The Green Witch
Chapter 1
“This forest feels… sick. As if a disease lies upon it. Is there no way around?” Bilbo asked, getting quite the eerie feeling from the bare branches that wormed their way out of the edge of Mirkwood.
“Not unless we go 200 miles north, or twice that distance… south,” Gandalf said ahead, investigating the Elvish gate.
All of the dwarves looked on at the dark woods with an uneasy feeling in their stomach. The good feelings they’d taken with them from Beorn’s house were drying up in the sight of the forest. Mirkwood truly delivered the promise of its namesake.
“I’d rather risk the North than face this treacherous lair,” Dwalin spat, having no time for elves, and even less time for things that made him uneasy.
The dwarves started muttering in agreement, all of them willing to do anything at the moment to avoid the darkness before them.
Loudly, Gandalf spoke above all the dwarves, interrupting their chatter and quarrels.
“And what does the leader of this company say?” Gandalf asked, eyeing Thorin and waiting for his decision. He had learned that arguing with 13 dwarves was a losing battle, and he had already taken them into Elven lands once. He couldn’t ask them to do it again, even if his better judgment said they would be safer in the forest than around it.
Thorin debated internally for a moment, looking from the wizard to his kin a few times.
“If 200 miles is all it will take to rid ourselves of this foul looking place, then I am of agreement of my brothers. I would not take the elven path through Mirkwood,” he said, steering his pony northward, and allowing his company to follow him. Gandalf scoffed at the stubborn dwarf, but knew there was to be no convincing them otherwise now. He looked down at Bilbo, who still stood beside the bearded wizard.
“Confounded dwarves and their despicable grievances!” he said to the hobbit, before walking back to his horse and climbing on top of it. It was settled. They were to go north instead.
***
It wasn’t long before they realized skirting the forest would only leave them open to enemies. Before they had reached the river that came down from Mount Gunduband, the company again heard the howling of Wargs on the foothills of the Misty Mountains. They urged their ponies forward, but the lands became more and more unfamiliar up ahead. Thorin dropped behind from the position as leader and let Gandalf ride his horse a league or so out in front of them. Fili was second in line, next to Dwalin, Kili held up the end, and the rest of them, dwarves and hobbit, made up the middle.
Gandalf rode on ahead as if he were in familiar territory. Which, for all intensive purposes, he was familiar with the territory, but he did not inform the dwarves of this. He found that the less he told them, the easier it was to make them follow him. Suddenly, he veered east, away from the river and mountains they’d been keeping steadily on their left. This told Thorin that he was, indeed, leading them somewhere after all.
“Where do you take us to, now?” Thorin shouted from behind, trying his hardest to catch up to the wizard. “Surely not another one of your wild, beastly friends!”
Gandalf slowed his horse and allowed Thorin to ride next to him. He looked down at the dwarf sternly from his horse.
“I would remind you of the kindness shown to you by Beorn and his “beastly” ways, using no more than the pony you ride now,” he said, putting an end to the dwarf’s complaining and kicked his horse further ahead.
Soon, after riding for some time east, they reached the river again, as it turns and runs south, flowing back into Mirkwood. There, in front of them, was a small cottage on the open plains. At least from afar it had looked small; actually when they finally reached the yard, it proved to be quite a large home indeed. It looked to be made partially of stone and partially of logs, something akin to that of a patchwork quilt, just on a much grander scale. There was a wide bridge, adorned with bright green and purple vines that stretched across the river, where the house was nestled. Facing the dwarves, on the southern side of the home was a large water wheel, steadily turning as the current pushed it forward. Behind the house one could hear a rooster crowing, causing other animals to stir. There on the west side, behind a short fence, stood two cows, both too preoccupied with the grass they were eating to lift their heads as they bellowed a long moo.
The horse and ponies took their riders across the bridge, and Gandalf steered them all to the right, where a large field lay, and a single, healthy looking horse galloped up to them, behind a fence. It was a beautiful golden brown, flawlessly groomed, with a black mane and tail, and black around his feet. Gandalf dismounted his horse and slowly, one by one, the dwarves and Bilbo started to do the same. Suddenly, there was deep baying coming from the house.
Out from, presumably, the chicken coop, trotted a humongous dog, the culprit of the barking. He was white, covered in black patches. His long legs brought him up to almost eye level with the dwarves, standing a good two or three inches above Balin and Bombur on just his four legs (on his hind legs he would have easily been the height of a grown man).
“Ah, Bartlebee,” Gandalf sighed, a smile stretched across his face. Thorin and the other dwarves relaxed the instinctive grip they had placed on their weapons at the sight and sound of such a beast.
The dog whined softly and his short tail whirred happily back and forth as he walked calmly up to the wizard. Gandalf bent and scratched behind his ears for a moment. Once through, the dog cautiously approached the dwarves, no doubt never having smelled their kind before.
“He’s quite friendly, I can assure you,” Gandalf told them as he watched their mistrusting faces grow apprehensively. Bartlebee strode up to Bombur, who was easily startled by animals. He sniffed the dwarf for a moment, stared him in the eye, tilted his head, and then, upon deciding the guest was welcome, slurped him right across the face. Kili, Fili, and Bofur broke into laughter as Bombur nearly fell over in surprise. The laughter was soon broken by a voice from the cottage.
