no rapid bleeding meant no major vein was nicked.

When Maerwyn suggested Rivendell, and the ranger glanced his way, Orin simply shrugged. He didn’t understand why her bad history with one elf, or even five, should taint the entire race.

"You don't sound overly fond of them, Mistress Maerwyn," he observed. "I would hate to trouble you by forcing their company upon you. I will manage well enough on horseback to find my way there alone."

Orin was about to protest that they were heading there anyway. It wouldn’t be too much to travel together, when the ranger tried to push himself to his feet. Pride. Stupid, dwarf-like pride. The man came down with a crash. It suited him right. The man’s stubbornness reminded Orin of Maerwyn.

"Aye, and try that again and I'm sure whatever orcs are nearby won't need to worry about starving tonight," she added dryly, turning towards the horse and beginning to chirp enticements to him in the hopes of calling the stallion nearer.

“He’s kind of stringy,” Orin teased, straight-faced. “I don’t think they’d find much meat on this man if they tried.”

The ranger seemed to ignore the jab, instead turning his attention to his horse. Orin glanced over at his guide as she laid out a plan that included them getting what they wanted from the beginning; an invitation within the walls of Rivendell. The two humans went back and forth, exchanging softly camouflaged barbs and warnings beneath the warm tones of their words. When Maerwyn finally seemed to be content with the outcome, she turned the question back to him.

“I suppose we could make time in our itinerary, seeing as he is a kinsman of sorts.” He gathered up the salvageable things on the ground; the bowl and cloth, which he placed back in the horse’s saddlebag. He had to stretch to reach it, but didn’t let that deter him much. “Any enemy of the orcen can count themselves our allies.”

He walked over to the side of the horse, Rhawnaur, where the ranger was. The man was lanky and well-toned, though his injuries gave him a disadvantage. Orin had no doubt he could fight a fair battle even from his knees. “Let me help you,” as he offered his strength to the man, he felt like there was history to him that was boundless. The man’s eyes were sharp and wise, much more so than his few years would have suggested. In addition, there was a hint that the man could as easily pull an arrow string as pluck a lute, and though he was roughly dressed, Orin felt like he had an air of grace to the way he placed himself in the world. If Maerwyn and Orin were a book of secrets, this man might be a library.

Once the ranger was safely mounted on the horse and it stood, Orin stepped away to shoulder his pack. He hoisted the heavy bag onto both shoulders, then fastened the buckle across his chest. “I think we should find a defensible place to spend the night,” he suggested. Whether or not Maerwyn decided to tether her carriage to this man’s destiny, or remain with Orin, was anyone’s guess, but at least they were heading out together.

“Shall we?” He found his path more suited to walking behind the horse and rider, rather than beside. It gave him a chance to observe what was happening without revealing his thoughts in the expressions that crossed his stout, bearded face. Maerwyn could easily spend her days traveling with a worthy warrior, like this Arathorn, son of Arassuil. She would be a welcome companion, he was sure.

In the same breath, he wondered why he was so fearful of losing her to others. If she wanted to go, she could go. They had no formal arrangement between them. He sighed inwardly, looking at the backs of those he was following, and thinking that two days’ travel was going to feel like a lifetime.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Maerwyn nodded in agreement to Orin's remark about finding a defensible place. Thankfully Summer still hadn't quite given away to Autumn, and there were several hours left yet of daylight, but until they could emerge from the forests that lined the feet of the mountains, there was still enough gloom to give shelter to any particularly desperate bands of orcs. Glancing past the horse and rider to the roaring white river beside them, the mercenary crooked her head a little as she turned back to the wounded man.

"That river there, is that the Loudwater?" she asked, trying to mask the hope in her voice. If it was the Loudwater, that meant the far banks were elf lands, and they wouldn't need to worry about any attacks coming from that direction. And even if an enemy had penetrated the border of sorcery that was rumored to protect the ancient country, the best offense they would manage would be a volley of arrows shot through the white mist rising out of the waters, obscuring any targets on the northern bank. Anyone who tried to swim across would no doubt be carried all the way to the sea by the great rapids that thundered beside the little party.

At first the woman wasn't sure Arathorn had heard her over the noise, but after a moment of thought he did nod in affirmation. But before she could get too hopeful, the grim-faced man's gruff voice spoke up over the river. "There's only one ford though, and it's on the other side of the Trollshaws."

Her face immediately fell at that remark. In all her travels West of the mountains, Maerwyn had been careful to avoid the sprawling forest between the Loudwater and Hoarwell, usually risking the bandits and wolves of Rhudaur as she skirted well to the north of the woods. She feared no beast, and while goblins and orcs might have been a challenge she had enough experience to either dispatch with or escape them as necessary. Trolls though were an entirely different story.

Raising her chin, she tried to offer a carefree smile at the Ranger before falling into a leisurely step beside the horse. "Then we'll have to make sure to cross them during the day, won't we?" she replied, to which Arathorn merely grunted in response. As her smile wilted into a frown, Maerwyn moved a little closer to the dwarf's side and gave him a gentle nudge of the shoulder. "Quite the charming fellow, isn't he?" she muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm as she nodded towards the Ranger. Trusting the sound of the river to prevent the wounded man from overhearing, she continued to murmur conspiratorily to her partner. "What do you make of him? I think he's on the up-and-up, but he seems different from all the other Rangers I've know. There's something about him..."

Her brown eyes lingered on Arathorn's profile a while, trying to discern if perhaps they'd met before, or if he resembled anyone else she knew. She supposed if he was cleaner, or better-dressed, and much, much more genteel in his manners, he might have been mistaken for one of the southern lords in their white towers. Many of them had those clear gray eyes of his, and the same noble cast of facial features. And despite his wounds, his back was straight as he sat in Rhawnaur's saddle, and there was something very regal about his tall dark frame silhouetted against the mist.

A fine shape of a man, but I've seen better Maerwyn decided, her gaze shifting back to the dwarf. At least Orin smiled sometimes, though now that she thought about it she hadn't seen him smile much since they'd come down from the mountains. Even now he didn't quite seem himself, although compared to Arathorn's dark expression the dwarf seemed downright cheerful. The mercenary wondered what could have been troubling him, but this hardly seemed like the time to ask, with a stranger among them and orcs on their trail. Oh well, once they reached Rivendell she was sure they'd have time to discuss matters further. Among other activities she thought rather lasciviously, thinking again of the soft beds ahead and the privacy four walls and a ceiling would provide them from the world.

But first they had to get there. Resting a hand on Orin's shoulder, Maerwyn gave him a gentle squeeze. "I'm going to scout ahead a bit. I'll be within earshot though, call for me if he starts getting worse, all right?" she asked, picking up her pace a bit until she had jogged past the horse and disappeared farther into the trees, though her footprints still lingered shallowly in the damp earth of the riverbank.

Once she was gone, the Ranger glanced down at the dwarf, not utterly surprised to see the woman scamper off. "You and her then," was all he said. There might have been a question in it, or a judgment, or perhaps merely a statement. Arathorn's eyes were unreadable as the mist beside them as he stared at Orin, waiting for some kind of response.

 

[Traveler]

The talk of crossing the river and Trollshaws was just words to Orin. Trolls, goblins, orcs, and others, were just variations of ways they could die. What good was it to worry how it would happen? They only had each moment; tomorrow wasn’t assured.

He stomped behind, content to follow, until Maerwyn fell back to flank him. Orin was genuinely surprised. His self-pity had blossomed into a comforting warmth, and he liked wallowing there. He was beginning to take comfort in the thought that his affections were destined to be unrequited. It was a sob story he could hold onto with both meaty fists; the sad unhero with a broken heart. He was actually beginning to compose a sonnet in his head, when Maerwyn saw fit to nudge him, and ask his opinion of their companion.

Of course, she would be wondering about the man…

Of course.

“He seems fine enough,” Orin grunted. “But one human’s like any other, aren’t they?” His deeply browed eyes slid to look at her. Although, this one held himself like a leader. A man whose power came not from a title or position, but from his very core—as if he was destined for great things. As far as being like other Rangers, Arathorn was the first of his kind that Orin had met. He couldn’t judge the man.

He felt an ache when Maerwyn touched him again. She said that she was going to scout ahead. He nodded, began to lean forward to kiss her ‘be safe,’ but she turned away and jogged off before it could register. Orin grunted. He had moved parallel to the Ranger by that time, his eyes still focused on the trail where she had disappeared, when Arathorn spoke to him.

Scowling, Orin glanced up. He was confused at first, and then he understood the statement. “She’s my guide,” he finally answered, lowering his gaze to the path. “That’s all.” She had made that clear; their liaises were just mutual amusement. There was no future there aside from the year’s contract they had. Orin was smashing this self-pity roll he was on.

The roar of the river to their side was a comforting sound as they traveled. Goblins and trolls seemed as remote as the threat of elven arrows. He squinted at the path ahead. How long was she going to scout?

He squinted back up at Arathorn. “Are you married?”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Arathorn snorted a little at the idea the woman was nothing more than a servant to the dwarf. "Just a guide, hm? Is that by your decision, or hers?" he asked, tightening his grip on the reins as Rhawnaur deftly avoided a fallen log in his path. "I've had few dealings with dwarves in my time, but I've never heard of one traveling with a human woman. If you do need a guide though, I suppose you can do worse than her." The ranger paused and narrowed his eyes in the direction Maerwyn had gone. "Does she actually use those swords she carries, or are they just for show?"

Although Maerwyn might have been confident that they had plenty of daylight left, as the afternoon progressed dark clouds began to gather overhead, giving a premature aura of evening to the riverbanks. Besides the river, the scent of rain was heavy on the air, and unless the trio could find some sheltered place for the night the chances of having a fire this evening were slim. At the same time, at least their own scent trail would be covered from any pursuers, though Arathorn continued to glance behind them every now and then just to ensure they weren't already being followed.

When Orin asked whether or not he was married, the Ranger didn't answer at first, instead looking down the from horse to study the dwarf's face closer. Just when the silence had grown almost painful, he finally answered. "Yes. My wife and son are ahead of us in Rivendell." As they passed through a small clearing, the clouds overhead parted just enough to let a ray of golden sunlight shine down. It landed on his right hand, where a silver ring gleamed brightly. In the light the shape of the ring was clear: two serpents with emerald eyes, one devouring and the other supporting a crown of golden flowers.

