TA2931

Since her father's passing, almost five years gone now already despite how fresh the loss felt, Bilba Baggins had found a sort of… displeasure in the holidays. It wasn't that they were not as wonderfully fun and full of exciting games and songs and dances, delicious foods to eat and friends to visit as they had once been—they were all of that and more, of course! And yet… it seemed that ever since dear Bungo had been returned to Yavanna's embrace, the feasts and fancies had only served to highlight his absence. More than once Bilba'd gotten caught up in the joy of the revels and turned to comment upon this hobbit's dress or that one's behavior to him, or to ask him for a dance… and found no more than empty space where she'd been so sure that a moment before he'd been standing, smoking away on his pipe and tapping a foot to the music while trying not to look too amused by it all.

Then whatever delight and energy had overtaken her would come crashing down, tumbling into the low valley of sadness again, and leaving her somber and quiet. The music which had played so cheerfully before would turn sour in her ears, achingly nostalgic, like the sight of a party through a window when you weren't invited in anymore. The first year or two she'd had to depart from the celebrations early, or else be caught weeping into her dinner plate. Neither course of action was really appropriately hobbity, but she was well accustomed to being the subject of the gossip mill, not to mention that such petty worries seemed small and simple compared to how deeply she missed her father at the time.

But as the years went on, the crippling, clutching sadness she felt slackened slightly, and once more she found the holidays tolerable, if not enjoyable. Something—someone—was always missing, and that much would always be true, but she was finding that life went on, like it or not. There was still work to be done, and songs to be sung, and though all of Hobbiton felt for the Baggins family's loss, they could not help but carry on with living, eventually catching up Bilba along with them in the flow. Time eased the pain until it was bearable most days, until it became a dull ache, all its sharp edges softened to roundness that no longer cut at her heart to inspect them, even if they were still weighty upon her soul.

There was no such relief for her mother. Belladonna of course took it even harder, though no one had expected her to do otherwise. Most days she barely left the smial, and more than once Bilba had been surprised to realize that the gossip about how odd "that Baggins" had become was meant about her ma, and not herself. Their income as well began to suffer—not that the Bagginses needed to pinch pennies, of course, but it still remained that what investments Bungo had made, what properties he had managed the tending of, were going a bit to seed. And the Bagginses were not the only ones relying upon the upkeep of those properties and agreements, which were now unhelmed without Bungo's hand upon the wheel. Belladonna had not even been able to bear entering into Bungo's study for nearly two years after he'd gone, and by necessity it had been Bilba in the end to pick up where he'd left off (and found some comfort after a fashion in continuing his work).

Bilba quickly found that while she could rouse her mother still, and at times things seemed almost normal and as they had once been in the home, Belladonna was still undoubtedly failing. She alone was not enough to hold her mother to life. In years before Belladonna would always be wheeling and turning, skipping and singing and dancing through life with Bungo at her side. Even when his health had begun to worsen, she'd thrived enough for the both of them for a very long while. But now, now with him gone, it was like all the spark of life had guttered out of the woman as well, leaving behind a hobbit who looked and felt and moved like she was much older than her seventy-nine years. She'd still smile for Bilba whenever she tried to amuse her, to coax some sign of energy and excitement from her; still watched her dance and listened to her songs… but Belladonna never danced herself, nor sang, nor went out of her way to socialize.

She was dying slowly, fading, some said—her broken heart bit by bit consuming her will to live.

Bilba, of course, refused to accept that. She would not let her mother go without a fight, and she began making every effort to get her moving, to slip a thread of life back into her and help shake off the chill grip of woe that had wound about her. She began to insist her mother come along for the shopping, or accompany her to inspect this bit of land or that crop's harvest. She accepted more invitations for them to tea, and sent out herself several, inviting over friends and family and even some of her more-tolerable, more-persistent suitors (with only a minor hesitation over giving them a sense of false hope), thinking that perhaps that might spur a response from Belladonna as it had done before. Ever she kept in mind an old saying of her father's, clinging to its wisdom like a lifeline—"Where there's life, there's hope."

But for all her efforts, more and more often came the days where Belladonna was unwilling to rise from her bed, staring up at the ceiling of the room with tears slowly tracking down from the corners of her eyes. Bilba would find her there when she did not appear for breakfast, and despite all her efforts, very often she could not rouse her mother for anything. It seemed the beginning of the end, and out of desperation (and with no little guilt for not thinking to do so before) she wrote to Lord Elrond to beg him for advice, if ever he had thought of her mother as an elf-friend. Fading was a mostly elven affliction, and though she was sure there were differences between that state and what had befallen her mother, in her dire need she thought that if nothing else he might have some sort of idea on what to do to prolong her life, or ease her suffering if that was all that was left to be done. She did not like thinking of that coming to pass, but at the same time she knew on some level that, were it herself who was now languishing alone without the other half of her heart… she would not want to remain longer than she needed to.

She sent her letter off with the swiftest of couriers, and even then spent many days wringing her hands beside the mailbox waiting for a reply. By the time one came it was nearly Lithe, and Belladonna was no better than before. Bilba all but tore the package—for a small parcel had been sent back along with a letter—from the mailman's hands, shredding it on the step as the other hobbit shook his head in wonder. The letter contained instructions, as well as condolences; the package held a few small bundles of well-dried leaves, twisted into little bundles which were meant to be steeped like bags of tea. The brew would, according to Elrond, do much to strengthen the body when food was too much for Belladonna to take in, as well as it should provide some amount of succor to her failing spirit. He also suggested that Bilba continue to sing to her mother, for music had ever been a sort of magic of its own sort, and her voice would be able to reach her mother even should Belladonna's other senses fail.

The tea he'd sent was made of a combination of two plants woven together in parts. The main of them she recognized as Kingsfoil, which was something of a small surprise to her, for the Shirefolk thought of it as little more than a weed. A moment later though that shock had faded, and a sense of understanding come flooding in. She ought to have thought of Athelas sooner, for it had many healing properties; why she'd forgotten how useful it was, and where she'd learned those uses as well, she could not recall.

The other plant, which made up only a small portion of each nodule-like bundle, she also recognized… though she could not for the life of her say where she had seen it before to know it from. Its tiny pale green leaves curled slightly inward from their drying, and each portion was flecked with a number of tiny, fine golden flowers, so small and closely-budded as to look almost like one solid blossom and not several, their petals all folded into the shape of little hanging cups and unfaded even though they must have been plucked months ago at least. Elrond's letter named it Goldenbell, as it was known in Westron, but her mind supplied 'Mallos' as well. Their smell was as sweet as a breeze off the sea, fresh and buoying, and that smell spread to the tea when each bundle was steeped, filling the kitchen with the smell of sunshine and clear water.