“Mithrandir,” a woman said softly. A creak was to be heard when she let her front door swing shut behind her. She smiled broadly at the old wizard as she descended down her porch steps. “I had a hunch I would be expecting you. Though I must admit, your company was none too expected,” she said, eyeing the dwarves and Bilbo carefully.
“Eskamë,” Gandalf said, removing his pointed hat and giving a slight bow in the woman’s direction. Though, when she reached him she gripped his arms in a small embrace, welcoming her old friend. “I was hoping I would still find you here,” he spoke.
“Ah, yes,” Eskamë said, her voice dropping as her gaze fell onto the one dark wall of Mirkwood that could be seen on the southeast horizon. “Ever I dwell in the shadow of the wood I am meant to protect,” and she said it sadly, speaking of some former event that only she and Gandalf seemed to be familiar with.
“Gandalf, let us not trouble ourselves with elves anymore,” Thorin spoke up. Her ears were the first thing he, and the rest of them, had noticed when she stepped out of her home. While she was a bit short, only five or six inches taller than Thorin himself, there was no mistaking her elvish features. Her ears poked out of chestnut hair that cascaded down her back, curling naturally upwards at the ends. She wore several braids in it, though they were all short, all near the ends of her hair and each were adorned with a different jewel or stone at the bottoms. Her features were soft and elegant, as was her stature and voice. She wore black leggings underneath long black boots that came up past her knees. Above this she wore an emerald green tunic, patched and worn, but of a very strong cloth. This was dress-like in style and went well past her knees, though had a slit that ran up each of her sides to about her waist. Over this she wore a pitch-black cloak, looking to be of the warmest fabric, even causing a little envy among the dwarves, who were beginning the feel the cold evening of the North. She turned towards Thorin, a frown on her face and ice behind her green eyes.
“Thorin!” Gandalf exclaimed, but Eskamë held her hand up to Gandalf, walking over to Thorin, who puffed out his chest as she looked down upon him.
“Antolle ulua sulrim, Thorin, son of Thrain,” she hissed, and watched gleefully as the dwarf’s expression turned to confusion at the mention of his name. “It would behoove of you to silence yourself more often, if you are to truly become a king of dwarves. For I am no elf, and I do not take kindly to them either,” she said, turning away from the company and beginning to lead Gandalf’s horse to the stables. She turned back towards Thorin once more as he stood where she had left him, dumfounded though he tried not to look it.
“I am a witch.”
******
“Antolle ulua sulrim” = much wind pours from your mouth
“Not unless we go 200 miles north, or twice that distance… south,” Gandalf said ahead, investigating the Elvish gate.
All of the dwarves looked on at the dark woods with an uneasy feeling in their stomach. The good feelings they’d taken with them from Beorn’s house were drying up in the sight of the forest. Mirkwood truly delivered the promise of its namesake.
“I’d rather risk the North than face this treacherous lair,” Dwalin spat, having no time for elves, and even less time for things that made him uneasy.
The dwarves started muttering in agreement, all of them willing to do anything at the moment to avoid the darkness before them.
Loudly, Gandalf spoke above all the dwarves, interrupting their chatter and quarrels.
“And what does the leader of this company say?” Gandalf asked, eyeing Thorin and waiting for his decision. He had learned that arguing with 13 dwarves was a losing battle, and he had already taken them into Elven lands once. He couldn’t ask them to do it again, even if his better judgment said they would be safer in the forest than around it.
Thorin debated internally for a moment, looking from the wizard to his kin a few times.
“If 200 miles is all it will take to rid ourselves of this foul looking place, then I am of agreement of my brothers. I would not take the elven path through Mirkwood,” he said, steering his pony northward, and allowing his company to follow him. Gandalf scoffed at the stubborn dwarf, but knew there was to be no convincing them otherwise now. He looked down at Bilbo, who still stood beside the bearded wizard.
“Confounded dwarves and their despicable grievances!” he said to the hobbit, before walking back to his horse and climbing on top of it. It was settled. They were to go north instead.
***
It wasn’t long before they realized skirting the forest would only leave them open to enemies. Before they had reached the river that came down from Mount Gunduband, the company again heard the howling of Wargs on the foothills of the Misty Mountains. They urged their ponies forward, but the lands became more and more unfamiliar up ahead. Thorin dropped behind from the position as leader and let Gandalf ride his horse a league or so out in front of them. Fili was second in line, next to Dwalin, Kili held up the end, and the rest of them, dwarves and hobbit, made up the middle.
Gandalf rode on ahead as if he were in familiar territory. Which, for all intensive purposes, he was familiar with the territory, but he did not inform the dwarves of this. He found that the less he told them, the easier it was to make them follow him. Suddenly, he veered east, away from the river and mountains they’d been keeping steadily on their left. This told Thorin that he was, indeed, leading them somewhere after all.
“Where do you take us to, now?” Thorin shouted from behind, trying his hardest to catch up to the wizard. “Surely not another one of your wild, beastly friends!”
