Language Barrier II: Thráin

They soar the skies on a broom, hovering above the top of the tallest trees in the Greenwood like two birds on the run, fleeing from their silver cage. Only his cage hadn't been silver nor gold, for dwarves know well the value of such things. Instead it had left in him a foul taste of corruption and broken memories.

This is reason enough for Thráin to remember how the wind whistled in his ears, or the fast heartbeats in his chest as they leave the shadow in the fortress behind. And while he cannot bear to glance at the rising peak in the East without the threat of tears or a yearning that seems to burn like dragon fire, it takes only a look below for Thráin to cringe, and he closes his eyes for most of the journey, clinging tightly to a warm body. There are finer things than flying to dwarves, who were made to tread on solid ground and mine riches below the earth.

'Lass,' he calls tentatively using the Common Speech, a useless answer to the woman's heart-wrenching sob, feeling the quiver of a stomach beneath his hands, under green fabric. 'Zardûna,' witch, he says, aware that this is the language of his forebears, uttered aloud for a stranger. It is not done, but he addresses her so. She is dwarf-friend now, whether she realizes it or not, and Thráin owes her a princely debt. A kingly debt.

Something worrisome flutters in his chest at the lack of response. It is not unexpected, though it is nonetheless unnerving. Perhaps he should try later when the air feels less greasy and the magic around them weakens. This is a different kind of magic, one that enables him to think with more clarity than the day before. Unlike the Necromancer's magic, this is of a peaceful sort.

It is only after they're far past the dead marshes of the Gladden Fields that Thráin feels them swooping down. The sky darkens, covering the grasslands north of the river Anduin with dimming purple and then darker still. Soon it will become dangerous to cross this side of the Misty Mountains on foot or otherwise.

The deep breath Thráin takes as the air rushes past him is almost pitiful, but he relishes this small act of freedom as if it was his last.

They cannot communicate.

OooOooO

Thráin had realized this to some extent. The witch – for a witch she must be, he thinks in awe as a dome of magic covers them and a portion of the Anduin's bank – speaks a different language than he. It is unlike the Common Speech, but yet not quite. There is a remarkable softness to the words, as if the very rhythm is an unchanging pattern, accompanied by the odd inflexion here and there. It makes him wonder where this young woman hails. Thráin still remembers the sky darkening and a body dropping into the woods like a pile of wet rags.

Unsas, he had called her, his voice flooded with emotion. For a savior she is, the blessing he did not deserve, for all his faults. Mahd.

And for whatever mysterious anguish the woman feels, Thráin can only offer his sympathies. A hand on a shoulder and then a weak embrace upon further kindness were not enough. That a woman from the Race of Men should offer to clothe a dwarf and shelter him from the cold was as improper as it was bold, though such a gesture was not lost on him.

Neither are her odd clothes, a soft kind of fabric that is cut too short for any woman he has ever known. Indeed, Thráin has many questions and no answers.

'Menu denapdul,' he says as softly as the ever running waters of the Anduin. You are honourable.

Though it bears no significance, for the woman does not acknowledge his words. Perhaps the morrow will bring a new understanding, he thinks, lying on the soft grass with high hopes.

That night Thráin rests under starlight, sharing the warmth of a witch.

OooOooO

As it is, morning is kind to them.

He hears birdsong from afar, and raises his head reverently to follow their flight, slight brown and white arrows against the blue sky. Though his vision is blurred with unshed tears, Thráin stares upwards for a while longer as he lies on his back. He daydreams of sharing a hearty meal and a warm hearth with his kin, and then a feast throughout the night.

Heart swelling at the prospect, Thráin turns his gaze to the witch, studying her pale complexion and puffy eyes. She looks troubled even in her sleep, frowning like someone had crossed her. He notices the old leather bag the witch carries has been thrown aside, and while fears of witchcraft cloud his judgment for a moment, Thráin quickly quashes further doubts by remembering the kindness and good deeds he must repay.

Covering her with green robes, Thráin walks to the edge of the bank where he relieves his bladder, away from sight, for propriety's sake. Fortunately, their meagre camp stands untouched by either nature or foe. There is no fire started yet or food to cook, but Thráin wonders if this the beginning of a blessed journey.