The fragrant scent seemed to rouse Belladonna even before she'd had her first taste of the brew, and Bilba nearly wept to see some of the haze over her mother's eyes roll back even before the cup was drained. Her mother sat up after some long moments, and seemed to blink awake as if from a long dream, smiling at Bilba and pulling her into a (still weak, still so very weak) hug. One cup at her bedside each morning, ideally ready before she even woke, seemed to do the trick thereafter, and though it was clear that Belladonna was still deep in her grief, she was not so near to passing as she had been before.

Bilba sang to her as well; she sang as she had never sung before, pouring every ounce of her love and care into the notes, as if they alone might hold the cure to her ailing mother's heart. It felt a bit silly at first, but once she saw how the tunes could distract Belladonna when her mind turned dark and woeful, how her smiles came more often, and even caught her humming along when no music had passed her lips in the years since Bungo's passing… Well, it did not matter if she felt silly after that. Even if all it did was make her mother a little happier, she would have spent all of her hours singing for her.

Things were better again after that, though Bilba did not let herself dally long or carelessly with only those supplies that Elrond had sent. There was enough within the package for at least a year, but among his notes on how to prepare the tea were those on how to produce more, and that process was a lengthy one. Kingsfoil, for all that it was thought useless by the hobbits, was fairly common, and she knew where to get her hands upon an amount of it (though surely the gardeners she got it from, not counting Hamfast of course, would be gossiping all up and down the row about now she was buying up weeds to feed to her ailing mother).

Finding more Mallos would be the trick, for Elrond had noted that it was native to the delta of the River Anduin, far away in the south of Gondor, and that obtaining it was ever a difficult thing even for elves to manage. It could be found about other watery areas, but not often, and not without much luck. To that end, she had few enough options. The river Brandywine was the only proper river of any size nearby, and probably her best bet to find anything of use… though to get there would take some days' walking, and the thought of leaving Belladonna alone to tend herself for so long made her hesitant to plan such a lengthy absence. But… if there was even a chance of finding more of the golden blooming plant, then now would be the time to seek it out. Now, when even if Belladonna slipped back into her grief, she still might have some strength to last until Bilba returned to her side.

She set the tea out where her mother would be sure to see it beside her bed with a kettle atop a small portable stove. She would not even have to get up to make the brew, and the fragrant smell of the box of herbs would, she hoped, be enough to keep her moving long enough to prepare it. She left strict instructions with Hamfast's wife Bell to check in on Belladonna every day if she could, and in hushed whispers told her of the 'medicine' the elves had sent, confirming that she would make it for her mother if Belladonna failed to do so herself. Poor bell of course couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but Bilba also got the feeling that it wouldn't be quite the same to have a neighbor sing to her mother. It would probably be fine entertainment but… she left that bit out of her instructions, understanding on some deep level that it wouldn't do the kind of good her own had done.

And then, one bright late summer's morning before she could change her mind, she packed up her walking stick and pack, kissed her mother's cheek, and left for the distant river.

TA2941, September 23rd

The faint warbling rush of the ring as it tumbled through the air, spinning and shining like a falling star in the dimly-lit cellar, was all that Bilba could hear in that moment. The roar of the rushing river below had faded to silence, and with it the distant shouts from the Company, dropping below the range of even her sharp hearing. Only the softly sucked breath, the tiny gasp of budding horror and recognition from the elf who still stood before her, his hand tight over hers, registered as she tracked the tumbling band. Every fiber of her being was strung taught with the need to catch it, to clutch at it, hold it close and reassure herself that it was hers, hers and no one else's.

Time itself seemed to pause in the moment, balanced perfectly on some great invisible edge and set to fall one way or the other; the ring hung just out of reach, warm and luminous in its terrible splendor. With a burst of effort that felt both entire and immediate, and yet distant, as if from outside herself and somehow barely any endeavor at all to do, she pulled herself free from his—Thranduil's—grasp, her hands reaching out to snare the ring in one tight fist and then draw back to cling to it like a lifeline. Slowly her fingers uncurled from around it enough to see it, to know for certain that she'd truly caught it, and she stared at it through the gaps between them, her eyes darting to find any signs of damage, though she knew none would be there. The golden band seemed to flicker on her palm almost, beyond the reflection of the faint torchlight of the room which it caught; it shone with some deeper fire that was snared in its surface and which turned each flawless angle to liquid reds and oranges. Unconsciously she could already again hear the faint whispers it always fed into her ears returning, further muting all around her.

She'd caught it. It was safe. It was hers…

A sudden shout, cracking like a war-cry as it carved through the whispers and heavy veiling quiet, snapped her from the consuming spiral the ring had drawn her into. She could not make out the words, her ears ringing from the sudden shift in volume, and her mind scrambling ao that it could not parse the elven language for a moment, but she understood the meaning when Thranduil's hand snapped forth to take her by the wrist, pulling her hands forth from where they had clutched her treasure against her chest.

"No! No, it's mine, you cannot take it!" She cried out, clawing at the hand about her wrist and twisting, wrenching herself away. Her panic spurred even higher when her eyes again met his, still as entrancingly beautiful as ever, but now no longer softened with surprise and wonder. It was hatred she saw in those blue eyes. Yes, the ring whispered in her mind; he wants the ring, he would take it and keep it from you, you knew that he was tricking you, that he planned to lure you out and then take it!

"Daro! Avo garo, perian!"

You must put the ring on, must use it, it will keep you safe, help us escape this place that would snare and keep us so!

"Lasto beth lammen! Estelio enni, perian, mel—"

He lies! You will never hold it again, he will kill you before he lets us keep it, we must put it on, now, now or he will—!

The fevered mutterings of the ring suddenly twisted into a high, unearthly scream, snapping its hold over Bilba even as it lanced into her brain like knives through her ears. It—or something, someone —was furious, was hurt, and in one crystalline moment of clarity she nearly flung the ring from her hands, the very feel of it suddenly wretched and distasteful to her nearly beyond enduring.

But then she felt the hand about her wrist loosen, her arm instead being let free, and she jammed the ring out of sight into a pocket of her dirty and tattered waistcoat. The sound was not only in her mind, and neither did discarding the ring lessen its hideously agonizing sound—she forced her gaze up to find Thranduil's face a rictus of pain, his teeth set and grit against the room-shaking screech, and his hands having flown to cover his far more sensitive ears. Like a crack of thunder the shriek lashed out, and she looked on in horror from between her own ear-muffling palms as part of his very face seemed to melt away, revealing twisting scars across one side, which pulsed red and angry at the sound that was only now beginning to fade. His eyes were pinched shut tight in agony, though he forced them open again as soon as the wretched sound began to fail, one piercing blue and the other a milky, ruined white, and both fixed upon her.

