Saving Durin {Hobbit/Thorin}

Chapter 21: Push me one more time, I dare you

Chapter 21:

Push me one more time, I dare you

The ponies gallop mightily across the land despite their short legs and the hills lay out around us in beautiful waves of grain. The sun shines from the heavens and, despite the direct sunlight, the climate is pleasant for it is not orc-infested. Soon enough, we find ourselves at the gate to Mirkwood, wishing the ponies traveled slower. Gandalf dismounts his horse, making his way toward the decaying arch. If its condition foreshadows anything, the passage through this forest may be dreadful.

"The Elven Gate," he announces to the company. "Here lies our path through Mirkwood."

"No sign of the Orcs. We have luck on our side," Dwalin acknowledges, though he may be saying that too soon, for we only just arrived. Letting Thorin dismount first, I turn my head back around towards Beorn's territory, only to see the bear himself. He is watching our actions carefully, as we still lack in his trust.

The wind brushes its fingers through my tangled hair and makes my clothes swing out behind me. I wish for the return of Thorin, as his body and coat have kept me warm as of far. Slightly disgruntled, I dismount the pony as well, before grabbing my bag off its back.

"Set the ponies loose. Let them return to their master," Gandalf commands of the remaining dwarves. As they set to gathering their supplies, I thank my pony, nuzzling my face into its black mane. Without this animal's help, we may have been the orc's feast, so I am very grateful.

"This forest feels...sick, as if a disease lies upon it. Is there no way around?" I hear Bilbo say from behind me, speaking the words all of us were thinking. Just one look at the forest and I feel death. Its dark boroughs seem to drag both the innocent and guilty alike into its borders. My nostrils feed on its overwhelming sense of death, a stale and sickly smell of festering moss. As my eyes trace its endless borders, the trees repeat in endless patterns of maroon, siena, and midnight. There is no sound from the forest, no animalistic calls or even whistling winds. Dead silence. I now understand why it's called Mirkwood: it is ghostly and certainly not green.

"Not unless we go two hundred miles north, or twice that distance south," the wizard replies before approaching the statue marking the edge of the land. I turn away from Gandalf and the hobbit, my eyes finding Thorin feet away. I approach him slowly, as his back is turned to me. Knowing the chilling effect the forest is having on all of us, I take caution not to surprise him.

"All I feel is death, an overwhelming, screaming, putrid death," I tell Thorin as I walk into his line of vision, "There are no calls from one mate to another, nor the sound of small rabbit feel on the thickened roots of willows. It is forcing a chill upon us all, this I feel, and I fear we will succumb to its ghastly fingers."

The King pulls me into his chest for comfort. Though it is nearly impossible to find any: I know he fears as well. It is hard to find comfort in the unknown, and Thorin knows this as well.

"I fear too, my darling Rue. We will need hope to survive this portion of our journey. I have hope for our future. I have hope for us. I have hope for my company. I have hope for the hobbit. I can only pray that this will be enough," Thorin says. I nod my head as it presses itself against his strong chest. His heartbeat, though heightened, gives me a sense of peace.

"Not my horse! I need it." Gandalf breaks us out of our trance in surprise and fight. He grabs the reins from Typhon as we all look on.

"You're not leaving us?" Bilbo asks, refusing to believe this twist in the plan.