Later they have words. Introductions are made with haste and soon there is an agreement, a bargain struck over cooked fish and hesitant words that Thráin suspects the witch did not fully understand.

He marvels at her tricks and charms just as before. Not even Tharkûn dealt so loosely with magic.

'Let this not be where we part,' he had offered in earnest and humility. Whatever mist fogged his mind has long since gone. 'I have great need of you with me. Unless you oppose the idea, it seems you have need of me as well, given our misadventures."

The witch's reaction is as before: a deep frown and squint of her eyes, as if this would aid in their predicament.

It is fortunate they settle their matters without further ado, with Thráin offering help and shelter in exchange for safe passage to the Blue Mountains. He worries about the Necromancer, who they have likely angered with their escape from the ruins, but if any raids were dispatched to find them, they're still half a day's journey away. No servant of evil could possibly outrun this witch, he muses, staring shrewdly at the broom hovering waist-high over the ground.

On that less ominous note, Thráin starts a useless protest regarding the rules of propriety and chivalrous etiquette, which renders him a dull shade of red by the time they're flying sky high again, tricked into comfort. He is not the one under strain, barely holding his weight with a limp.

'Improper and unsuitable!' Thráin grumbles stubbornly under his breath. His only answer is laughter – something he thought never to hear again.

His hopes grow higher in the morning.

OooOooO

After the rabbit hops away, Beorn the shape-shifter glares at them from the gate with an odd suspicion.

'You would bring evil into my lands, dwarf?' he growls, baring strong teeth at the witch in a display that is frighteningly animal like.

Perhaps it is fortunate she no longer stands before the gate with them and ignores this exchange. For both their sakes.

'Oh, no no, Master Beorn, we have no such purpose,' Thráin almost pleads, throwing his hands in the air as an attempt at peace.

But the great man remains incredulous. His girth and height are such that he blocks the entrance easily, looming over Thráin like a tower of muscle. 'How does a woman from the Race of Men travel above ground, and on a broom, no less,' there is honest fear in the shape-shifter's voice despite the scowl. 'If not to spread foul over these lands? I have never heard of such magic.'

Thráin clenches his jaw stubbornly. How to expl– where to begin?

Lacking response, Beorn manages to scowl even more powerfully.

'I will not have you harm any creature within these lands, or else no army among men, dwarves or elves will be enough to shield you from my wrath.'

'That is still not our purpose,' Thráin repeats more firmly.

'What purpose have you, then?' the shape-shifter asks gruffly, his expression changing into something much less approachable. 'And speak plainly, or leave my lands before night falls. Strange things have been happening as of late; strange folk are not welcome lightly, and you are stranger than the last folk who ventured through these paths. Who are you?' he demands as an afterthought, more of a statement than a question.

With all the poise of the king he was not, Thráin straightens his poorly clothed back and says without hesitation: 'I am Thráin, son of Thrór, descendant of the last rightful King Under the Mountain and of Durin himself,' he introduces himself imperiously, startled at the endurance of old habits. 'Seeking aid and safe rest before journeying to the Blue Mountains.'

'And what of the woman?' the shape-shifter replies after a heavy silence, examining the tattoos in Thráin's forehead with an odd glint. 'I have never heard of a dwarf travelling with a witch, King or no.'

Thráin nods. 'Indeed, the finest bards from the White City could not weave such a tale,' he muses quietly, single eye watering as he watches a figure clad in green robes over his shoulder. Then Thráin turns his gaze to the giant standing siege, who in turn send him a searching gaze. The fields are quiet save for the soft rustling of leaves, as if in anticipation for his answer. 'But there are few I would vouch for, and fewer less to whom I owe my life twice over.'

'I will let you in, Thráin son of Thrór; then we shall see if you are who you say,' the shape shifter booms, after a pause. 'And perhaps I might tell you a story.'

OooOooO

News of his son hit Thráin like a sledgehammer to the teeth.

'Thorin journeys to the Lonely Mountain?' he cries, gripping a large mug full of creamy milk with both hands.

Beorn nods gravely, brows furrowed from worry; no doubts great matters keep him restless. Thráin watches sharply as a dog walking on two legs – and what a strange sight! – refills the shape-shifter's tankard for the second time and then returns to the hearth, where the witch sits quietly with other animals.