She was little better off in truth, and the furious howl had felt like it had poured ice water into her bones, and stabbed silvered shards through every fraction of her mind and soul before it began to peter out. The ring alone seemed vibrantly hot in her pocket, a bead of warmth even through the fabric, feeling as if it were burning into her flesh and still refusing to let her cast it aside or draw it out again, even for fear of injuring herself in the process. She could not set the ring aside… but the sight of the Elvenking in such pain as well, such desperate need reached deeper than the touch of dark power inside her could. For just a moment she found the will within herself to reach out to him, her now empty hands finding his elbow and squeezing. Still she feared him, feared he would attempt to keep her there, or take what was hers, and indeed when his hand snaked out again towards her she ducked away, releasing him without hesitation—but some part of her cried out against the sight of him suffering, and flared to brilliant light inside with the need to put an end to that torment if she could, even if that meant abandoning the ring, the quest, anything but him…

He did not try to grab her again, but as the terrible scream at last fell away, diminishing like an echo over the mountains, he extended a hand towards her where she had lingered, hesitating, some of that same soft wonder returning to mingle with the fury and horror lurking in his eyes—the pale milky one slowly fading back to a whole and hale blue as his glamour now wrought to cloak his injuries—"An ngell nîn, Mindo—…" He seemed to pale at his own words, but forged ahead before she could respond. "Tolo ar nin. Let me…!"

Everything in her was at war, half wanting nothing but to flee, and half demanding she rush to his assistance. It set her exhausted mind to reeling, and she felt that she were being ripped in two directions at once.

"…Thranduil, I… No. No, no, I can't! I don't… understand why, I can't!" The depths of her desire to comfort him, to go to his side and trust in him, to giveeverything to him still confused and terrified her; that sourceless need was more alarming and frightening perhaps than anything else quite could be, and combined with the other terrors the ring had wrought into her mind of late, it proved at last too much. Though her heart begged her to stay, she instead forced herself away, to run. Even when her feet wanted to stumble and stop, she angled herself towards the still-open trap door… and then through it, as she flung herself down, down into the raging river below, one slim fist thrust against her chest, her aching heart, and the pocket that yet held the ring.

For just a moment the world seemed to stand still, her tiny (agile, beautiful, strong some part of his mind insisted even now) figure suspended on a wire over the dark gap in the cellar floor. Her golden curls had flung up in a cloud-like halo around her as she'd leapt, and her brilliant blue eyes, so heartbreakingly full of fear and confusion—of him, for him, both—were latched on his as she soared out over open space.

And then the line was cut. And she was gone. The ring was gone as well, his mind screamed a beat later. A faint echoing splash from bellow turned to jumbled static in his still-ringing ears, a fresh surge of terror gripping him, and Thranduil surged forth to grip at the wooden dropway's edges, oblivious to how the rough wood splintered into his palms as his keen eyes darted about for any sign of her.

Below were rocks and jagged cutting cliffs, hewn smooth and flat in places so as to not destroy the barrels they turned loose along the river, but still they loomed dangerous and deadly for softer creatures that could not boast of skins of wood and iron to break upon. If the hobbit were crushed upon one the ring would be lost, he feared, though there were other reasons for his gasping breath of relief when at last he caught sight of her, bobbing with a splash and frantically paddling arms up to the surface. The water, white with foam as it raced through the narrow cavern, swiftly swept her away and out of sight; only at the last, right before she was drawn around a bend in the stone wall did she glance back at where he still crouched upon the cellar floor, blue and piercing and fearful… and then widening even more as distant horns sounding in the forest reached their ears, bouncing up the cavern tunnel. Orcish hunting horns…!

The foul guttural bray of the trumpets was answered a moment later by their sweeter elven counterparts, though Thranduil had not remained still to hear them. In a swirl of his robes he all but flung himself up from the floor, crossing to and racing up the spiral stairs even before the trap door at last swung shut, the creak and slam of the wood drowning out the rush of the river below.

Thranduil had barely made it a quarter of the way back to the Great Hall before he came upon a troupe of soldiers, all in equal haste towards the nearest exit from the stronghold. They drew up sharp before him, each with a face of intense determination to report and have his orders. It seemed that luck was still with him, for all that both the captives and their accomplice (the thief, the ringbearer, her ) had escaped his halls. "Holo in-annon! Get our people inside and bar the river! Slay any orc you find—our stout guests have escaped by the waterway, and they are the aim of this attack… but let the naugrim in their barrels pass once the threat is handled."

That order seemed to surprise the warriors; it was not well-hidden that Thranduil had meant to keep the dwarves in captivity until they at last cracked and gave up the information he sought from them. To turn them loose now, after weeks and with no results… he could see the confusion plainly on their faces. He did not wait for them to ask him why—every moment she, the ring, was drifting further away, and closer to danger and the clutches of the dark beasts that served a darker master still. "Let the naugrim pass," he commanded again, already surging past them, unable to linger any longer in inaction himself. "But bring me the one with them! The halfling, a woman, swimming in their wake! Even if you must leave the dwarves to their fate with the orcs, you must save her, and bring her to me at once!"

He barely registered the soldiers' assent to his commands as he sped further up along the passageway, the walls of stone as familiar as the feel of the hilt of his own sword beneath his hand. It was a minor comfort to hear the metal sing as he slid the weapon forth from where it hung beneath the folds of his outer robes. He would not let his people be cut down, would not let the halfling escape for long, not let her be slain or taken before he could return her to his grasp, even if that meant letting the fool dwarves find their fates beneath the knives and swords of the orcs, or the fangs of the spiders that swarmed with them. No, what treasure she carried, tucked safely against her heart, was far more valuable than any king, or any dragon's hoard.

The river was freezing cold, it seemed, already chilled by autumn's touch as it surged up around her, spinning and swirling as it dragged her through its eddies and currents until she did not know up from down nor left from right. The waters were dark as night within the cavern, with no light beyond the faint distant torch of the cellar above to shine and light which way to go—though in truth there would have been little Bilba could have done at all against the rapids even if she knew which way was what. She was a better swimmer than most hobbits, but as hobbits were by nature fearful of water any deeper than a warm bath, and all had a tendency to sink like stones, that was a statement of very little merit. In truth she immediately felt the aching exhaustion in her limbs, her days and days of next to no food or rest catching up all at once and in the least favorable place, leaving her limbs feeling heavy and stiff, like they were made of lead.