But as soon as the light had faded, Arathorn withdrew his hand into his cloak, continuing to hold the reins with his left hand as the horse continued onward. "You must be far from your home, Master Indrafangin, wherever that may be. I believe your guide mentioned you came through a different pass in the mountains? That begs the question of your ultimate destination. Dwarves have rarely been seen in Rivendell since the days of Moria. Is your coming pure chance, brought on by an encounter with a wounded man? Or is there some greater purpose in it?"

The more Arathorn spoke, the more dreamlike his voice seemed to become. His face had grown paler as well, and he was beginning to slump a bit in the saddle, but still he held the reins firmly and remained upright. Still, it was a stroke of luck when a short time later Maerwyn appeared, looking alert but a bit uneasy.

"There's a cave in the hillside up ahead," she remarked as she rejoined the men. "It's not big enough for the horse, but it should fit two people comfortably enough, and keep us out of sight after dark." Pausing, she glanced up and down at the sight of Arathorn before leaning closer to Orin. "He doesn't look very good, we should probably get him someplace where he can rest." Straightening up, she tried to sound as energetic as possible as she urged the others forward.

"Come on lads, not much farther now..."

 

[Traveler]

Orin glared up at the man at his question. How astutely he had read them, and that with two arrows stuck through his flesh. He stomped a long a few minutes as he ruminated over the man’s remarks. Finally, he glanced up from underneath his bushy brows and confessed. “Her decision, and rightly so.” He swallowed, remembering her denial of his proposal. “But…she’s a damned good guide, and she’s also quite spectacular with her swords,” he said. “She was taught by elves. Practically raised by them.”

He didn’t know why he was so open to this man, whose weakened state still carried with it an air of authority. Perhaps it was because Arathorn was a blank slat to them both. He was a person who would come into their lives and just as easily leave it, and despite their brief relationship Orin trusted him.

He trusted the man. Maybe more than he trusted his own father.

The air grew thick with ozone as clouds moved in the dim their light. He could smell the charge in the air. It was like wet stone; a scent that made him both homesick, and glad to be away from the mountain. The world was bigger than the caverns under the ground. It was bigger than his quest. There were things going on in the world that would fill volumes and give bards material to sing about for lifetimes.

When Arathorn finally chose to answer Orin’s last question, the dwarf grunted and nodded. As if brought on by the Ranger’s words, the sun broke through and lit upon the man. He looked almost kingly, and Orin’s crafty eyes lit upon his ring. It was an odd choice for a ring, but beautifully wrought.

“Then…your treasure waits for you in Rivendell,” Orin presumed. He drew his pack straps higher on his shoulders, resetting its weight as he walked. As long as the Ranger’s horse was relaxed, he felt that he could be; Orin had come to trust the instinct of horses from his time with Maerwyn’s kin.

Arathorn mentioned that Orin was far from home. He asked about the pass they had gone through and their ultimate destination. A tingle of warning creeped from the base of his skull to his tailbone. “I’m from the Lonely Mountain,” he answered, “before that, my ancestor Thraem helped forge the Doors of Durin, and before that, Morlig fought in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. I’m hoping to get permission to study in Rivendell’s library. Not…necessarily now,” his voice grew distant as he thought of the briefness of humankind. “Later, after Maerwyn. I’ll have time, after, to see if I can relearn the lost crafts of my people, and maybe elvenkind.”

He shrugged. “The worse that can happen is they say ‘no’.”

The Dwarf looked up as Arathorn’s voice began to sound sleepy. His firm hand clamped on the man’s leg, fastening him in place. “Soon, Friend. I’m certain Maerwyn will find us a spot to camp soon.”

Not more than ten minutes later she rejoined them with news of a potential camping site. “Big enough for two is big enough,” he said, finally releasing his hold on the Ranger. “Lead on.” He rested his hand on his pack strap as they continued down the darkening path. Overhead the clouds seemed to roll across the velvet sky. Occasional openings in their ceiling revealed twinkling lights that reminded him of scattered diamonds in a pool.

When they reached the small cave, Orin looked up at Arathorn. “It’s not too rocky here; can your horse help you get closer to the ground…safely?” He held a hand towards the Ranger to help him dismount.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Maerwyn had been quite generous in calling their refuge for the night a cave; in reality it was some abandoned animal den dug into the foot of a rocky hillside, barely even visible from the riverbank some twenty feet down the slope. Even surefooted Rhawnaur would no doubt have trouble maneuvering his way between the tumbled boulders leading up to the hole in the hill, but luckily there was a grassy open area on the northern face of the hill where the poor beast could finally get some rest and a proper meal. "I can see to him once we get you settled in," the mercenary volunteered as she approached the stallion's side, exchanging concerned glances with Orin as she did so.

"He's not looking well," she muttered to the dwarf, watching carefully as Orin helped Arathorn off his horse, her muscles tensed and ready to dive in and support if needed.

"He can hear you," Arathorn growled in response, bracing himself between the saddle and the dwarf as he slid towards the ground. He continued to lean heavily on the ladder as his eyes scanned the vicinity for the cave, then let out an audible groan as he spotted it farther up the hill. Had he been whole and uninjured, of course such a small climb would have been nothing, but in that state the party wouldn't have needed to stop at all. But as the first icy drops of rain began to leak through the trees, the Ranger realized there was no other option. Once the path was wet enough, the ascent would be almost impossible in his current state.

Gritting his teeth, he leaned a little more heavily on Orin's shoulder. "I think I shall require your assistance, Master Indrafangin," was all he said, leaving Maerwyn to tend to Rhawnaur in the meantime.

By the time the Ranger reached the opening of the cave, the rain was falling heavily, evoking a rather unpleasant smell of the den's previous inhabitant. Contrary to Maerwyn's previous remark, there certainly was room for all three of them to wait inside, but as she carried up Rhawnaur's saddle and tack she made no sign of entering.

"I can stand guard out here," she remarked, huddling more deeply into her cloak as she tried to find a spot sheltered enough for a fire, without filling the cave itself with smoke. "There's some of that athelas left if you need it, Arathorn, but I don't know that I'll be able to boil any water for it. We'll probably be having a cold supper as well," the woman added glumly, though there was still enough dried fruit and meat left for a day or two yet. Positioning herself where she could keep an eye on the horse and river below them, she settled herself into a seated position with her back to the cave entrance, and began to fish through her own pack for provisions.

"You ought to get something in you though, to keep your strength up," Maerwyn remarked as she glanced first over her shoulder at the wounded man, then towards her partner. "Orin, do we have any of that mead Isvera gave us left? He might need something stronger than water as well."

 

[Traveler]

‘At least the cave wouldn’t get flooded,’ Orin thought as he looked up the hillside. He didn’t know how they would get Arathorn up the hill without hurting him further. He glanced over at Maerwyn as she noted that he wasn’t looking well, and then had to choke down a chuckle when the Ranger mentioned that he could hear her.

“Yes, well…the shelter will help with that,” he said as he reached over and assisted the tall warrior off the horse. The trek up the hill was helped by Orin’s stout feet and his sturdy legs. He gritted his teeth as he half-carried the man up the rapidly sloughing hillside, only breathing in relief once they reached the shelter. When Maerwyn said she would stand guard outside, he glared in her direction. “Why outside? There’s plenty of shelter in—oh,” he said, remembering her phobia. He turned away and busied himself with setting the cavern ready for the night.

Her comment about a cold dinner felt like a personal attack. “I can make a fire,” he muttered. He made sure that Arathorn was comfortably settled, then went to get his blanket from his saddle. Perhaps Maerwyn had the heavier burden to carry in bringing the saddle up there. He had to admit it—she was a strong, capable woman. It had not been long since she had been injured, and here she was hiking all over the countryside and carrying saddlebags up challenging terrain. She was a dwarf woman in human clothing. She was amazing…

He glanced over to where she was positioning herself near the entry. He wished she was in the cave with him, but he didn’t think she would appreciate his insistence. Orin brought Arathorn the blanket and helped him wrap it around his legs. “I’ll start a fire; hopefully it will help you stay warm,” he said. “Do you want me to try to warm up some water for the, uh…athelas?”

He gathered up the few pieces of wood he could find that hadn’t been soaked and set up a small pyramid of sticks to house a fire. The wood shavings and fibers he had set in its center had been soaked in fat. It caught and sizzled, sending the scent of wood and meat into the air. It made his stomach grumble loudly, and for once he found himself wishing that they had a nice river nearby where Maerwyn could have pulled some fish out for dinner. Instead, he would heat up some of that dried meet and fruit for a makeshift broth. Something warm would do them all good.

“I do have some of that mead left,” he said over his shoulder. “Though, if it’s something stronger that you want, I can give him some of Havus’ hard liquor.” He turned his eyes towards Arathorn. “What would you prefer?”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Maerwyn flashed Orin a small grin at his question about her insistence to stand guard. "Someone ought to protect you two from the outside," she teased, tossing a small pouch of dried meat to her partner. "After all, what if a very put-out badger comes back, upset that you've gone and disturbed his resting place?" Ah, if only badgers were all they'd have to worry about. The mercenary hadn't mentioned it to either of the men, not wanting to cause further alarm, but before settling on making camp in the cave, she'd discovered some very ominous, very large footprints farther up the stream. She could only hope that whatever had made them had no interest in doubling back the way they'd come.

She was about to warn against making a fire, just in case it might draw the attention of such a creature, but the sight of Arathorn leaning against the cave wall made her think twice about it. The Ranger needed the warmth if nothing else, and another dose of athelas probably wouldn't do him any harm either. The odds of finding any wood dry enough to burn at this point though seemed unlikely.

And yet, by some magic or another, in mere minutes Orin had conjured up a merry little flame, sending red flickers and shadows dancing across the cave walls behind them. Astounded, Maerwyn tilted her head approvingly towards the dwarf. "You truly are a wonder, Master Orin. How anyone traverses the wilds without a dwarf at their side, I shall never know," she smiled, glancing back towards Arathorn to see if he agreed. His eyes narrowed a little and some sort of huffing noise puffed out into the chill air, but beyond that he said nothing.