Gandalf slowed his horse and allowed Thorin to ride next to him. He looked down at the dwarf sternly from his horse.
“I would remind you of the kindness shown to you by Beorn and his “beastly” ways, using no more than the pony you ride now,” he said, putting an end to the dwarf’s complaining and kicked his horse further ahead.
Soon, after riding for some time east, they reached the river again, as it turns and runs south, flowing back into Mirkwood. There, in front of them, was a small cottage on the open plains. At least from afar it had looked small; actually when they finally reached the yard, it proved to be quite a large home indeed. It looked to be made partially of stone and partially of logs, something akin to that of a patchwork quilt, just on a much grander scale. There was a wide bridge, adorned with bright green and purple vines that stretched across the river, where the house was nestled. Facing the dwarves, on the southern side of the home was a large water wheel, steadily turning as the current pushed it forward. Behind the house one could hear a rooster crowing, causing other animals to stir. There on the west side, behind a short fence, stood two cows, both too preoccupied with the grass they were eating to lift their heads as they bellowed a long moo.
The horse and ponies took their riders across the bridge, and Gandalf steered them all to the right, where a large field lay, and a single, healthy looking horse galloped up to them, behind a fence. It was a beautiful golden brown, flawlessly groomed, with a black mane and tail, and black around his feet. Gandalf dismounted his horse and slowly, one by one, the dwarves and Bilbo started to do the same. Suddenly, there was deep baying coming from the house.
Out from, presumably, the chicken coop, trotted a humongous dog, the culprit of the barking. He was white, covered in black patches. His long legs brought him up to almost eye level with the dwarves, standing a good two or three inches above Balin and Bombur on just his four legs (on his hind legs he would have easily been the height of a grown man).
“Ah, Bartlebee,” Gandalf sighed, a smile stretched across his face. Thorin and the other dwarves relaxed the instinctive grip they had placed on their weapons at the sight and sound of such a beast.
The dog whined softly and his short tail whirred happily back and forth as he walked calmly up to the wizard. Gandalf bent and scratched behind his ears for a moment. Once through, the dog cautiously approached the dwarves, no doubt never having smelled their kind before.
“He’s quite friendly, I can assure you,” Gandalf told them as he watched their mistrusting faces grow apprehensively. Bartlebee strode up to Bombur, who was easily startled by animals. He sniffed the dwarf for a moment, stared him in the eye, tilted his head, and then, upon deciding the guest was welcome, slurped him right across the face. Kili, Fili, and Bofur broke into laughter as Bombur nearly fell over in surprise. The laughter was soon broken by a voice from the cottage.
“Mithrandir,” a woman said softly. A creak was to be heard when she let her front door swing shut behind her. She smiled broadly at the old wizard as she descended down her porch steps. “I had a hunch I would be expecting you. Though I must admit, your company was none too expected,” she said, eyeing the dwarves and Bilbo carefully.
“Eskamë,” Gandalf said, removing his pointed hat and giving a slight bow in the woman’s direction. Though, when she reached him she gripped his arms in a small embrace, welcoming her old friend. “I was hoping I would still find you here,” he spoke.
“Ah, yes,” Eskamë said, her voice dropping as her gaze fell onto the one dark wall of Mirkwood that could be seen on the southeast horizon. “Ever I dwell in the shadow of the wood I am meant to protect,” and she said it sadly, speaking of some former event that only she and Gandalf seemed to be familiar with.
“Gandalf, let us not trouble ourselves with elves anymore,” Thorin spoke up. Her ears were the first thing he, and the rest of them, had noticed when she stepped out of her home. While she was a bit short, only five or six inches taller than Thorin himself, there was no mistaking her elvish features. Her ears poked out of chestnut hair that cascaded down her back, curling naturally upwards at the ends. She wore several braids in it, though they were all short, all near the ends of her hair and each were adorned with a different jewel or stone at the bottoms. Her features were soft and elegant, as was her stature and voice. She wore black leggings underneath long black boots that came up past her knees. Above this she wore an emerald green tunic, patched and worn, but of a very strong cloth. This was dress-like in style and went well past her knees, though had a slit that ran up each of her sides to about her waist. Over this she wore a pitch-black cloak, looking to be of the warmest fabric, even causing a little envy among the dwarves, who were beginning the feel the cold evening of the North. She turned towards Thorin, a frown on her face and ice behind her green eyes.
“Thorin!” Gandalf exclaimed, but Eskamë held her hand up to Gandalf, walking over to Thorin, who puffed out his chest as she looked down upon him.
“Antolle ulua sulrim, Thorin, son of Thrain,” she hissed, and watched gleefully as the dwarf’s expression turned to confusion at the mention of his name. “It would behoove of you to silence yourself more often, if you are to truly become a king of dwarves. For I am no elf, and I do not take kindly to them either,” she said, turning away from the company and beginning to lead Gandalf’s horse to the stables. She turned back towards Thorin once more as he stood where she had left him, dumfounded though he tried not to look it.
“I am a witch.”
******
“Antolle ulua sulrim” = much wind pours from your mouth