But a bit of luck was on Bilba's side that day, and just when she began to panic, to feel the air in her lungs start to burn and pound, and with a gasp come surging out in clouds of bubbles around her face, she was drowning … her head broke the surface. She sucked a great gulping breath, spluttering and with her sodden curls hanging limp and wet against her face, but in the moment that gulp of cool, earthy cavern air was the most delicious breath she had ever taken. Though it felt like she had been underwater for several long minutes, in truth perhaps only a handful of seconds had really passed, and she was shocked to see herself still within eyesight of the wine cellar's trap door—a fast-fading square of faint warm light, silhouetting the figure of the Elvenking still kneeling at the lip of the tunnel before the river dragged her around a bend and out of sight.

Even against the battering whitewater and the sucking current, the feeling of the thread wound about her heart pulling taught, straining back the way she'd come, towards the one she'd left behind stood out sharp and cuttingly clear. She was going the wrong way, it screamed, turn around! The river's roar was trapped by the stone walls it carved through, and the echo of its thunder drowned out the quiet choking sob that tore its way from her throat unbidden; the spray and splashing rivulets across her face served as a mask to hide which droplets were really tears. But she couldn't have stayed, and still wasn't sure if she truly wanted to, or if it was some magic making her feel that way. Even now the keen desire refused to fade, instead only growing stronger, more painfully insistent as the river swept her out into the brilliant daylight of the open forest.

A blasting horn shattered even the water's boom, the harsh, garish sound terrifying and familiar, as familiar as the guttural snarls that followed it from the darkened banks, where whipping about to look she saw the twisted faces of orcs atop their warg mounts looming from the shade of night, racing to keep pace with the rapids and then surging ahead towards where, beyond short unseen waterfalls and foaming turns, she could just make out the smooth curve of the hindmost of the barrels, reflecting wetly in the pale starlight. It bobbed along low in the water—Bombur, her dazed mind managed to supply, his weight no doubt dragging the barrel against the shallower spots enough to have slowed him to the back. The rest had already disappeared further down the waterway, into the night, and even that last barrel seemed impossibly far away to swim for… but still she struck out for it, ducking beneath the surface once more when a crude, black-fletched arrow lanced into the waves mere inches from her nose.

It was barely any easier to keep her course now without the bright light of day shining through the water, nor to see the rocks before they came rushing up to crack her skull or bash her ribs. Their midnight escape did not make the swimming any easier, and the rugged bottom of the stream grew only rougher, more viciously littered with fallen logs and ripping stones without the sheltering stone cavern to contain and guide it. Each time her head broke the waves the sounds of screams replaced the watery garble—orcish snarls and elven war-cries, the hissing rasp of spiders and howling barks of the wargs, the whistling shot of arrows through the air and the clash of blades and shields. She had little time to sit back and float, to try to watch any of the happenings; the river kept the most of her attention, and when the combat raged closer to the water's edge she was forced to duck and dart, exhausting herself by frantically dodging snapping fangs or knives, and even slender-fingered elven hands that struck for her like she were a golden-scaled fish to be plucked bare-handed from the waves.

It was chaos in its most basic form, all noise and motion and the stinging burn of water mistakenly breathed in as she was bounced off hidden outcroppings or half-sunken tree roots. Blacker shadows passed overhead in swoops—elves and orcs leaping from bank to bank to lash out against the other force, or being sent splashing to a watery grave with arrows in their sides or weeping from great rents in their armor, crudely made or fair. Through it all Bilba drove herself onwards, forcing her arms to rise and fall, her short legs to kick and kick and kick. She lost all sight of where she was upon the water, how near to the waterfalls or the shores, or even the barrel she had aimed for. From breath to breath there was only the need to keep moving, the need, the instinct, to stay alive.

An abrupt thump! of her head against something hard—but less so than one of the punishing stones, and less sharp than the arrows or swords of the battling forces, more rounded than any shield—drew her from the singularly focused, almost mechanical paddling. The barrel! Barrels, in fact; she spotted at least ten more all clumped together as she scrambled up the side of the hindmost, her nails scraping at the wet wood for purchase. All of them looked to still be as well-sealed as they had been when she had sent them off, as far as she could see through the gloom, but to her horror she realized that what she had taken for a splintered bit of the plank of one was really a black arrow embedded into the side. Several more sported such grim accessories, but she had no way to know how deep the heads had sunk, or if the dwarves inside still lived. If she opened the lids now—not that she could without great effort, or at least some hearty stick to pry the tops away—they would surely take on water and sink before they even cleared the forest, and if the Company were injured, what could she do in this position to help them? She was as helpless as the captive dwarrow, clinging for all her worth to the top of a bobbing block of hollow wood and praying an orc didn't make an easy target of her while they were standing still…

Though… why were they standing still? The water still was racing past around her toes and ankles, but the barrels were jostling, bobbing in place, wedged tight against…! Ah! She could just make out, the narrow tunnel they had collected in was barred on the far side by a metal grate, trapping them all in place where the elves would be able to gather them back up once the orcs were dealt with. Even now one of the elves, all clad in silvered armor that caught what light there was like a slender moon, bent down to reach for her where she was pressed between the top of the barrel and the stone passage, her command of "Tolo hi!" echoing in the small space.

With her wet hands Bilba had little grip on the soaked wood of the barrel, and though she cried back, "Baw! Leithio nin!" there was little much she could do to keep from being yanked from her perch. Her head scraped roughly against the masonry of the tunnel as the elf drew her forth, a strong grip on the back of her waistcoat—which she thought to shed but that it held the ring in its pocket!—hauling her out again into the wild center of the conflict.

"Our King has need of you to return, please. Dandolo na nin, my lady." The elf immediately moved to sling her over her shoulder, but perhaps the elves had never encountered a hobbit, or at least they had never felt the smarting kick of their tough feet when desperate. A swift swing of the left one freed Bilba from the elf's grasp, the poor elf left doubled over and wheezing for breath, for Bilba's foot had drove into the softer gap between the elven armor below the breastplate and stolen her breath away. Bilba herself flopped onto the terrace of the stone watchpost like a fish that had been landed, instantly trying to scramble to her feet and dodge out of any more grabbing hands. In a breath her sharp and clever eyes caught the swarming deeper darkness of the encroaching orc hordes—ten, twenty, fifty!—far more than she had imagined, though the elves were carving through them with an unearthly grace and ease.