The woman's smile died on her lips, and she nodded as she looked back at Orin. "Aye, I think that would be best," she answered when he brought up the athelas again. Rather than venturing back down the slope to the dangerous riverside (which was now rushing at such a pace even Maerwyn doubted she could fill a pot without falling in herself), she set one of their cooking vessels out beyond the shelter of the cave entrance, letting the rain beat a soft metallic dance into the bottom. "The way the rain's coming down I don't think that'll take long to fill," she mused, watching the silvery curtains wash through the trees as the last light of day began to fade.

Her hopes raised again at the mention of the mead, and at the mention of Havus' liquor her eyes burned even brighter. "Wait, we have some of that left? Give us all a nip then, I think we could all use it!" she added wryly, raising an eyebrow at the Ranger. "I don't suppose your people have much of a taste for dwarvish spirits, do they?"

"If it's warm, I'll take it," the man admitted after a while, holding out one shaking hand for the flagon. Maerwyn frowned, not expecting such a powerfully built man to admit to his suffering so quickly. Taking one last deep breath of the fresh air outside, she clutched her own pack to he chest then slid deeper into the cave, until she was almost pressed directly against the tall man's solid form. Ignoring how such a close proximity might appear to Orin, she pulled her bearskin out of her bag and tucked it around both Arathorn and herself.

"Just until you're warm again," she warned in his ear, taking the flagon of liquor back from him and helping herself to a small, yet potent swig. Feeling fresh heat spreading into her limbs, she corked the bottle and tossed it back towards Orin, trying to keep her eyes focused on him, the fire, and the world beyond. Anything to ignore the oppressive feeling of the stone surrounding the rest of her.

"Is that pan filled yet, Orin?" Maerwyn asked as the Ranger relaxed beside her, apparently grateful for the warmth. Although the bearskin covered both of them from the neck down, Arathorn had kept his hands to himself, and the mercenary had done the same, although she was leaning heavily against him in the hopes of granting him some of her own heat. And with each passing moment, it seemed she had more and more to spare, her cheeks burning redder than the fire.

Maerwyn told herself there was absolutely nothing inappropriate about what she was doing--the Ranger was going to freeze to death if they didn't take care of him quickly--but with Orin sitting only a few feet away a strange, alien sense of guilt had descended upon her, smothering her as surely as the stone ceiling overhead. Surely the dwarf could understand they needed to do whatever they could to keep Arathorn alive. After all, if he did up and die on them, there went their change for admission into Rivendell. Or worse, suppose someone came looking for the Ranger and found him dead in their company. Who would believe that a heavily armed dwarf and woman didn't have something to do with it?

Glancing down, she realized Arathorn was absentmindedly rubbing at a spot on his chest, and as she lowered the bearskin enough to allow a little more light, she could see some of the bandages they'd applied earlier had come loose, and blood was seeping through again. "Shit," she muttered, reaching for the saddlebag that contained the athelas. "Better start boiling whatever water we've got. His wound's reopened," she called to Orin before looking the Ranger in the eyes.

"Put your hands down," she ordered, and to half-surprise, Arathorn actually obeyed. Opening his shirt and undoing the bandages with one hand, Maerwyn took the smallest sprig of athelas and popped it into her mouth, chewing the leaves into a fine paste the way she'd seen field medics do during her years with her old company. She had no idea if it would either decrease or increase the herb's effectiveness, but judging by the numbing effect she could feel on her lips it would at least ease the ranger's pain.

Carefully spitting out the plant matter into her free palm, she massaged it into the gash on his chest, filling the cave with that same fresh, green scent she'd noticed earlier. After only a few moments Arathorn noticeably relaxed, and let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you. Don't know that I've ever seen anyone use athelas that way before, but it helps," he admitted as her rough fingers massaged the bruised flesh.

Blushing even darker, Maerwyn dropped her gaze. "We can do it right once the water's boiling," she muttered, setting aside the rest of the packet of athelas and noticeably avoiding Orin's eyes.

 

[Traveler]

Her comment about his fire making had him smiling. “Well…I am a smith, and we have a very strong relationship with fire,” he said, almost to himself. It was something that he seemed to have a knack for; the stoking, coaxing, and raising up of a tiny spark into a flame, that could do as much good as it could do damage, was a skill he had picked up at a very young age. He was proud of it, and to have Maerwyn mention his ability to make even dampened wood smolder and take flame made him feel a spark of pride.

Her eagerness to take a draft of his mother’s liquor had his hand moving to pull out the flagon even before he thought much of it. He looked to Arathorn, whose shaking hand bespoke pain, and then to Maerwyn. As she slid into the cave, he moved towards the man’s legs and held out the vessel.

He was surprised, if not a bit honored, that Arathorn drunk deeply. Enough in fact that Orin thought he would feel his aches ease in a few moments, if not immediately. He almost didn’t see the flagon flying back towards him, but that innate ability to see density in the dark helped tremendously, as his short-fingered, calloused hand made contact with the returned flask that his mother had carried in her many years adventuring. Now the adventuring had been passed to him, and he felt like he was just on the cusp of beginning to learn what the world had to offer.

He watched while trying to not appear to be watching, as Maerwyn got cozy with the Ranger. Orin wasn’t worried, of course. If not because the man was severely injured, then because he believed that Arathorn was a man of honor. He would not betray his wife. His children…Orin busied himself with the tiny fire and tried not to think of it too much.

"Is that pan filled yet, Orin?"

“Oh, I’ll check,” he said and moved towards the opening. The rain was coming down hard now, splashing out of the pot as much as it was splashing into it. Gingerly the dwarf lifted the delicate vessel and brought it over to the fire. He set it near the edge, hoping to warm the water without scorching the pot. Squatting down on his haunches before the fire, he felt the cold, moist air at his back. There was barely a body’s width to squeeze around him if someone wanted to try, and his presence in the doorway kept most of the cool breeze from wafting in Arathorn’s direction.

The Ranger worried him. It wasn’t that he feared the man, but that he feared for him. He was worried the stoic man with the humble and noble voice would die before the sun rose again. As he raised his head to gaze once more in the Ranger’s direction, Maerwyn mentioned that they had better boil the water. Orin blinked stupidly, and wondered what she thought he had been doing with the pot.

He looked at the pot again, the edged around it to reach for the remaining athelas. As Maerwyn chewed her mouthful, he retrieved the packet of athelas, pinched a hearty amount between two thick fingers and plopped it into the water. Poking it under a few times, he finally got it completely saturated, and then cinched up the pouch and set it back on Arathorn’s bag. “It’s simmering,” he said. “It won’t be long now.”

He leaned against he opening and gazed across the ridge. The rain created a curtain before them. That, and the overgrown bushes, should keep them sheltered from any who might be searching for them. Or…for Arathorn.

“Why don’t you two try to get some sleep,” Orin said, turning his face towards the interior of the cave. “I’ll take the first watch.”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Whatever magic Orin had wrought with the fire, Maerwyn was just grateful that it still had the courage and energy to stand up to the downpour only inches away, and she was even more grateful when the water in the pot was finally warm enough to steep the athelas. The scent was enough to drive out the last remnants of whatever beast had previously inhabited the cave, and thanks to the dwarf's careful blocking of the entrance the area was quickly warming up. Arathorn didn't say much as the mercenary cleaned the reopened wounds, and as she finished changing his bandages Maerwyn realized with some alarm that the Ranger had lost consciousness. Judging by his breathing though, and the relaxed posture of his body as it leaned back against the cave wall, she determined he had merely fallen into a deep, hopefully healing sleep.

Tucking the bearskin more firmly around the man, she crawled closer to the fireside and pulled her cloak, soaked now to a deep crimson, more tightly around her. "I guess he'll not be wanting anything else for supper then," she mused to her companion, taking another draw off her flask. "I think he'll be all right though. Hope so, at least. It'd be a shame to get him almost all the way to Rivendell only to have him die on us then."

Maerwyn was close enough to the entrance now to see outside, and despite the chill and the damp she began to breathe a bit easier. "Dunno if I can eat anything myself, to be honest. Maybe if we were in a tavern somewhere with a nice roast or something like that, but not in weather like this." Pulling her hood up over her head, she moved a little closer to the dwarf. "Dunno if I'll be able to sleep either, but if you want the first watch, I suppose I can try. Think you can watch him and the outside at the same time?" she asked, inclining her head towards the sleeping man. "Don't forget poor Rhawnaur down there either. I think he'll be all right, I found a little stand of trees where he should stay mostly dry, but who knows what else might be out there?"

Her eyes fixed on the rain-silvered darkness beyond the fire, and she shivered a moment before leaning over to rest her head against the dwarf's. "Tell me if you want me to move," Maerwyn murmured, feeling Orin's heat as she relaxed against him, his scent calming her even more than that of the lingering athelas in the cave. The mercenary let her eyes drift shut as the shadows danced before the fire, and as usual she was asleep within seconds.

But it didn't seem like she slept long before the sound of a terrified whinny in the dark startled her back into wakefulness. Knocking her hood back, she turned to listen more closely, and sure enough she could hear the sound of hooves stamping frantically in mud, and much closer than where she had left the horse at sundown. Not only that, but she could feel something vibrating through the ground beneath her, and there was an unpleasant mucky smell in the air. "It's Rhawnaur," she stated, reaching for her swords. Strapping on both as quickly as she could, she took a careful step between the rain-splattered boulders and looked back at Orin.

"Think he'll be all right alone?" she asked, gesturing towards the cave where Arathorn was still sleeping. "If we both go we might draw whatever's down there away from the cave--"

But a sudden impact of something crashing against the slope beneath her proved it was too late. The rain seemed to have stopped finally but as the clouds overhead parted to reveal a full moon, so too did it reveal the towering shape of a mountain troll roaring up at them from the riverside. Just beyond its reach Rhawnaur had trapped himself in a sinkhole and was jerking his massive body back and forth in a panic, undoubtedly chased there by the great brute. No doubt the troll would have ended the horse's screams with a powerful blow from the tree-trunk sized club in its hand, had the sight of the fire on the hill not drawn its attention instead.

