The Wandering Elf

Ara had been packing and unpacking all night. Her bedchamber was in complete disarray, and her thoughts weren’t faring any better. What, precisely, did one bring on a journey to reconquer a fallen kingdom from a dragon? An extra pair of clothes? Shoes? A sodding blanket? She had a few throwing knives tucked away in her shirt, but besides that, she was at a loss.

“Heavens, Ara,” she groaned, sinking down to her knees. She dropped her head into her hands. “You haven’t a clue what you’re doing.”

She jerked her head back up a moment later when she heard the door of her chamber start to scrape open. Eyes wide, her heart began to pound with alarm. What if it was Elrond? How on earth would she explain this mess to him?

In a flustered panic, she quickly crawled to her door and slammed her back against the wood. She heard a surprised grunt.

“Sorry!” she called out breathlessly. “It’s just…I’m busy. Naked, actually! Yes, that’s it. I’ve just had a bath so now I’m quite naked. Come back later, please!”

The person in the corridor cleared his throat. “My dear girl,” a voice said, sounding incredibly uncomfortable. “That was more information than I cared to know.”

Ara creaked the door open just wide enough for her to peak through the crack with one eye. The sliver of light that escaped her chamber illuminated a bit of a gray robe.

“Gandalf?” she whispered incredulously. “What are you doing here?”

He glanced down at her, a long pipe dangling from his mouth. “I thought to advise you as to what you might require on your journey. Unless, of course, you do not need my help. We could discuss it out here in the hallway, if you’d like.”

The last bit was delivered with heavy, Gandalf-esque sarcasm, implying that Ara was acting especially foolish. Scrambling to her feet, she invited him inside. After a quick inspection of the darkened hallway to ensure that nobody else was creeping about, she gently shut the door.

“How did you know?” she asked. “I was trying to be stealthy about it!”

The smoke from his pipe lazily drifted up to the ceiling when he glanced at her from over his shoulder. “If you were half as stealthy as you think, you’d still be a great deal less stealthy than you are.”

Ignoring her indignant huff, he glanced down at the clothes and random items scattered about the floor. When he caught sight of the dozen or so brown satchels that were in various stages of packing, he raised his eyebrows.

“Did you imagine you’d be traveling with an army of ponies?” he asked. “Or did you think the dwarves would happily lug all this nonsense around for you?”

Shrugging, Ara sat on the corner of her bed. “I didn’t know what I would need, so I packed…everything.”

“You will choose one bag, and you will choose wisely. It will be difficult enough convincing Thorin to allow you to join his quest without your bringing all of Rivendell with you.”

Ara thought he’d started to scowl, but she couldn’t be sure since he almost always appeared to be scowling.

“Oh, no,” she moaned, her voice muffled, for she’d dropped her head into her hands once again. “I forgot about Thorin. How could I have forgotten about Thorin? I was going to rehearse what I was going to say to him, and I forgot! How will I get his approval now?”

“You are not going to say anything,” was the wizard’s immediate reply. “Your mouth moves far more quickly than your mind most times, and that won’t be any help at all. No, you will remain absolutely silent and let me do all the talking.”

Ignoring her indignation once again, he opened her door. “Come now, dawn is approaching and I do not want you to be left behind. Again, I ask you to choose one bag, and wisely.”

Disregarding his advice, Ara simply chose the one that appeared to have the most in it. “I’m ready,” she said, slinging the satchel over her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Gandalf merely stood in the doorway, regarding her in a way that suggested he was very seriously questioning her intelligence. “Aravanna,” he said slowly. “I advised you to make a wise decision, did I not?”

“Yes, and I did! I picked the one with the most supplies!”

“Supplies?” he repeated. “A hairbrush is a supply now, is it?”

She glanced down at her bag, and sure enough, the wooden handle of her hairbrush was poking out. She shoved it further in, ensuring it was completely concealed. “I couldn’t remember what I put in each bag,” she admitted sheepishly.

He glowered at her. “Do not tell Thorin that.”

So saying, he strode out of her room and down the hall. Sparing one last glance at all the things she was leaving behind, she followed. In his urgency, Gandalf seemed to forget that his legs were twice the length of hers, so she was very nearly sprinting to keep up. Her bag felt heavier with each step, throwing off her balance as she ran. It was quite an amusing sight to see, Ara stumbling after Gandalf as she was. Even more amusing was how, when Gandalf stopped suddenly, she was so focused on not falling that she didn’t notice. At the last second, she managed to twist and avoid slamming into Gandalf’s back, but she tripped over the fabric of his robe, ungracefully landing on her stomach with an oomph. Standing up and readjusting her satchel, she noticed all thirteen dwarves and Bilbo staring at her in silence.

Kíli elbowed his brother’s side. “Ten gold coins, pay up,” Ara heard him mutter.