Still the orcs seemed singularly fixated upon the barrels—the dwarves, her friends, Thorin most likely—and charged towards them with reckless abandon, their eyes reflecting luminously in the dark and two more taking the place of each of them that fell. One, a great mangled and wretched thing, with a wild stare and a shock of tangled, perhaps-ruddy hair poking from between the metal plates that had been grafted to its head, found her with its hungry stare, and with a screeching bellow drove the warg it rode toward where she stood, an unarmed, unarmored, tiny and helpless target. Her hands fumbled wildly at the pocket of her vest, ripping the button nearly off as she scrabbled for the ring, desperate to hide, to escape its notice—!

With a sudden lunge the elf she had kicked sprang up, her glittering blade taking the warg in the chest and sending its rider spilling onto the stonework at her feet. "You shall not have her!" the warrior warned both the orc now sprawled at her feet and those beyond the river. The one below twisted around, snarling up at her before a second slice took its head from its shoulders. With a renewed wariness the elven huntress turned her gaze towards Bilba, and the hobbit lass shrank back, crying out "Please, annon allen! But I, cí dadwenithon … I cannot go back. Not yet!" She tugged her hand back from in her pocket and skittered up the stone stairs of the watchpost, hastily rebuttoning the ring away as she ran and ducking past a dueling trio—two orcs being held at bay by another lone elf—and making for the stone bridge that ran over the tunnel where the Company's barrels remained trapped in place.

A long wooden pole thrust out of the stone ahead of her, a lever of some kind she realized in the split second it took her to reach it. For the gate below?Makes sense, really, all you've got to do is give it a tug, Bilba old girl, come on now, you can—! An arrow sank into the stone mere inches from where she stood, the almost mottled-looking head shattering on contact and leaving wicked shards dusted invisibly over the area and a few caught in the hair atop her feet. Her time to talk herself into it was well and truly up now, and she flung herself at the lever, the wind escaping her in a sharp breath as it held firm… and then slowly gave beneath her slight weight, clicking into place.

Across the river she could see the orc that had shot for her nocking another arrow; he was tall, unnaturally so for an orc, pale and wicked looking, though less so than Azog himself had been. From what little she could make out, he looked as if some great beast had gnawed upon his head, leaving it mangled and flattened on one side, what must have been gaps or grooves in his skull covered over or filled in with grimy metal, and beneath it, one sickly, glazed eye that seemed to be leaking milkily down his face as he leered at her.

With almost cruel slowness the orc raised his bow, sighting towards her with utter certainty in his aim despite the darkness around them. There was nowhere she could run, but she could throw herself back in the river perhaps if she were quick enough. Already the orcs were pushing past the elves, swarming down to the water line to where the barrels bobbed. She would be as dead there as where she stood, and the dwarves with her, it seemed… But then, from below, a deep noise sounded: a rumbling boom, and then fainter, barely to be heard over the noise of combat and the roaring water, the rhythmic clanking of reeling chains. The gate! A wooden scraping heralded the barrels' departure, the swift flowing current taking them through the sluice and over the waterfall beyond in a great rush, the tide of the current pulling more than one orc off their feet, to drown or flounder over the rocks with them.

Across the way, the tall orc scowled, fuming as he watched as the dwarves escape yet again… and then turned his gaze back to the hobbit. The one who hadfreed them. And who was being left behind. An easy enough target, he surely thought, raising his great black bow…

With all the strength left in her limbs, Bilba threw herself towards the edge of the watchpost, her scraped and roughened palms catching and bloodying further on the low retaining wall of stone. She heard the twang of a shot, and clenched herself tight against the impact of the loosed arrow, her teeth grinding in fearful anticipation of the pain even as she soared through the open air over the waterfall… But none came. Perhaps the shot had gone wide, or perhaps the elves had cut the orc down with an arrow of their own. She had no way to know, and little time to wonder as she opened her eyes just long enough to see the frothing, heaving falls and the dark bobbing cork-shapes of the barrels come rushing up to meet her.

The orcs had crossed the river, swarming with their spider allies—a terrifying thought, for even the orcs usually fell prey to the hunger of Ungoliant's spawn—and like a crashing black wave come rushing nearly to the gates of the Elvenking's Halls, leaving the abandoned fire pits and feasting tables and dancing clearings empty and torn, turf ripped up and wood splintered in their wake. For a time out of time the elves had fought to push them back, a whirlwind of blades and bolts that tore through the fiends' mottled, diseased flesh to keep them from entering the stronghold or cutting down those who fled, unable to defend themselves—minutes felt like hours, and also no time at all in the heat of battle. Thankfully, despite the enemy's unusual numbers, not a single elf had yet to fall or even be wounded. Thranduil's people fought with a merciless and righteous fury, and a hatred for the dark creatures that gave strength to their blows. As a point of inspiration, their king had come and now battled at their sides—foremost among them, as fierce and fiercer than any, with a cold, almost desperate fire dancing in his eyes as he drove his blade through the heart of yet another beast.

Their foes' corpses piled lay around the porch now, splatters of black and brackish blood slicking the stone arch of the bridge and leaving macabre whorls upon the towering pillars nearer to the massive doors, all glittering beneath the swaying festival lights. The tide of them had seemed not endless, but certainly more than the elves had expected by far, and it had at last begun to stem, allowing Thranduil with a cry to lead his soldiers forward onto the far bank. Whatever it was that had whipped them into such a mad fury—and he felt terribly certain that he knew the cause—seemed to have either fled from them, leaving their spirits to fail and fear the fair flash of elven steel, scattering and tripping over each other as they were driven briefly back across the ramp and into the the forest—or else now be driving them in another direction, a far more distressing thought. With grim determination that almost bordered on satisfaction the elves ran them down where they found them—the orcs were their most hated enemies of old, and there were few indeed among their kind who felt any sort of regret for the slaying of them. Such foul twisted perversions of Morgoth's creation deserved little more than a swift release from their tormented existence.

Still, as Thranduil withdrew his blade from the throat of one which had been foolish enough to rush him, and lucky (or unlucky, perhaps) enough to dart past the reach of the silver-armored guards who fought near to him, he could not hold back the hiss of rage that snaked out through his body. There was areason the orcs had swarmed now, swarmed here where they had feared to dare before. Perhaps they had not come to tear down his halls, though many of them he knew would delight in doing so, given the chance—no, he suspected that their mission was far more important, far more dreadful to consider.

Quick as a flash of lightning he spun, sword arcing out to cleave the head from another beast's shoulders, and in the same swooping arc dipped his blade to relieve a great hairy brown spider of the ends of three of its legs. His eyes darted across the field of battle to where the orcs now were retreating, the thick tangles of brush and breaklines of the trees over the banks hiding nothing from his sight even now in moonless midnight—he knew these lands better than any other creature living, and they kept nothing from him. There… there! Down along the path of the river, where it curved sharply before carving low into the stone hillside to run under their home, he saw movement. The main of the enemy's numbers were not in retreat at all, but simply changing course; they were abandoning some of their fighters here to stall the elves so that the rest might surge past and overwhelm those standing watch further down the river… and to retrieve what they had been set loose to find.