"Get down!" Maerwyn shrieked as a second boulder the size of a pumpkin came sailing through the air towards them, this one also missing its target but knocking several other rocks loose and sending them tumbling down the hillside. The troll made a grumbling sound and looked back towards the trapped horse, no doubt trying to determine if it might just be easier grab it as a meal and leave off with dispatching the other intruders to its territory.

The woman came to this same conclusion much more quickly, and looked back at Orin with a determined light in her eyes. "Can you distract it while I get him loose?" she gasped, gesturing towards the horse. "If it gets the horse, there's no way we'll get Arathorn to Rivendell in time."

Trusting the dwarf's answer but not waiting for it, she began to scramble down the far side of the slope, unfortunately making plenty of noise in the process and drawing the troll's attention back towards the figure slipping between the rocks.

 

[Traveler]

Orin had nodded at Maerwyn’s question. If he hadn’t thought he could keep watch, both internally and externally, he wouldn’t have suggested it. Though her question did irk him a bit, reminding him of his dad’s constant degrading comments veiled in words of concern. You think you’re strong enough to take on that job? Are you sure you know how to work the metal? Do you think you should be starting your own forge at your age, son?

He frowned, glancing out at the downpour, and listened to her continue. "Don't forget poor Rhawnaur down there either. I think he'll be all right, I found a little stand of trees where he should stay mostly dry, but who knows what else might be out there?"

“Mmm,” was all Orin replied. He wondered if she tied him to a tree, or considered him smart enough to stay put on his own. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he finally added. He thought about the morning. If all went well and Arathorn survived, which he believed the man would under Maerwyn’s care, they’d need to get him safely down the water-soaked slope to his horse. Then there was the matter of seating him, keeping him upright, and getting to Riverdel. Orin could only hope that their journey could be done in one more day, maybe two. If it took too long and the Ranger’s injuries were internal, the poor man might never see his family again.

"Tell me if you want me to move," Maerwyn murmured, leaning against him.

Orin turned his face to her, smiling in the light of the small fire. “You’re fine,” he replied, pulling the blanket up to cover her more. He slid his arm under hers and clasped her hand in the privacy of the covering. In moments she was breathing softly, signaling that she had fallen asleep. He looked to the other side of her where the Ranger rested. He seemed like he was in less pain now, though it might have been a trick of his exhaustion.

A few hours later he felt the ground vibrate. Owen’s eyes snapped open. ‘Had I been asleep?’ Then he felt it again. A low, thrum, almost a shake. Something that reminded him of landslides, collapsed tunnels, or giants. He tried to slip himself from Maerwyn’s side, unwilling to disturb her if it was something that would pass. Then the horse screamed and he tried to move faster. The air shifted, grew musty and fetid, and he felt a stirring of horror and anger in the pit of his gut.

“It's Rhawnaur," she stated, reaching for her swords. Strapping on both as quickly as she could, she took a careful step between the rain-splattered boulders and looked back at Orin.

Orin pushed the bear skin off of himself, not being as quick to his feet as Maerwyn. He grasped his ax handle and moved to flank her at the cave entry. The horse’s whinny pulled at him and made him want to charge down the hill blindly. The woman at his side wanted him to watch out for her, first and foremost.

"Think he'll be all right alone?" she asked, gesturing towards the cave where Arathorn was still sleeping. "If we both go we might draw whatever's down there away from the cave--"

“He’ll be better off with whatever that is taken care of,” Orin said. “As long as he doesn’t try to join us, he’ll be fine.” He ducked his head out of the entry to listen better, just in time to hear an impact. “Great Aulë,” he gasped, seeing the monstrosity that was roaring at them. The creature was easily twice the height of a tall human, perhaps taller. It’s hide was thick and covered in horny scales, brownish black, mottled, and it’s head sported stringy, sickly looking strands of hair. The beady eyes almost flanked it tooth-filled mouth, but what was most frightening was the way it considered whether to go after the horse for an easy meal, or—

"Get down!" Maerwyn shrieked as a second boulder the size of a pumpkin came sailing through the air towards them, this one also missing its target but knocking several other rocks loose and sending them tumbling down the hillside.

Orin slid half a body-length down the slope, his axe now gripped in his left hand as he used the right to brace upon the slope. Mud sloughed beneath his feet, and his wide boots helped him to balance against the mud.

"Can you distract it while I get him loose?" she gasped, gesturing towards the horse. "If it gets the horse, there's no way we'll get Arathorn to Rivendell in time."

“Yeah,” Orin shouted. “Do what you need to do,” he called, already making his way down the hillside. The mountain troll looked at its two options, now moved into three. As Orin’s feet hit the bottom of the slope he waved his arms over his head and shouted. “HEY! UGLY! Over here!” He saw the monstrosity bend to pick up another boulder.

‘Nuh-uh,’ the dwarf thought to himself, and began to charge. If he could get to the mountain troll before it hefted the boulder it would be at a disadvantage, through ‘disadvantage’ might be overstating it. The thing wouldn’t have a weapon, and that would help, especially considering that it was at least three times taller and wider than Orin. But…if he could get the troll’s legs, go for it’s Achilles tendon…then it wouldn’t matter how tall the beast was.

And hopefully Maerwyn would save the horse, they’d get Arathorn safely home, and be rewarded with a soft bed and a warm meal. Because in the cold, sopping rain, that was something that made charging a mountain troll worth it.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Glancing back over her shoulder as she ran down the hill, Maerwyn felt a powerful, unfamiliar fear closing its icy fingers around her heart. Please let him be all right she found herself praying, though she wasn't sure exactly to whom the thought was directed. It was strange; in all of her mercenary companies, the death of a companion had been accepted as an inevitability, and even though there had been a strong sense of comeraderie she had always been emotionally prepared to watch her friends die. And yet the thought of losing Orin, who she had tried so hard to see as an employer rather than a comrade, suddenly terrified her.

He's strong, he'll be fine she reminded herself as she raced in the direction of the stallion, trying to ignore the sounds of the troll turning away from her and towards the dwarf. And it was true; Orin had more than proven himself in battle since they'd set out from Dale. After facing spiders, orcs, and werewolves, surely one single troll wouldn't be the thing to finally lay him low, would it?

Shaking her head, Maerwyn came to the edge of the mudhole where Rhawnaur was kicking frantically, occasionally pulling one hoof free but only to sink the other three deeper into the muck. "Hush now my lad, it's all right," the mercenary murmured, feeling her own foot squelching into the rain-sodden dirt and momentarily threatening to rob her of a boot. Thankfully she was much lighter than a horse, and there were plenty of low-hanging branches overhead she could grab onto and hopefully pull herself up. Grunting a little, she pushed up with the foot still on solid ground and managed to catch hold of the nearest bough...

...only for it to snap clean away from the trunk and send her crashing back down into the mud.

"Fuck!" she shrieked, wiping a splatter of dirt from her face as she jammed the broken limb into the ground and tried to lever herself out of the hole. It took some effort, but she managed to crawl back out onto the firmer turf, though her front was completely painted with the watery muck. Undaunted, she looked back towards the hole with her stick in hand, an idea for rescue quickly formulating in her mind. If she could just get enough of the broken branches together to make a path, the poor horse might be able to climb out on the makeshift ramp. But she would need time, and with each branch she broke Maerwyn risked drawing the troll's attention back in her direction.

Luckily, the troll was still quite occupied with dealing with the dwarf. The brute's club was surely enough to smash through even Orin's armor, but first it would have to actually land a hit. And no matter how hard it might have tried, it never seemed quite quick enough to make a connection, though it did succeed in sending several sprays of dirt and debris into the air each time its weapon smashed into the ground or nearby trees.

As this awkward dance was continuing, Maerwyn's bridge was coming together as quickly as she could manage, and thankfully Rhawnaur seemed to understand what she was doing enough to make his way towards her. "That's it sweetest, come on," the woman encouraged as the horse managed to get first one hoof onto the broken boughs, then another. Still, it couldn't help but squeal again when the troll let out another bellow as it yet again failed to knock Orin's head off, and the noise was enough to finally draw the hulking creature's case back in the direction of the mudhole.

"No!" the mercenary shrieked, seizing onto the horse's mane before it could slip back into the mud. Rhawnaur calmed himself just enough to make the rest of his way onto the bridge, but by now the troll had turned straight for them and was beginning to gallop as best as he could manage. This left his back open to the dwarf though, and he would still have to scramble over a slippery pile of rocks that would bring him dangerously close to the riverside.

"Orin, the water!" Maerwyn called as she climbed onto Rhawnaur's back, lest the horse bolt in fear and disappear into the wilderness. If Orin could make just the right blow with his axe, hopefully the troll would fall into the Bruinen, where even a creature of his size had no hope of escape.

 

[Traveler]

Orin’s heart nearly burst through his ribcage as he ducked, swung, taunted and eluded the ugly troll. It would have been fun if it wasn’t a contest for life and death. Normally, the stout dwarf would be much quicker than the behemoth, but the slick muddy ground made it difficult for both.

“Your mother was a hobgoblin!” He shouted. The troll roared, slamming his club on the exact spot Orin had occupied a moment ago. Orin prayed that Maerwyn was having success with that horse. He would do whatever he could to buy her time, and gods willing, remove the threat that the mountain troll presented.

He stepped on a slick spot, came down hard on his side, and then rolled frantically as the club swung down once more. Orin scrambled to his knees and crawled between the thing’s fetid legs, hoping that the stench wouldn’t linger on him. As he made it to the other side, he heard the crack of snapping wood, followed by Maerwyn’s shout. A quick glance over his shoulder cost him; as soon as he saw her crawling out of the hole, he felt a hard thump at his side as the Troll’s club contacted with him.

Shit..His elbow stung and a painful vibration ran down his hands, weakening his grip on the ax. Orin switched hands, turned and roared back at the troll. It roared back. As it did, Orin swung his ax, one-handed, rushing forward and cutting across his adversary’s thigh.