Smiling, Ara greeted him with an enthusiastic hand-flail of a wave. Upon seeing Thorin’s eyes on her, she immediately hid her hand behind her back and took one big step closer to Gandalf.

“Gandalf, what is this?” Thorin said, stepping forward.

“Aravanna will be the final addition to your company,” replied the wizard.

Ara would be eternally grateful that Gandalf was speaking on her behalf, for if Thorin were to ever glare at her the way he was glaring at Gandalf, she’d melt into a puddle of terrified, cowardly goo at his feet.

“For what purpose? Are you to try and tell me she’s a burglar as well? Like your hafling?” He’d said it with no small amount of scorn, and perhaps it was wrong of her, but Ara found a small, selfish bit of comfort in knowing that she wasn’t the only one Thorin disliked.

“Her purpose is yet to be seen. All I know for certain is that Lady Galadriel has given Aravanna her blessing to join you, so join you she will.”

“What?” Ara and Thorin said simultaneously.

“She did?” Ara asked. She wasn’t even aware that Lady Galadriel knew who she was. “Why? How did she even know I was planning on going?”

“There are many things that even I, with all my knowledge, cannot explain, and Lady Galadriel’s mind is one of them.” Gandalf’s gaze shifted to Thorin. “I do know, however, that it would be very unwise for you to disregard her decision.”

Thorin’s jaw clenched and unclenched while he thought through all he’d heard. When he finally turned his attention to Ara, his blue eyes were so intense and so angry, she wanted to cower behind Gandalf. Quite honestly, she’d very happily climb into the wizard’s robes if it meant Thorin would just stop looking at her like that.

“You, girl,” the dwarf started.

“Ara,” she reminded him, her voice eight octaves higher than usual.

He ignored her. Circling her like she was prey (which is not too far off from how she felt), he demanded, “What is your weapon of choice? You are an elf, but you do not carry a bow. Sword, then?”

“T-throwing knives, actually.”

The dwarf called Dwalin snorted. He was big, for a dwarf, and had tattoos on the bald spot of his head. She’d say he was more intimidating than Thorin, if such a thing was possible. “Throwing knives,” he repeated. “What good are those in battle?”

None. That was the point, actually. She didn’t want to be in battle. If you recall, I told you she didn’t have the heart to kill anything up close, and I wasn’t lying. Not that she’d admit that to Thorin. Ever.

“What of moon runes,” Thorin asked her. “If we were to encounter moon runes, would you be able to read them?”

“Er…no,” Ara responded. “I haven’t reached that level in my lessons yet.”

Next to her, Gandalf released a deep breath, closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his staff. Ara hadn’t the slightest clue as to what she’d done wrong until Thorin said, “Lessons? How old are you, exactly?”

She peaked up at Gandalf, but as he looked like he might throttle her, she concluded he’d be no help at all. She considered lying, but when she saw the anger stirring in Thorin’s eyes like storm clouds, she changed her mind more quickly than she thought possible.

Deciding that lying to him would be like poking an irritable bear, she said almost inaudibly, “Twenty-six.”

The dwarves all began to mutter amongst themselves. Ara saw Fíli nudge Kíli so hard he almost toppled over.

“Twenty-six?” Thorin said. “Gandalf, you must be joking. I cannot bring her with us. She’s a child.”

“She can take my place,” chirped Bilbo. “I’ll stay here.”

“You will not be staying anywhere, Bilbo Baggins, except for the places Thorin and I guide you.” To Thorin, Gandalf said, “Stubborn as you are, you cannot be foolish enough to deny help when it is freely given. If Lady Galadriel believes Aravanna will be of use, then she will be of use.”

“Gandalf, she is an elf,” Thorin spat.

“All the better. In aiding you reclaim Erebor, she will be undoing the wrong that was done those many years ago. Believe me, Thorin Oakenshield, the only ill-will to be found here is that which you bring yourself!”

Thorin began to pace then, quickly and purposefully. Finally, when Ara worried he might leave permanent indentations in the ground, he spun back to Gandalf. “I do not guarantee her safety. If anything happens to her, it is your responsibility, not mine.” To Ara he snapped, “Keep up or you will be left behind.”

He didn’t wait for a response. With a shout to the rest of the company to gather their things, he strode out to the front of the group and began to lead them from the valley. With a sigh, Gandalf said, “That could have been worse, I think.”

Ara didn’t want to imagine how. She followed the dwarves, but upon noticing that Gandalf had yet to move, she stopped. “Are you not coming with us?”

“Not now, I’m afraid. I’ve more to discuss with the council. There have been…developments. I will meet with you in the Misty Mountains.” He placed his hand on her head. “Good luck, my dear. Be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?” She pretended not to see the skeptical look he gave her. “Farewell, Gandalf.”

She sprinted off after the dwarves. When she caught up to Balin and Ori, who were at the back of the troop, she grinned broadly.

“Don’t look so excited, lass,” Balin said, “This is a dangerous journey, especially for one so young.”