His frantic heart, already racing, seemed to shudder. As if a beat had been skipped, gone missing in his furious terror. Could it truly be the ring which they sought? Did they know…? If what he feared was true, they would fight until they were all of them dead, or until they found it and then could take it to its master! A swirl of panic lit in the Elvenking as he watched their numbers flow down the path and to the east, around the base of the mountain fortress, towards where it had gone—towards her. He knew as certainly as he knew his own name, if the orcs found the halfling with the ring on her person… they would kill her. Or worse, she would be brought before the dark lord as well, and then she would undoubtedly wish that she had perished. His soul spasmed at the thought, and for an instant of time he could not help but let the battle slip away, to seek out that tenuous thread that linked them, bound their essence together… and felt a bolt of dread that was not his own blaze up the line of it, clutching at his lungs with icy talons and leaving him winded by the strength of it before it faded back to a low haze.

A rush of relief was on its heels a moment later, of his own making and dulling the edge of what of her fear he'd felt, and then after it came a surge of greater anger and guilt. All around him the noise of combat still rang out—only a moment or two had passed while he stood still and unmindful, unguarded, but thankfully the wicked darting lance of his sword's tip had spilled enough black blood that he had been afforded a wide berth by the foes that remained. Now he strode forward with renewed determination, a blow crashing down to split an unwary orc from shoulder to hip, his stride carrying him past before it even hit the forest floor. This was no time to be distracted: nothing should be more important, nothing was more important than recovering the ring, than keeping it from the dark lord's clutches… nothing, he demanded of himself.

And yet he could no more push away the need to find the halfling, to see her safe and sound and spared from such a wicked fate than he could have rejected the bond when first it appeared within him long ago. The storm cloud of near-violent want to find the ring, to see it destroyed as ought to have been done an Age ago was split by the sunshine-flash of the memory of her golden curls; his black despair that once more Sauron would rise if the ring was lost again or taken, eclipsed by the thought of her summer-sky blue eyes, flecked with glittering starlight.

No… he could not let himself lose them, not either of them, it seemed.

The orcs were surging further down the river now, and his sharp ears cold make out the distant sounds of combat, of elven shouts and the gurgle of dying spiders over the crash of the further waterfalls. There was no more time to consider what must be done, no time to waste or else all might be lost. With a great roar he swept forward, charging once more into the battle. He thundered his rage, both at his enemies and at himself and the weakness of his own heart as he went, a battle-cry that drew his people to his side, their arrows to clear the way and their blades to guard his back. "Aphado nin! Hain dago! Gurth an glamhoth!" His words shook the very leaves from the trees as their forces drove anew into the Shadow's ranks, and the fury of the elves was soon mingled with the death-cries of their enemies.

He would get there in time. It… she… they would not be lost again. Beneath his breath as he strove ahead, Thranduil let slip a desperate plea, "Berio ven… berio e…"

The bulk of the orc forces around the watchpost were still being determinedly held at bay by the time Thranduil and his soldiers arrived. It had taken longer than he had liked to clear a path around the edge of the hill his Halls lay under—the foul things had fought back every step of the way, their frenzied and desperate attacks under the cover of night, and a suspicious lack of fear giving their weaker arms and armor unusual strength. A dark force drove them to their limits, but thankfully that still left them unable to match the elves' capabilities here within their own domain.

It had also become clear that while the spiders and wargs and other beastly creatures all bit and slashed and went after the elves that harried them with feral, hateful delight, breaching the Halls and ravaging the elves people within was indeed not their goal. As Thranduil had fought his way around the hill a call had gone up, the grating language of the orcs, Black Speech, pricking at their ears and stoking the elves' anger higher to hear it beneath their own forest's trees. "Tud-dad nu!" it came, "Down the river, now, maggots! After them!" Yes, it seemed that though sacking the elven holdout would have been a treat to tantalize any foul being, it was the treasure that was—or had been, until now—hidden away within which they sought. Loathe as he was to consider it, Thranduil was forced to accept that the Enemy knew his ring had been found.

Still, many of the orcs, base and nearly brainless creatures as they were, were slow to give up the fight. Those hindmost in the pack even seemed to grow more vicious and troublesome… and to Thranduil's fury he realized they were again buying time, holding back the second arm of his forces to give those ahead a chance to hunt unhindered. It would take time to carve through them—less time than it would take men or dwarves to do so, perhaps, but time nonetheless—and for every wasted second the orcs gained ground on their quarry, if it had not already been found.

As he fought, Thranduil called out over the din, summoning to his side the keeper of the watchpost. He'd commanded the river gate be shut, meaning to collect his prisoners from their 'ships' after they were caught by the iron bars, but now that same barricade would work to his enemy's favor, he feared. The watchleader had been ordered to take the hobbit first and above all else, however, and with luck perhaps would have had time to reach her… It was all he could do to hope.

It was some moments before the elf he sought was able to fight her way to him. Scuffs and dings marred her armor in places, and she wore a face of sharp displeasure in the gloom—but not the outright despair he would have expected if her report contained the theft of his prisoners by the orcs. "My King—the halfling, forgive me. She escaped my grasp, and opened the gate to free the dwarves. The orcs' numbers grew too numerous before I could stop her again, and she… leapt over the falls into the river after the barrels as they fired upon us. I saw her surface at the base a moment later—" she hurried on, the brief loo of wild fear on her king's face unsettling even more than the orcs had been. "She seemed unharmed, though the current bore them from my sight even as these wretches regrouped."

As if to punctuate that point, one of the wargs, which had crept unnoticed through the shadow of a fallen tree and up its length to where it hung nearly overhead of the Elvenking sprang suddenly from cover. Its yellowed and jagged teeth were bared between its black lips, a vicious, bloodthirsty snarl shaking from its chest as it lunged. No fewer than five arrows found it, snatching the life from the beast before it went more than a yard, but still it was a close call, and Thranduil scowled down at the creature's torn body where it lay. In the time it had taken the elves to put it down, brief a moment as it had been, several of its allies—with orcs still on their backs—had taken flight, racing away down along the river with their hunting horns blaring.