Which might have been a mistake.

The troll reconsidered attacking the little runt, instead, turned to look at its dinner. Orin saw it in the troll’s shoulders, that forward tilt, that inclination of its spine…it was going for the horse. And between the troll and the horse was Maerwyn.

Orin saw the troll begin to scramble over the rocks. He heard Maerwyn cry out to him, telling him about the river, and the dwarf’s path was set. He sprinted after the huge grey mountain troll, and as it descended the other side, Orin leaped. He sailed through the air, his ax poised to strike. It happened too fast for the dwarf to think things through. He felt he impact as his ax dug deeply into the troll’s shoulder. It screamed, whirled, and then slipped. Instinctively Orin’s grip tightened. Then he felt he immersive cold of the water as he and the troll crashed into the Bruinen River.

Sound changed, as her voice was replaced by the muted underwater roar. He felt his body seize; the cold was nearly painful. The troll struggled in its depths, and Orin felt his ax handle slip from his hand as the powerful waters swept the troll downriver. The dwarf’s vision was filled with churning bubbles, rocks, dark streams of moonlight filtering through the watery depths. Strangely, he wasn’t afraid. He felt calm knowing that Maerwyn was safe. His last vision of her was atop Rhawnaur’s back, her fiery hair highlighted by the moon.

She was safe.

 

[Shiva the Cat]

It was a trick of the light. It had to be.

Orin wouldn't have been stupid enough to actually jump on top of the fucking troll, not when it was teetering so close to the brink of the river. The moon couldn't have been shining off his armor and the blade of his axe just before that endless moment when the brute's hulking body crashed into the white foam of the river. If Maerwyn looked back towards the rocks, if she only just looked, she would see the dwarf standing there, exhausted but smiling, with troll blood dripping victoriously off his blade.

"Orin?" she called uselessly, urging Rhawnaur around the edge of the mudhole as she approached the spot he ought to have been. There! There were the heavy prints of his boots in the mud. He was just there, only moments ago. He couldn't have gotten far...

But the Bruinen was swift in the narrow rocky channels through the trollshaws. Deep as well. Once the horse was on solid ground Maerwyn dismounted, no longer caring if the stallion dove into the waters after the troll, and she darted as close to the edge as she dared. It was still ten or fifteen feet down the rocks to the water's surface, if Orin had fallen he might have found some handhold to grip, or some narrow ledge to balance on

But there was nothing. Only the moonlight reflecting against the wet faces of the boulders.

"Orin!" she shrieked again, eyes helplessly searching through the mist and debris. "Orin, you stubby little son of a bitch, you had better get your ass up here right now or I swear on my mother's grave I am going to rip your beard out one hair at a time! Orin!"

The horse began to whinny at the notes of hysteria in the woman's cries, and it was enough to pull Maerwyn back from the edge. She had been half tempted to throw herself in after him, but what good would that do? The river was so deep here that there wasn't even any sign of the troll's enormous body, let alone Orin's smaller one. He would have sunk to the bottom a cold voice in the back of her mind stated. He was wearing his armor. He can't swim, he's told you that a thousand times. You never taught him.

"Fuck," was all she could manage in a broken voice. Fuck. She should have taught him. She should have dragged his ass into that lake yesterday, taught him how to hold his body so he could float away. Even just how to keep his head above water. It might not have saved him now, not with the armor holding him down, but maybe...

Something nudged at her shoulder. Against all hope Maerwyn prayed it was the dwarf, coming out from some secret escape hole to reassure her that everything was fine, and wasn't that a close one? But no, it was the horse. The stars-damned horse who she should have let die in that fucking hole. Better him than Orin. Why did she have to have such a fucking soft spot for animals? How could she have let it make her so blind to the situation? The horse wasn't paying her, hell his master wasn't even paying her. Come to think of it, she should have let Arathorn die out there in the wilderness too. Maybe if they'd never crossed paths with the Ranger, the scent of his blood wouldn't have drawn the troll, and Orin would still be with her.

It was no use. Things were as they were, and they couldn't be undone. Grabbing onto Rhawnaur's mane, Maerwyn slowly pulled herself to her feet, and with a face as blank and cold as the gray rocks around her, she began to lead the horse towards the far side of the hill, trusting he would stay there this time. Once the stallion had settled himself down somewhat she turned back towards the cave, climbing like some mechanical toy without truly seeing the path in front of her. She might have missed the cave opening entirely if a voice and a hand hadn't reached out to her, drawing her attention back towards the fire that was all but dead now.

"Maerwyn? What happened?" asked Arathorn, a strange new strength in his voice as he crawled towards her, his large hand closing firmly around her wrist.

For a moment, she just stared at it, recalling the last time Orin had touched her, how it had felt to have those callused fingers lacing with hers. She shut her eyes a moment, expecting tears to come any time now, but her cheeks stayed dry. And she opened them again, there was a new cold light in them, and she broke free of the Ranger's grasp.

"The troll's gone. So is Orin. He fell," she said, crawling to the fireside and trying to fan it into new life. Orin had set aside a little stack of fuel in the dryness of the cave, and it burned well enough as she added it onto the makeshift hearth, but somehow Maerwyn could feel no heat in it. "Get some sleep," she ordered the Ranger without looking at him. "We move as soon as it's light. I'm going to search for his body, and I'm taking your horse. You can come with me, or you can stay here and die for all I care."

Arathorn was silent a few moments, but seemed neither offended nor surprised at the cruel tones in the woman's voice. "I'm sorry, mistress. I liked him very much," was all he said, before crawling back into the shadow of the cave.

I liked him too. I liked him so much the mercenary thought. It wasn't the pride of finally having a client die on her that hurt so badly (after all, Orin had left his money in his bag up at the cave). It wasn't even the loss of such an enjoyable lover, or a partner in battle. It was losing him. His smile, his hands, the way he sang, the way he kissed her and held her against him after they'd made love. Maerwyn hadn't expected to keep them forever of course, but she'd always thought that when it would be time to give them up, it would be on her terms. They would say their farewells in some pretty place in the wide world, share one last kiss, then go their separate ways with warm affection and fond memories in their hearts.

But this was just cold, and darkness, like a candle being snuffed out.

Dawn was slow in arriving, and when it did the light was just as gray and damp as it had been yesterday. But fresh energy and determination had spread through Maerwyn's limbs as she loaded up Rhawnaur, not only with her own gear, but Orin's as well. Once she found the dwarf's body, she planned to bury him with it, all of it, with the exception of the ring he'd given her as collateral on the day they met. That she would keep always, and woe to the man or woman who ever tried to take it from her.

To her surprise, Arathorn had pulled himself to his feet while she was busy preparing to leave, and although he was still pale he looked much farther from death than he had yesterday. "You'll be moving slowly, I imagine? I should be able to keep up if you want help."

"Hmph. If your stupid horse can hold us both, I guess it's fine," she muttered as she slid under his shoulder, helping the Ranger down the hill to the waiting stallion. To her surprise, Rhawnaur had little trouble managing two people and the bags, and even looked a little shamefaced as he made his way along the riverbank, as if he knew the woman's anguish was all his fault.

The going was very slow indeed, with Maerwyn often dismounting to climb closer down to the water's edge. When they reached a shallower bend, where the water could be accessed without having to climb over rocks, she even stripped down to her underthings and dove into the icy water, swimming almost all the way out to the middle in the hopes of catching some sight of the dwarf's body. But when she emerged, shivering and white, she shook her head at the Ranger. No sign at all.

In the afternoon they found the troll's body, turned to stone by the light of day and half submerged in the rapids. She had expected to find Orin there, trapped among the rocks and not looking much better than his enemy, but again, there was nothing. Had the dwarf been carried all the way to the sea?

He wanted to see the sea Maerwyn reminded herself with fresh grief in her heart, climbing up behind Arathorn again and urging the horse forward. Her arms wound around the tall man's midsection carefully, still conscious of his wounds, but all the same he patted her hands reassuringly.

"We're almost at the Ford, mistress. I think you should still come with me to Rivendell. The elves may have seen something that we missed, and you need rest."

"Fuck off," she grunted, but the words were drowned out by the sudden sound of hoofbeats, followed by a number of voices shouting in elvish. In her exhausted state, Maerwyn couldn't pick out the words exactly, save one all-too-familiar word.

"Arathorn!" someone was yelling as another rider came into view.

 

[Traveler]

“Is it dead?” The man reached out and pulled the stout body over to it’s back, another man nearby at the ready with a bow in case it was a trick. “It looks dead.” Water gushed from the mouth, but the pale, bearded face remained still. Its flesh was cold, and there was no indication of how long it had floated in the frigid river before coming to rest along the rocky banks.

“What’s a dwarf doing out here all alone?”

“Drowning, it seems.” The first elven rider cast disinterested eyes at the body. His dark hair reflected the moonlight, looking nearly blue underneath the stars.

Beside him, a tall and stalwart elven man seemed to have a different view of the situation. His bright, pale blue eyes washed over the dwarf. He knelt to investigate the still body, his golden hair falling to one side of his shoulders. A glimmer of gold and red at the dwarf’s neck caught his eye and he reached in to pull out a golden chain. On the end dangled a deep orange stone, wrought with intricate wirework. The elf made a small sound in the base of his throat.

As they paused under the moonless night sky another rider approached. “There’s a dead troll further upriver,” the rider reported breathlessly. “With this in its back.” He held up a dwarven axe, sharp crescent head on one side, wicked pick on the other, its handle tipped with a sharp, three-bladed knob.

The golden-haired elf moved a hand over the dwarf’s face and pulled open an eyelid. “His eyes are still clear,” he noted, then pressed two fingers against the thickened neck. “He’s…alive.” He motioned to some others beside him to assist in turning the dwarf onto his side. “The water was cold, he might be revived.”

“Our efforts are best spent elsewhere,” the dark-haired man argued.

“Do not. He is a friend of elves and of the line of Durin.”

“How do you know this, Glorfindel?” Despite his disagreement, he bent to help the other with their river find.

“He wears an amulet I’ve seen among Thranduil’s people. It was given as a gift,” as he spoke, his hands worked to expel the river from the stout one’s lungs.