Even if he’d said it rudely, he wouldn’t have subdued her excitement. She was so filled with it she was practically skipping. He hadn’t said it rudely, though, just frankly; he’d merely intended to be completely realistic with her. Judging by his white hair and beard, Ara gathered he was the oldest of the dwarves. Remembering that Kíli had told he was the storyteller of the group, she asked, “Could you tell me the story of the Pale Orc? Kíli told me to ask you if I wanted to know more.”

Originally, she’d asked mainly to divert him from the subject of her age, but she found that she was actually very eager to know the answer.

Balin shot her a glance that said he’d noticed her not-so-discreet attempt at diversion, but he answered nonetheless.

“Kíli did, did he?” he said, shaking his head. “It was the battle of Azanulbizar, fought by the East-Gate of Moria years after Smaug destroyed Erebor. We’d come to seek refuge in Moria, but when we arrived, we discovered it had been overrun by a legion of orcs lead by the most vile of all their race: Azog, the Defiler. He’d sworn to wipe out the line of Durin, and started by beheading our King. Thráin, Thorin’s father, was driven mad by grief. He went missing, taken prisoner or killed, we did not know. We were leaderless. Death and defeat were upon us.”

Balin looked forward then, his eyes fixed on Thorin as he led the company father and farther from Rivendell.

“That is when I saw him,” he continued. “A young dwarf prince facing down the Pale Orc. He stood alone against this terrible foe, his armor rent, wielding nothing but an oaken branch as a shield. I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow, there is one I could call King. He cut off Azog’s arm, and sent him slinking back into Moria. Our forces rallied and drove the orcs back. Our enemy had been defeated, but there was no feast, no song that night, for our dead were beyond the count of grief. We few had survived.”

Ara didn’t think she’d ever see Thorin the same way again. To lose so much and then take up such responsibility…without intention, she felt herself soften a bit towards him. She promised she’d try to remember Balin’s story the next time Thorin was cross with her.

“Balin?” she said quietly, for the dwarf had grown quite somber. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Don’t apologize, lass,” he said, offering her a small smile that didn’t quite reach his solemn eyes. “Nothing to be done about it now.”

“All the same, I’m sorry still.”

She wanted that to be the last thing she said to him, really she did, but there was a question nagging her. Don’t ask it, she thought. Don’t. He’s not in the mood to—

“What happened to Azog?” she blurted.

The answer didn’t come from Balin, but instead from a voice by her ear that made her jump.

“Thorin killed him, o’course!” Kíli said proudly, though whether it was pride for his uncle or the fact that he’d successfully startled her, she couldn’t tell.

“Sent him back into the depths of Moria to die of his wounds,” Fíli added for good measure.

Ara frowned. Hadn’t Balin told her that Thorin had cut of the orc’s arm? That wasn’t necessarily fatal, was it?

Right as she opened her mouth to voice this thought, she caught the brothers smiling wickedly at each other. “What?” she said, instantly nervous. “What have you two done? Did you put an insect in my hair? Is there an insect in my hair!”

Her voice had gotten loud enough that the dwarves near the back of the company glanced over their shoulders at the three of them.

“No, no,” Kíli said to her, after assuring the other dwarves all was fine. “Fíli an’ I were just wonderin’ when you planned on tellin’ us you’re twenty-six.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she groaned. “I’ll never hear the end of this, will I? Twenty-six is not that young. Most elves are nearly mature at one! Mentally, at least…”

Fíli snorted and Kíli draped an arm over her shoulders. She nearly gagged at the smell of his underarms. Hadn’t he bathed just yesterday? Grimacing, she slipped out from under his arm. It didn’t faze him a bit.

“It’s young, lass,” he continued merrily, twisting an arrow about in his hands. “You’re practically an infant.”

“Aye,” Fíli agreed. “A babe, even.”

Irritated, she pathetically retorted, “How old are you, then?”

“Fíli’s just had his eighty-second birthday, and I’m seventy-seven,” said Kíli, and he sounded pretty damn chipper about it.

Dwarves had a lifespan of more or less two hundred and fifty years, so the brothers were young for their kind as well, though nowhere near as young as Ara.

She was youngest of the company by over five decades, she realized with dismay. Younger than Kíli. The thought agitated her more than she wanted to admit, so she mumbled very disgruntledly, “Shouldn’t the two of you be up front? Scouting or whatever it is that you do?”

Right before they left to resume their positions by Thorin, Ara heard Kíli’s voice, again right by her ear. “I’m glad you decided to join us,” he said, just low enough for her to hear.

With one last cheeky grin, he was off, laughing and joking with Fíli back to the front of the troop. Watching them go, Ara smiled as well. Her calves were already burning, and she was positive she’d chosen the wrong pair of boots to wear, but as she thought of all the adventures to come, she couldn’t deny that she was glad she’d joined them, too.