"After them!" Thranduil cried, though he knew not even the swiftest elf on foot could match a warg in a full sprint for long. But before the elves took a single step however, a wall of foes, those left behind for lack of mounts or already injured too greatly to run, swarmed forth to bar the way between the backs of the fleeing orcs and their pursuers. Another diversion, another delay… but this time it was not one the elves could ignore or simply go around. The orcs and their allies fought with abandon, all but throwing themselves upon the swords of the woodland's guardians in desperation to hold them back. They traded their lives for wounding blows, and at last the ruby red of elven blood began to mingle on the leaves and stone of the forest floor with the pools of sickly black bile of the orcs and the fetid green ichor of the spiders, turning all a muddy brown in the blue of night. If Thranduil sought to send any of his warriors in flight after the halfling, he knew the rest would suffer, may even perish against the tide of foes before reinforcements arrived—but if he did not, it well could be that the ring and the one who carried it would find themselves in great danger before he had a chance to save them both. Both choices wracked the Elvenking with furious indecision, his ire clear in the vicious strokes of his sword upon his enemies.

He had sworn to never endanger his people again, to never risk their lives needlessly. He was their king, their protector and provider… but to let the ring ( the hobbit, his heart insisted, you cannot lose her as well ) escape again… It was the sole reason evil yet remained within the world. Every day it was left undestroyed was one more day of pain and suffering in the long dark of an unearned and unending wintertime of life and hope.

A thundering trumpet rang out then, far sweeter and more beloved than the garish hunting blasts of the orcs, a long silver pealing note that hung between the trees like mist… and then shattered in a spray as ten, twenty, thirty arrows sprang forth from the bows of the elves—a second front that had moved up along the orcs' opposite flank between the trees to strike unseen. Thranduil could not help but grin, grim and predatory at how the tide had turned, his eyes scanning the opposite arm of his people's army for what general or captain had guided them into such a maneuver. He caught a flash of familiar golden hair among their ranks, and auburn-red beside it—Legolas, and Tauriel with him as well. With his son's forces joined in battle, the elves' situation was less pressed. Without a moment of hesitation Thranduil spun, blade cleaving the sword-arm from an on-rushing orc, and reached out to grab hold of one of his own warriors, the same elf who had been standing guard at the watchpost, who knew the sight of the halfling already.

"You! Take a party of ten after the orcs down the river. Cut them down if you can, and see to our guests. Do not let the halfling escape again!" It was half plea, half threat, and he thrust her back away from him before she could respond, whirling to parry a blow, knocking the foe away and then running the monster through with a wet squelch. By the time he looked back she was gone, she and several more beside, racing along the night-darkened banks of the river into the distance.

They would find the halfling. Find the ring. They would be alright, and his people would be safe. Those thoughts burned brighter than any star in Thranduil's mind as he once more threw himself into the fray.

TA2941, September 24

The barrel beneath her gave a slight shudder as it scraped over the bottom of the river for a moment. It was enough to jolt Bilba back to her senses—not that she'd been totally oblivious, but the shackles of exhaustion had only grown heavier after her perilous plunge over the falls, and she had never felt quite as much deep longing for her little feather-stuffed bed back in Bag End in Hobbiton. She'd dove over the edge of the watchpost in desperation, and at the time the thought that getting a bit battered on the rocks couldn't be near as bad as being stuck full of filthy orc arrows. As she'd fallen however, she'd really rather changed her mind, and for the one, two, perhaps three seconds where she'd been airborne, Bilba'd rather regretted not just letting the elf guardswoman take her back to her king. At least there, with all the confusion and strange desires her heart had thrust upon her in Thranduil's presence, and the knowledge that he'd seen the ring, must somehow now what it was and covet it… well, at least there she would have been allowed to have a late dinner, most likely, and a nap.

Oh yes, she really was quite ready to be done with all of this adventuring, if only for a little while… though she'd made her choice, and now she supposed there was still rather a long way to go yet before she could let herself catch a single wink of well-earned sleep.

With a soft grunt Bilba levered herself up as much as she could without setting the barrel to rolling or dunking her back into the river, peering back up the banks the way they'd come for any signs of movement through the gloom. It was still quite dark out, though she'd begun to see a bit of the beginnings of a sunrise—some time off yet, but heartening all the same—through the trees. She'd lost all track of how far they'd drifted, or for how long, though the hints of light in the sky spoke of hours spent upon the water. Whatever the outcome of the battle between the elves and the orcs (and she of course hoped only that the elves had come out the victors—for all that they had imprisoned the dwarves, and their king left her heart racing for some reason she refused to face, they were a good people) neither side had come after them, or at least not with the speed to keep up.

The river'd run far swifter down beyond the waterfall, and it'd only been luck that one of the barrels had snagged near the foot of it long enough for her to pull herself onto the slick wet surface before they all could be swept away. The fall had been terrifying, but one of the Valar must have had an eye upon her, for she'd missed every rock at the bottom, plunging into the deep water instead. The churning force of the rapids was dangerous as well, and she would have been held down, drowned there perhaps by the thundering water, if not for another bit of chance. A moment later the body of one of the spiders, slain and fallen into the stream, had come splashing down nearly atop her, and the jolt of it was enough to push her out of the pool's snare and come bobbing and gasping to the dark surface of the water.

She'd hauled herself up on the barrel when she'd spotted it, gasping and limp, dripping wet and weary, and dragged a hand across her breast to where the ring remained snugly buttoned into her pocket. Her racing heart at once began to slow, and she'd been more than ready to give herself over to whatever fate lay ahead of her if it meant just a moment of peace, of not having to run or dodge or think. Now, with miles and hours behind them (and hopefully between them and the terrible monsters of the forest) Bilba began to feel her senses clear again, her tired mind stirring back to sluggish but determined life. She shifted again atop the barrel, gripping the rim tight with a "Woah…!" as it bobbled slightly below her, steadying herself and finding a way to hold on that left her almost fully out of the water (though still nothing like comfortable).

"I certainly hope this night's gone better for you lot than for me," she sighed, to the dwarf in the barrel, to the Company as a whole, and to no one really at all. She'd been so busy with the escape and then her own exhaustion that she hadn't really had the time to worry after the dwarves… and now that she thought about it, she quickly turned about as much as she could to count the barrels floating merrily alongside the one she rode. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve…?A flash of panic, but then she recalled the one beneath her own self, and felt rather silly about the whole thing—she really did need a good night's sleep.

Several of the barrels still had arrows jutting from their sides, the broken shafts prickling like thorns from the wood, and the sight reminded her of the danger they'd all been in. It was a very real possibility that one or more of her friends had been injured… but, as before, there was little she could do about it now. Until they drifted ashore, she would just have to wait, and rely upon dwarven constitution (and stubbornness) to see them through any wounds they'd sustained.