“And how do you know he didn’t steal it?”

“He’s still alive, isn’t he?” Glorfindel grinned crookedly at the other. “Thranduil does not tolerate thieves.” With that, he gave a final push, and the man beneath his hands began to weakly cough. He also began to tremble violently, murmuring something through his blue lips that sounded like “C-co-col-cold…”

The trio loaded up the living but miserable dwarf on the back of one horse, making sure to bring his axe along as well, and rode to narrow gorge of Bruinen where Rivendell awaited. There was much curiosity about a dwarf found in the river, for their dislike of water was widely known. Even more curious was the third rider’s report of finding its axe in a troll; any dwarf crazy enough to attack a troll, and ferocious enough to kill it, was already finding much favor among the elves of Rivendell.

Orin woke frequently, then quickly fell asleep. He couldn’t get warm enough, though they built a robust fire and wrapped him in dry, thick cloth made from the softest wool. He felt as if his very bones had turned to ice. He dreamt of Maerwyn, of meeting her in the Gilded Lantern. Of her smile, her wit, her sharp-edged tongue and the way she looked at him that night when they had both drank too much and they sought each other out in the darkness of his mother’s cavern guest room. He reached out for her as he slept, fitfully grasping at the blankets that bound him.

When a soft hand caressed his forehead, and a woman’s voice told him it was okay, he struggled to stay awake long enough to see her. He feared the troll had friends, and they would come for his Maerwyn. At first the woman thought he was delirious, and perhaps he was. He shuddered in the blankets, speaking of ‘Maer’ and ‘Arag,’ until he could finally get the next syllables out. When he was able to speak the name ‘Aragorn,’ the woman tending him had stiffened and then lifted his head enough to get a strong, bitter drink down his throat. Once that burning subsided, Orin was finally able to tell her what she needed to hear.

Early in the morning, Llamiryl, the healer who had taken over their unexpected guest’s care, sought out the three riders. Upon seeing her, Glorfindel grew concerned that their ‘little fish’ had gotten worse. She saw his concern and shook her head. “He’s doing well,” she said in her lilting, musical voice, “but he is insistent that we go look for his companions.” She rested a slender hand on the other’s arm. “He says that he was traveling with a woman…Maerwyn. And that they were with Arathorn, and he is gravely injured.”

“Are you sure?” His head jerked slightly at the thought that the ranger was injured. If so, it meant that he encountered a great danger, which might mean that it was heading their way.

She nodded. “He described Rhawnaur as well, though the poor lad’s in and out, he was clear as day when he spoke of them,” she confirmed. “Please, could you –“

“I will tell the Dúnedain. We will ride out immediately,” he promised.

Orin had finally slept, and when he woke he felt like all the capillaries in his body were warmed unnaturally so. With a bit of embarrassment, he realized he was completely bare underneath the coverings. His clothes and armor laid nearby, cleaned and oiled, along with his beloved axe. His body ached. Every breath he took felt like it was stinging the insides of his lungs, it reminded him of the time he had accidentally walked through a fire ant colony.

Agonizingly he dressed, though he fell asleep halfway through and woke to find a cup of warm tea and a few small slices of fruit and pastries nearby, presumably left there for his sake. “Llamiryl?” Where was everyone? He picked up a piece of sweetened bread and made his way through the arched doorway onto the wide balcony beyond. As he took in the grandeur of the city his heart felt like it was expanding. The trees arched above, creating a ceiling of green. Dappled light shone through and danced on the forest floor like light shining through water.

He saw a few people in the city, or in the parts of it that he could see from where he stood. Then he noticed that many were moving towards the east. Orin’s heart leaped. They might have found Maerwyn! He hurried back to the room, pulled on his boots, and then tried to find the right path to go downstairs. The damned city was like a maze, and the rooms and stairs wound around the great trees like a crazy web, intersecting and going off to directions that didn’t make any sense. How in the heck was he supposed to get down there when the down stairs rope bridge actually led up?

 

[Shiva the Cat]

The sounds of the elvish tongue instinctively made Maerwyn tense and position herself in front of her horse, fingers brushing the hilts of both her swords, but as the riders approached she realized with some surprise that they weren't elves at all, but three tall men dressed similar to the wounded Ranger at her back. The only elf among them was near the back of the party, shining golden and even taller than the grim-faced men, and even Maerwyn had to admit there was beauty both in his voice and his appearance as she dismounted and carefully approached the red stallion.

He certainly puts Thranduil to shame she mused, stepping aside at a gesture from Arathorn, who looked upon the new arrivals with a smile of relief and exhaustion. He said something to the elf in an accent and dialect that the Mirkwood-trained mercenary couldn't quite understand, although she picked out her own name a few times...and Orin's.

She shut her eyes a moment, the pain at even hearing his name piercing through her heart like a knife. She needed to leave, now. The though of bearing the pitying eyes of the elves and Rangers alike even for a day was too daunting to bear. The search party was busy gathering around the wounded man, they would never notice if she slipped away. Maerwyn had the foresight to carry both her own pack and Orin's, heavy as it was, and while she would be sorry to lose the use of Rhawnaur it would just be easier to continue her search farther downstream.

But before she could slip away, she felt a hand on her shoulder. One of the Rangers, a slightly older looking gentleman with threads of gray in his hair and notably large gray eyes, was gesturing towards a riderless white mare waiting patiently with the rest of the horses.

"You're Maerwyn, are you not?" he said in the common tongue. "We've brought a horse for you. Do you need anyone to help you up?"

Her eyes flashed a moment as she observed the creature, pondering how difficult it would be to mount her and simply take off farther down the river before the rest of the party knew what had happened. Surely the elves wouldn't miss one little horse...but no. Hadn't she told Orin she wasn't a thief anymore?

Shaking her head, Maerwyn turned her back on the Ranger. "No thank you, sir, that won't be necessary. I'm glad you've come to collect your comrade, but I've no business of my own in Rivendell. If it's all the same, I'll be on my own way now."

The man tilted his head curiously. "We've come to collect both of you, mistress. The dwarf seemed particularly insistent that we find you, even more than Lord Arathorn."

Maerwyn's entire body froze mid-stride. What? She couldn't move, couldn't speak. Her mind was busy trying to comprehend what the Ranger had just said. Sensing her difficulties, the man put both hands firmly on her shoulder. "Mistress Maerwyn? Are you all right?" Turning over his shoulder, he began to call out to his friends in elvish, the sound of which was just grating enough to break the spell and tear the woman free from his grasp.

"Did you say a dwarf sent you? What dwarf? Where is he?" she gasped.

"Orin, of the line of Durin," said the elf with a rather knowing look in his eyes as he approached. "We pulled him from the river late last night. He is now resting in the House of Elrond, and as of this morning he was alive and well. But whether he will remain so if his lady fair does not return to his side, I cannot say. The hearts of dwarves are peculiar things," he added with a hint of a smile.

No man or elf among the party ever saw a woman mount a horse so quickly. Nor did Maerwyn wait for guidance as to the proper path to take. She merely forded her way across the wide stony bottom of the Bruinen, growling "Minno bar you damned elf nag, minno bar!" in the horse's ear. The elf was quickest to follow her, leaving the Rangers to tend to their companion, and it was only by his passwords that she was allowed to pass through the gates of Rivendell, much to the bewilderment of the golden-armored guards.

"Where is he?" the mercenary snapped when she dismounted in the courtyard, eyes glaring accusingly towards the golden elf at her side, as though he might have been responsible for concealing the dwarf from sight. Glorfindel merely chuckled in response as he slipped gracefully down from his own horse, raising one hand towards an elevated walkway behind the woman's shoulder.

Whirling around, Maerwyn could just make out the short, broad form of a figure standing above her looking as lost and bewildered as she had been, with the afternoon sun glinting off a familiar gem resting against his chest.

"You son of a...Orin Indrafangin! Get your ass down here this instant!" shrieked the woman through the hallowed and respected court of Elrond's city. "I'm going to wring your neck for frightening me like that. You are the WORST mercenary I have ever worked with! You were just supposed to cut the bastard's hamstring and knock him in, not jump in yourself! When I get my hands on you--!"

But despite her rage and her screams, she was smiling, and when she finally did get her hands on the dwarf it was to pull him tightly against her chest. Though when she wound her fingers in his hair to pull his head back and kiss him fiercely, she probably did jerk him just a bit too hard for comfort. Then again, from the expressions on the onlookers' faces, it was also quite possible they were the most uncomfortable of all at this bizarre expression of affection between a human and a dwarf.

 

[Traveler]

He found himself on another balcony, this one seeming to be higher than the last. As his stout, strong hands grasped at the banister he leaned over and saw a returning group on horseback. At its head was a fiery woman on horseback, urging her elven mount to go faster.

It was Maerwyn. They found her!

“Maerwyn!” He shouted. He waved his arms at her, his bearded face in a wide, pale-skinned grin. He felt giddy at her presence.

"You son of a...Orin Indrafangin! Get your ass down here this instant!" shrieked the woman through the hallowed and respected court of Elrond's city.

He looked over the rail. Surely she didn’t mean for him to jump? No…she didn’t mean that, just as she—

"I'm going to wring your neck for frightening me like that. You are the WORST mercenary I have ever worked with! You were just supposed to cut the bastard's hamstring and knock him in, not jump in yourself! When I get my hands on you--!"

Thankfully an elven youth caught Orin’s eye, and waved at him to follow the willow-legged boy. He sprinted after him, not caring how they were getting to the ground, and when he finally made it to her Orin felt out of breath. He had just died, after all. He stood there, goofy grin on his face, and tried to pant her name. Instead he found himself wrapped up in her arms and pulled against the guide.

And then she kissed him.

And then he kissed her back, wrapping his arms around her if only to keep himself upright.

“Maerwyn, they found you!” He finally gasped. His eyes glittered with delight. “And…Arathorn?” He glanced around her and saw the ranger being tended to by his companions. He was alive. Orin’s eyes were again drawn to his guide. He had so much to tell her!