'Not so long ago Thorin Oakenshield and his Company found shelter here in my lands,' says Beorn. He too watches the witch with an even sharper eye, though now there is less wariness and more curiosity in his gaze. 'Slept on the same ground you touch, sat on the same chairs you rest and ate from my larder for a time. A wizard travelled with him, but no longer as he had other matters of greater urgency, a tall fellow with a hat, calling himself Gandalf the Grey -'

'Tharkûn!' Thráin breathes.

'You know of him?' Beorns asks gruffly, and Thráin lets out a whimper that catches the witch's attention at once.

'Aye,' Thráin utters in a trembling voice, the emotion too strong for him to contain. A tear runs down his cheek and into his beard and then another, until he is sobbing noiselessly on his seat. Beside him, Beorn watches intently. 'An old friend, Gandalf the Grey. One I miss and had forgotten until -'

Although his vision is half blurred with tears, Thráin looks over his shoulder to find the witch frown, and she too looks his way with a concerned gaze. Catching her eye, he shakes his head as a warning for her not to disturb them. She archs an eyebrow, crossing her arms in defiance, but otherwise stays put, and keeps on petting the animals. Her robes look a brighter green in the fire light.

'Curse Erebor!' Thráin growls all of a sudden, banging a bony fist on the table. 'A curse lies upon that mountain and on the treasure hoard. What strange fate is mine; that I am to be told my heir lives on only to find he goes to his death.'

'Indeed,' the shape-shifter nods, still without taking his eyes off Thráin.

'I will be ever at your service after this, Master Beorn. I beg of you to tell me more of what transpired under your roof and what plans were made and known to you on this fool's errand. Perhaps I can still save him if luck wills it, as I was saved from the Necromancer when hope had gone.'

'The Necromancer?' Beorn booms, and the shock on his grim face is such that Thráin believes the shape-shifter has seen a ghost. 'So the stories of a shadow in the old fortress are true!'

'Aye, Master Beorn' Thráin whimpers, nodding frantically with his eyes shut tightly.

'This is ill news,' Beorn states, gazing again at the witch. 'Travel east and warn your kin of this evil. Perhaps they have not reached the mountain yet as I sensed no disturbance beyond the elf King's lands; his forest is old and full of secrets. Thorin Oakenshield may have lost the path that leads safely outside the Mirkwood or he may have crossed the lake to the other side without peril. If luck wills it,' the shape-shifter grips his tankard firmly, 'and your luck seems to come in the shape of a woman. Tales of witches that fall from the sky are as strange as flying brooms, but I have seen one of these with my own eyes. I will help you, Thráin son of Thrór, and then make my own arrangements. Hard times are fast approaching for all of us.'

Thráin nods quietly. He understands all too well what Beorn means.

The ominous note in the shape-shifter's speech hangs over their heads for quite a while. Both men, dwarf and giant, stay put for quite a while and drink silently to their own misery and that which will come soon.

Eventually Beorn leaves to scout the wilds, but not without giving Thráin a set of old maps with faded ink and yellow paper that show the several regions from the cold west sea to the Iron Hills, beyond the dragon in the Lonely Mountain, and the kingdom of Angmar. It is over these maps that Thráin cries, tracing the red lines of a dragon circling his home and then the mountain itself, worrying about his son and his kin, who have little idea of what is to come.

And three days later, when they are well rested and treat their injuries, – Thráin still wonders at what magic the witch uses to heal their wounds, watching in awe as she applies a poultice to any gashes in his body and they simply disappear – it is time to leave and find the Company of Thorin Oakenshield.

Later still, after he gazes upon the glistening blue eyes of his son and embraces him for the first time in almost a century, Thráin tells him of the witch who will yet save them all.

So, what did you think of Thráin? Now that he's much more fleshed out as a character, I've noticed the old man has a trickier mind than I expected. Very sharp, too.

Next outtake in line:
- Balin during the river scene and beyond.

Still revising Chapter 15 and it's taking longer than I wanted. If anyone wants to beta for this story, send me a PM!

All feedback is appreciated. Happy readings!