Ahead the curtain of the trees began to part, the thick trunks growing more slender and spaced further apart to let the growing light filter through. Dawn in the forest, here where it was untainted and wrapped in the splendor of the autumn colors, was not a sight to be missed. Bilba drank it all in as they floated along, her sharp ears picking up the faint distant sound of birdsong and a quiet breeze through the branches. The forest peeled back from where it had hovered near the banks, and the deep, cutting river slowly broadened into a more lazy, shallow flow around rounded stones. The smell of moss and mulching leaves gave way more and more to the scent of fish, and a rattling snarl of hunger boomed from Bilba's stomach at the thought of lemon-drizzled trout, wrapped in leaves and baked, complete with a slice of hearty buttered bread and greens, fingerling potatoes with pepper and salt and drizzled in oil… a slender, elven hand reaching out to pass her a flute of crisp white wine, chilled to match the icy blue eyes she imagined herself gazing into…

She sighed and pushed the creeping thought away, shaking her head and tucking her chin against her chest to hide beneath her matted curls. Exhaustion and fear had held the keening, cutting desire to go back the way she'd come, to run back into the arms of the one who'd imprisoned her friends at bay… but now that the world was bright and calm once more, it came surging back, leaving her feeling just as confused and desolate as she'd felt before. She had been sure, so very sure that once she'd escaped the forest the enchantment—which she told herself again it must be, worked on her by the Elvenking to turn her to his side, or to let him take the ring—would have worn off, and things would have returned to normal again. That her heart would stop racing at the thought of him, her dreams would return to being of the Shire, or Rivendell, or anywhere else the great wide world, and not the winding hallways beneath his hill, the little gardens and golden lamps. That what promises she'd made to aid the dwarves would again mean more to her than the pounding ache to sooth Thranduil's woes, and tell him everything that had befallen her…

Instead, as the barrels rounded a gentle bend in the river to reveal the glittering lake far, far ahead, and with the edge of the forest now easily ten, twelve, fifteen miles behind… she found that nothing at all had changed. Her heart was still as lost and distant-longing as it had been within the Woodland Realm, stolen by the Elvenking.

NOTES:

Athelas - AKA Kingsfoil, is very useful for healing… though that usefulness has been forgotten in some regions of Middle Earth. When dried and crushed in hot water it is refreshing, it clears and calms the mind and strengthens those smelling it. It also has a scent that is unique to who smells the herb.

Mallos - In the fields of Lebennin near the delta of the River Anduin, there grew the flowers that Grey-elves named Mallos, the "gold-snow". The blooms are fair and never-fading, and in Elven songs were linked to golden bells calling the Elves to the Western Sea. It has no canonical healing properties, but I ran with the idea that the blooms were resilient and connected to the draw of the elves to the West, and made them a sort of replacement treatment to fulfill Belladonna's need to 'go West' and be with Bungo again.

Body and soul are both part of healing in Middle Earth and some maladies need treatment to both sides to be effective. Healing of the spirit can be both literally repairing the soul, and also overcoming despair with hope, which is a theme through most of Tolkien's works. Words, touch, scent, and song all play a factor in healing hearts and spirits, as shown by:
Aragorn's treatment of Frodo's Morgul wound—"…and taking the dagger-hilt laid it on his knees, and he sang over it a slow song in a strange tongue. Then… he turned to Frodo and in a soft tone spoke words the others could not catch… He crushed a leaf in his fingers, and it gave out a sweet and pungent fragrance… [it] was refreshing, and those that were unhurt felt their minds calmed and cleared. The herb had also some power over the wound, for Frodo felt the pain and also the sense of frozen cold lessen in his side" ("The Flight to the Ford", LotR: FotR)
Aragorn's healing of Éowyn—"'Then Aragorn… called her softly, saying: 'Éowyn Éomund's daughter, awake! For your enemy has passed away!' She did not stir, but now she began again to breathe deeply, so that her breast rose and fell beneath the white linen of the sheet… 'Awake, Éowyn, Lady of Rohan!' said Aragorn again, and he took her right hand in his and felt it warm with life returning. 'Awake! The shadow is gone and all darkness is washed clean!' Then he laid her hand in Éomer's and stepped away. 'Call her!' he said… 'Éowyn, Éowyn!' cried Éomer amid his tears. But she opened her eyes and said: 'Éomer! What joy is this? For they said that you were slain. Nay, but that was only the dark voices in my dream. How long have I been dreaming?'" ("The Houses of Healing", LotR: RotK)
Lúthien's healing of Beren—"Therewith the smart [Huan] swift allayed, while Luthien murmuring in the shade the staunching song, that Elvish wives long years had sung in those sad lives of war and weapons, wove o'er him… Watchful bending o'er him wakes a maiden fair; his thirst she slakes, his brow caresses, and softly croons a song more potent than in runes or leeches' lore hath since been writ." ("Lay of Leithian", Lays of Beleriand)

This chapter runs concurrent with the last one, obviously. It always bugged me that Sauron fleeing Dol Guldur was minimized in the books/movies. Like no one was worried or felt the big being of evil fly off? With Bilba linked more directly to the ring/Sauron, and Thranduil to him through her, it made more sense to me that his retreat would be felt on some level. Thranduil's glamour fails and his scars appear at the sound of Sauron's cry, loosely based on how wounds inflicted by Morgul weapons flare up again, and how the cry of the Nazgul can affect people. Seeing them really struck a note in Bilba—she (Mindonel) was with him when he was injured originally after all.

Sauron's sent a fairly hefty number of orcs after the dwarves/Bilba this time around—he's stronger than at this time in the movies and book, more alert, and probably a bit more aggressive, obviously. Things are moving quickly, but how it might alter events downstream (in terms of time and location) is yet to be seen.

Daro! Avo garo, perian! - "Stop! Don't do (it), halfling!"
Lasto beth lammen! - "Hear me!"; literally "Hear the words of my tongue!"
Estelio enni, perian, mel— - "Trust in me, halfling, [my] lo—"
An ngell nîn. - "Please."; literally "For my happiness/joy"
Tolo ar nin. - "Come with me."
Holo in-annon! - "Shut the gate!"
Naugrim - dwarves; literally "stunted people".
Tolo hi! - "Come now!"
Leithio nin! - "No! Release me!"
Dandolo na nin. - "Come back with me."
Annon allen! - "Thank you!"; literally, "I give thanks to you!" This neologism is a bit unusual, and varies from "hannon le", which is used in the LotR trilogy. You can read more about it here.
Cí dadwenithon… - "If I go back…"
Aphado nin! Hain dago! Gurth an glamhoth! - "Follow me! Death to the din-horde!"
Berio ven… berio e… - "Protect us… protect her…"
Tud-dad nu! - "Follow me!" in Black Speech