“I died and they brought me back! They said that the cold water helped me,” he wanted to tell her everything. “They said that the troll died too! And they found my axe!” His smile wouldn’t go away. His eyes roamed over her, checking for injuries. “And you? Are you okay? I’m so sorry about the river thing, I really didn’t mean to go into the river too. I just got stuck,” he tried to explain. “And then it was so cold and then the water was everywhere. I really need to learn to swim,” he concluded. “Except my armor is kind of heavy for that kind of stuff.”

Approaching the two was the tall, golden elf who seemed to command so much respect from the others even without asking for it. “Friends, let us get you to a place of rest. A bath, food, some sleep. Then we will talk. You’ve brought our brother home, we owe you our thanks.”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

He was firm and solid as ever in her arms, and the lingering fear and grief of the day immediately evaporated as his beard brushed against her cheeks. True, his face was paler than usual as he pulled away, but there was the same old light in his eyes, and he was speaking energetically of his own adventures since their parting late last night. Shut up you idiot Maerwyn thought, shaking her head and smiling as she watched him chatter away, as though he'd gone nowhere more exciting than the local village market. Shut up and just let me watch you in silence.

But she was quickly becoming aware that she and the dwarf were far from alone, and it only took a quick glance around the courtyard to notice the assortment of men and elves (mostly elves) all staring at her abashedly. "What, never seen a woman kiss a dwarf before?" she muttered to herself, returning to the borrowed horse to retrieve Orin's pack. "Here, you forgot this as well. I should have left it where it was and made you go get it yourself, for all your carelessness," the woman snapped as she dropped it before the dwarf's feet. "Next time just try not climbing on the troll, hm? I think that'll save you the most trouble of all."

Thankfully at that point the arrival of Arathorn and his men was enough to temporarily draw attention away from Orin and herself, and Maerwyn noted with some amusement that she wasn't the only woman glad to be reunited with her man. As soon as Arathorn had dismounted his horse, a tall, queenly-looking woman embraced him closely, while a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen looked anxiously onward. She was about to ask the Ranger who the pair were when her elvish escort from earlier blocked her path, flanked on either side by a pair ethereally beautiful elf maids dressed in silvery green gowns.

“Friends, let us get you to a place of rest. A bath, food, some sleep. Then we will talk. You’ve brought our brother home, we owe you our thanks,” the male elf said, while the girl to his right bowed deeply to the woman and dwarf.

"We've prepared a room for you already, mistress, next to Master Orin's," she explained, her face almost silver beneath her sweeping mane of raven hair. But her innate grace did seem a little disturbed as the elf glanced from Maerwyn to Orin. "We...we weren't aware of the nature of your relationship, otherwise we would have arranged for something larger, but we do have a bath ready--"

"Say no more, lass," Maerwyn cut off, raising a hand. "I'm angry at him for his foolhardiness anyway--" though a wicked sparkle in her eyes hinted that her rage wasn't all that serious. "--and a bath sounds divine. Lead on, miss...?"

"Gonodril, mistress. And this is my sister, Hwinthel," the maiden said, gesturing towards the other elf, who was nearly identical to her save for having bright green eyes, while Gonodril's were a serene blue.

Hwinthel curtsied again then looked back at Orin. "Supper is ready in your room, Master Orin, if you're hungry."

Glorfindel grinned and rested a hand on each of the guests' shoulders. "I think you two should be in capable hands from here on out. I've asked these ladies to look after your needs while you remain with us. Should you ever need my assistance as well, they always seem to know right where to find me," he added with a wink back at the sisters, then departed to assist with Arathorn's care.

The elven sisters led their guests back to a more secluded corner of the house, parting ways only to show Orin back into his own room, and Maerwyn into hers. Despite being bright and airy, with a stunning view of the Bruinen tumbling majestically over the cliffs above the valley, it was warm as well, and she could see steam rising up from behind a beautifully painted screen before the fire.

"I shall have some fresh clothes delivered immediately, and some refreshment as well, if you like" Gonodril remarked pleasantly as she gestured for Maerwyn to set aside her pack. "The bath is just on the far side of that screen. Is there anything else I can get you for the moment?"

Maerwyn was already removing her armor and swords, and paused just as she was reaching for the bottom of her shirt. "Yes..." she said slowly. "In about fifteen minutes, can you tell Orin to come in here? I should be done by then."

Gonodril narrowed her eyes ever so slightly, then shrugged. "As you wish," she answered, slipping out the door.

 

[Traveler]

This had turned out better than Orin could have imagined. Despite his chilling encounter with the giant they had all made it to Rivendell. However did Maerwyn manage the ranger, he might never know, but he had no doubt that it was one part strength and one part pure stubbornness. Orin’s eyes glinted in delight, despite his still sallow complexion, that they were so well-received in the elven city. It was possible the situation would have been completely different had they arrived empty-handed.

It wasn’t until the pretty elven women blushed at mentioning the ‘nature of (their) relationship’ that he realized how awkward everyone else must be feeling. A human and a dwarf? The only thing more horrendous, possibly, would be an elf with one of his kind, and he felt a flush of shame as he realized that his mother’s marriage (gasp!) to one of the long-lived Children of Ilúvatar would possibly be enough reason for those in Rivendell to cast them out on their sore behinds.

“Aye, I’m hungry,” he answered Hwinthel. “Thank you, you’ve all been…beyond kind to us.” Manners and decorum were probably best practiced from here on out. He was terrified of what would happen if they inadvertently offended their hosts, and as Glorfindel’s strong hand rested on his shoulder he couldn’t help but flinch. Then she smiled, sheepishly, at the golden-haired warrior. “Thank you,” he said again, swallowing thickly.

As he walked, his disobedient stomach grumbled its impatience at being fed. He pressed a hand over it, then regretted that move since it reminded him of his bruised ribs, and followed the elven sisters up the stairs, around several corridors, until they finally reached their rooms. He gave Maerwyn a shy smile as he disappeared into his own room several doors down from hers. His window looked to the direction opposite what hers had, yet the view was just as lovely. Orin walked to the edge of the rail-less balcony and looked over the city, awed at the beauty crafted by elven and human hands.

His attention was quickly diverted by the scents coming from the delicate-looking table near the window, set with bread, a warm thick broth, and a plate of quick-steamed vegetables. However the elves were able to come to have fresh vegetables now was a mystery to him, but the dwarf was eager to sit and indulge. He sipped at the hot tea, delighting in the hint of honey and spice in it, and then made short work of devouring all that was set before him. As he was wiping his mouth with the back of one sleeve, a tentative knock at the door drew his attention.

Orin pulled the door open, expecting to see Maerwyn. Instead, the raven haired elven lady with the serene brew eyes.

“Master Indrafangin, your, ah…lady wished me to ask you to go by and see her,” she offered. A blush crept up along her neck and cheeks.

“Oh,” his mouth remained in a surprised ‘o’ for a moment longer. “Thank you…” Whatever could she want besides a bath, food, and rest? He couldn’t imagine that she was very pleased with him at the moment. Perhaps she wanted to end their employment arrangement, deciding that he was too much trouble than the money was worth. He really couldn’t blame her, though it would send him into a tumbling abyss of despair, he was sure.

A few seconds later he was rapping his thick knuckles against Maerwyn’s door. The door knob reached nearly his chin, and though he appreciated all the elves had done, he did wish that they had a few bits of furniture catered to his height. He had to nearly hop up on the chair, and he realized with the clarity that hindsight had given him that poor Haldavar had to deal with furniture that was much to stout for his frame at his mother’s house. The only table that was elven scaled was the stool and table where the aloof archer had crafted those arrows. Perhaps, then, that was love – to set aside your wants for the needs of another…

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Maerwyn had thought it impossible that any bath could have been lovelier than what she'd experienced in Havus' hot spring cave, but the elves were certainly proving tough competition. No matter how long she luxuriated in the neck-deep tub, the water never seemed to grow any cooler, and Gonodril had even taken the liberty of adding a few sweet-smelling flower petals to further ease the mercenary's aching muscles. Soap and a soft-bristled brush were near at hand, and it took minimal effort to scrub away the sweat and grime that caked the woman's limbs from her long journey over the mountains.

Only one thing would have made the situation complete, and she could hear his heavy footsteps approaching just after she dunked her head under the water, soaking her hair all the way through.

"Orin?" the mercenary called out languidly from behind the screen. "That you? I'm over here."

A little smile crossed her face at the impropriety of the situation. What in the world would the elves think if they knew she had all but invited the dwarf to view her naked (well, naked beneath the water level anyway) body? From what Maerwyn had seen during her brief years in Mirkwood, elf men and women barely touched each other before marriage, and even afterwards only did so with the goal of conceiving children. Maybe it was for the best after all that things didn't work out with Thilion she thought, absentmindedly stroking her breast. I couldn't have stood it if he only ever wanted to--

Wait, why was she even thinking about Thilion right now? Orin was right there, and he certainly didn't have any elvish reservations about laying with her. Flushing a little, she turned her head over her shoulder and pulled aside her sopping mass of hair, exposing her white, smooth shoulders.

"I don't suppose you could help me wash my back?" she asked, the coquette in her voice hopefully hiding the guilt in her eyes as she looked back towards the fire. "I figure it's the least you can do to pay me back after scaring me half to death like you did."

Maerwyn was silent a few moments as she stared at the fire, recalling her grief of the morning and afternoon through a curious distance now. In a way, the idea of losing Orin had almost been worse than losing Thilion, and not just because the dwarf was a better fuck than the elf was. Orin seemed to understand her better than anyone, even coming to her on a whim like this when called. Suddenly his words to Arathorn from yesterday rang out in her mind again:

Looks like that horse isn’t yours after all, my love.

Regardless of whether or not Orin truly loved her (Maerwyn couldn't help but remember how much he had "loved" Dís at the start of their journey, and note how that had played out), it was still more than what Thilion had ever felt, and the mercenary knew for a fact she had loved the elf despite his indifference towards her. Did that mean then that all her sorrow at the idea of losing Orin meant she loved him as well?

"What do you think of Rivendell so far?" Maerwyn suddenly asked, desperate to drive the questions from her mind. "Is it everything you dreamed it would be? Get a chance to look at the forges yet? Didn't catch sight of them when I was coming through.." Dammit, why was she rambling now? She was never like this. Stars but she needed a drink.

Without warning, she suddenly rose out of the water to her feet, sending a fair amount splashing onto the stone floor before the fire. Eyes darting around desperately for any sign of a cloth to dry herself with, they instead locked with Orin's gaze, and like a dream she could remember the first time she was naked in front of him. The way her scars had burned on her body, the vulnerability and shyness that had suddenly overwhelmed her. Even now her hands were inclined to cover herself, but instead Maerwyn gestured towards where a stack of thick cotton cloths were neatly folded beside the screen.

"H-hand me one of those?" she stammered, suddenly feeling colder as the little drops of water began to roll down her skin.

 

[Traveler]

He came into her room at her beckoning, surprised that she didn’t lock the door. She always locked her door. Perhaps it was because they were in Rivendell; the city was one of the safest he’d ever been in, and he couldn’t see any worry of elves stealing their things. Everyone knew how much they hated thievery.

That brought to mind Maerwyn’s problems with Thranduil, and made Orin blush that he remembered her issues with theft.

‘Bygones,’ he told himself. ‘Maybe they shouldn’t have given the elves her real name,’ he worried.

He found her behind an ornate screen, and when he came around saw that she was comfortably bathing. His eyes happily roamed over every hill and valley he could see through the water, unabashed at appreciating the view her bath afforded. “I’d be delighted to help you wash your back,” he said, happily pushing up his sleeves as he went to stand behind her tub. He settled in and began to wet a small towel, then took care in drawing it across her well-toned shoulders.

“If it’s any consolation, I scared myself all the way to death,” he chuckled. “Every day now is a gift.” He lovingly wiped her neck and arms, first her left side, then her right, just content to be at her side.

Or her back.

He could imagine long years like this. They’d enjoy quiet dinners together, warm cozy nights, invigorating adventures…it would be perfect. It was almost everything that he could ask for in life. The serene atmosphere in that room lulled him into a trance that was broken when Maerwyn suddenly asked about Rivendell. "Is it everything you dreamed it would be? Get a chance to look at the forges yet? Didn't catch sight of them when I was coming through..."

“I haven’t seen much of it—” he began to say. Then he was splashed with warm water as she stood up. He wondered if something had happened. Looking into the water (in case a snake had suddenly appeared), then out the window, and finally up at Maerwyn, he couldn’t see anything that should have startled her. He could feel the warm water seeping into his shirt and britches where it had splashed, then down his boots to pool around his feet. Orin blinked dumbly. Was she made that he hadn’t seen much of Rivendell yet?

Maerwyn gestured towards where a stack of thick cotton cloths were neatly folded beside the screen. "H-hand me one of those?" she stammered.

“Of course,” he sloshed to retrieve two towels, one that he handed to her for her body, the other for her hair. “Are you okay? You…I thought something in the water had bitten you,” he used his free hand to squeegee water from his clothes. He decided to turn the question back on her. “What do you think of Rivendell? They’re much nicer than the other ones I’ll bet.”

He paused in his yammering and looked deeply at her. “Are you…are you doing okay?”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

The towel was softer than the usual scratchy woolen kind she was used to borrowing at taverns, but then again Rivendell could hardly be compared with the smoky roadhouses where Maerwyn usually found shelter. Assuming she could afford it, of course. As she wrapped the thick cotton around her torso, content to let her hair continue sopping down her back, she mused at the fortune that the elves could have made charging their visitors for such elegance and comfort. Surely they were bigger fools than she had even guessed to simply offer all of this freely to her.

Ah, but then again, they had given the elves something of value, hadn't they?

"Do you suppose Arathorn's all right?" Maerwyn asked, completely ignoring her own previous awkwardness and Orin's questions about her well-being. "He was looking a bit rough when they brought him in. Then again, I suppose if the elves can bring a dwarf back to life after drowning, they can probably patch up a Ranger with a few holes in him."

She was trying to keep the tone light, but the mention of Orin's close call yet again brought those strange, swirling feelings to the front of her mind. Damn it, why couldn't he have just thrown himself at her the minute she stood up in the water? A good toss on the huge, inviting bed would probably be enough to drive the thoughts out of her mind and send her into an obliviating sleep afterward. But the dwarf just kept watching her with that annoyingly tender look on his face, as though he was seeing right past her naked flesh, into the frightened and confused soul underneath.

"I need a drink," the mercenary muttered, finally noticing a table on the far side of the room set with assorted fruits and leafy vegetables, as well as a loaf of herb-smelling bread and a small decanter of wine. Making sure the towel was still tucked tightly around her, she poured a hearty amount into a goblet that was woefully small by her standards, and noticed with displeasure that while the liquid was certainly sweet, it was hardly stronger than the grape juice Dalish parents might give their children. For all his faults, at least Thranduil knows a proper wine, the woman thought as she remembered stolen draughts of Dorwinion, and setting the goblet down in misery she turned to the window to take a deep breath of the fragrant evening air.

The lanterns of Rivendell were beginning to illuminate the growing dark, and she could hear singing coming from some farther hall beyond. The rough translation in her head told Maerwyn it was something about the end of summer and the coming bounty of autumn, and something in her subconscious reminded her that many of the trees she'd seen since coming down from the mountains were already beginning to turn. If she were in the busier parts of the world, there would be no trouble finding work, what with all the farmers and merchants needing to protect the profits brought back from the bustling markets.

Here though, where people were willing to feed you, shelter you, and even clothe you (Maerwyn noticed a pale green nightgown and robe laid out for her on the bed, and immediately set about dressing) for free, she had a feeling paid work would be harder to come by within the sheltered valley. That meant winter would be hard unless they made the long journey south to the Gap of Rohan and turned their trail back east, to the more populous and conflict-ridden lands of the east. Though, she supposed, they could always stay here through the winter...

Wrapping the silky robe more tightly around herself, Maerwyn picked up her wine again and settled into a bench by the window. "Whatever your business here is, Master Dwarf, I recommend you get a good night's sleep tonight and set about it first thing in the morning," she said gruffly, raising the goblet to her lips again. "Rivendell might be prettier than Mirkwood, and the people are certainly more polite, but it's still no place for the likes of me. I'd rather not stay here any longer than I have to."

A thought occurred to her then, and her expression brightened a little. "Perhaps in the morning, I might be able to borrow a horse and see how far we are from the Forsaken Inn. There's usually shady folk with a few spare coins jingling about there..."

 

[Traveler]

“I think that now that Arathorn is here, he will be alright,” Orin answered. “You got him here, Maerwyn. That was the important part.” He looked on her with admiration. “If you hadn’t done so we wouldn’t be here. All this,” he waved a soggy arm to take in the room, is because of you.”

He took a few steps towards her as she wrapped the towel around herself and seemed to be deep in thought. Perhaps a deep sleep snuggled up beside her would help her to feel more at ease. But just as he was about to suggested it, she said that she needed a drink. Then he watched, uninvited, as she poured herself a hearty glass and downed it.

And for some reason, Orin felt like he was not a welcome guest at her table. He watched her back, then looked at the second towel in his hand and then began to dab again at his clothing. She seemed to be looking everywhere but at him. Orin watched her with troubled, earth brown eyes as she took in the sight from beyond her window and then went about dressing herself, never once glancing his way with a look of invitation or acknowledgement.

‘Is that what I am now? Her towel holder?’ He stole a glimpse of her as he shimmed into her pale green nightgown. Something had changed between them. As he watched her slip on the matching robe, then curl herself by the window, he realized that whatever that something was…it hurt.

"Whatever your business here is, Master Dwarf, I recommend you get a good night's sleep tonight and set about it first thing in the morning," she said gruffly, raising the goblet to her lips again.

He frowned.

She knew his business here. Why was she acting like she did not? And what was this about a good night’s sleep, as if he would sleep apart from her especially now that they had soft beds and a safe roof around them? Or…

Another pang struck his chest and throat as the thought grew in his heart. Perhaps she was ashamed of him now that the beautiful people of the elven kingdom were around them. Perhaps he was merely a pastime until something better presented themselves, and though he could not refute the fact that she had greeted him heartedly, this was not a heartfelt conversation at all.

Not nearly close.

"Rivendell might be prettier than Mirkwood, and the people are certainly more polite, but it's still no place for the likes of me. I'd rather not stay here any longer than I have to."

“But—”

A thought occurred to her then, and her expression brightened a little. "Perhaps in the morning, I might be able to borrow a horse and see how far we are from the Forsaken Inn. There's usually shady folk with a few spare coins jingling about there..."

“What? Are you saying that you are going to look for work?” The towel dropped from his shocked fingers. Orin took several steps towards her. A moment of panic gripped him. She was leaving. She was plotting her path away from his as quickly as possible. “Maerwyn. Just…” then he realized what he was about to say. ‘Just let me make arrangements for returning after you’ve grown old and died, and then I’ll go with you. I’ll run after you as eagerly as I ran off to find Dís’ so-called-dagger. I have no shame.’

He drew in a deep breath, then let it out as he felt the warm ache of defeat spread across his chest. She didn’t want him in her life, not the way he wanted her. She didn’t love him. How could she? He was neither the talented Aevar the fletcher, nor was he the golden-haired elven man she loved, Thilion. He was just a short, barely bearded dwarf. He was her client. Their drunken tosses in the hay were nothing more than a pastime. At worst they were times she used to secure that she would still get paid, and even though he had told her his purse was hers, she was still thinking of him as her client.

Nothing more.

“Well, I suppose I should go get that good night’s sleep,” he said, his voice falling. “Whatever you want to do is fine. We’ll leave here in three days’ time,” he shuffled towards the door, unbuttoning his shirt as he did. “And if you find a better hire before then, I will understand.” He reached her door and turned to glance back at the woman. His insides ached like lemon juice had been poured over his heart. “Enjoy your wine, Maerwyn. I’m glad you made it.”

He could feel the very heartstrings snapping within. All hope that they were anything more than they had started out to be had been banished, and he didn’t have the will to fight. And for some reason her suggestion that he get some rest, presumably alone, felt colder than the river could ever be.