431Flies and Spiders, oh my!
With the warning of the wizard still ringing clearly in their ears, the company entered into the looming and foreboding forest, quickly falling into a single file as they stood upon the sole path visible in the thick underbrush. Though with how the dark depths of the woods seemed to stretch up and around it, hungrily devouring all available space and light, they likened it more to a tunnel than an actual path, much less a proper road. It's entrance lied underneath the intertwined boughs of two great trees, too old and strangled with ivy and hung with lichen to bear more than a few blackened leaves, their grasping arms forming an arch of sorts, large enough that even Michael need not duck his head to pass underneath the reach of their sagging branches.
Bilbo thought that it truly was more akin to a tunnel than one of the nice walking paths he often strolled across his homely Shire, as the difference between the glade they'd crossed before and the looming trees was as day and night. Only thin slits of light managed to fall towards the forest floor, those few strands of sun that were lucky enough to not be blocked by fat leaves, or thick underbrush, barely enough to illuminate their gloomy surroundings and after a good while of walking, even those slowly died out, leaving nought but deep shadows surrounding the path.
Not even dwarven eyes were good enough to pick up what made all the scurrying, hurrying noises amidst the rustling leaves and branches in this dim non-light and they felt all the more worried for it.
The only comfort that Bilbo could feel in that moment was whenever he glanced at the only source of light that hadn't gone out beneath the thick canopy of Mirkwood, namely Hyperion's glowing white-golden eyes. Though even those seemed dimmer amidst the trees, for the former God-King was looking about with narrowed eyes, his earlier mirth and tree-related puns now seemingly abandoned back at the entrance of the path.
Indeed, Bilbo's strange friend seemed almost… affronted. During their journey, and earlier during the Titans stay at Bag End, Bilbo had come to appreciate the many tales that Michael told and the seemingly endless number of songs that he knew. The last time he had heard his odd friend sing was during his attack on Goblin Town and that had been an odd, deeply voice song that in the underground goblin lair seemed to have been filled and echoing with dark, sinister undertones.
It would seem that this was not something just of the past, as Michael soon traded in his leafy puns for a song that felt oddly… haunting to Bilbo, starting with an odd, throaty hum that lasted almost two minutes (which he couldn't have known on account of having long lost his pocket watch) and after never rising above a soft murmur, Michael's voice oddly mournful and longing.
'Come closer and see
See into the trees
Find the girl
While you can
Come closer and see
See into the dark
Just follow your eyes
Just follow your eyes
The girl was never there
It's always the same
I'm running towards nothing
Again and again and again and again...'
Bilbo suppressed a shudder as the final 'agains' seemed to be picked up by the trees themselves, passed on in deathly still whispers amongst the rustling of leaves and swaying of ivy and lichen, moving despite the stale, windless air trapped beneath the vast canopy.
"M-michael? Who is the girl? You know, in the song?" he tried bravely despite his misgivings, though his friend didn't seem to really even notice, his piercing eyes relentlessly focused on the dark underbrush besides them.
"Hmm? Oh, I went back in time and asked the writer about it once." He said distractedly, and Bilbo blinked a few times, before sagely deciding to ignore the first half of that sentence.
"Well, what did the scribe have to say about it?" for surely, if someone was to know the true meaning of his own words, it would be that same wordsmith after all.
"He didn't know either, just said it was 'some fucking forest mate'. Then he told me take my questions and shove them up my-… well, down the deepest mineshaft of Moria, let's leave it at that." The Titan shrugged, his answer somewhat brusque and taking Bilbo aback.
"Michael? Is everything all right?" the Hobbit asked hesitantly, one eye on the tall Man, one eye on the rustling underbrush.
Not that even two eyes would've helped him much with discerning leaf from shadow he reckoned.
"This gloom… it is not because the light cannot reach here. It's being blocked, barred entry into this place." The former Titan eventually mused aloud, drawing the attention of the rest of the company.
"Indeed, quite so! Just goes to show the lack of common sense so common amongst these Tree Elves! All these trees, there's far too many to be sensible, that they even block the sun. Well then, if not for looking up at the sky, what's the point of living up above the ground in the first place!" Dori said proudly to many agreeing nods from his fellows and even Bilbo, quite fond of Elves and their ways after his most excellent stay at the Last Homely House, couldn't bring himself to fully disagree with the sentiment.
But then during their time in Rivendell, Michael had explained to him the different lineages of Elves, stretching as far back to their first awakenings, knowledge that not even all of the fair folk were aware of themselves. But given it's long history (not all of it pleasant or well-kept) Bilbo wasn't sure he had actually understood all that Michael had revealed to him in passing (though he had made sure to pay extra attention when it concerned the impressively noble lineage of their host, as that was simply proper Hobbit manners after all), but he knew he had caught enough of it to understand that not all Elven kin were too alike, sometimes as differing as a Sackville-Baggins to a Harfoot!
Perhaps that explained their unnaturally dreary surroundings when compared to lovely Rivendell? The Tree Elves, the descendants of the Nandor elf people, those who never crossed the Misty Mountains in their Great Journey to the West, but instead settled amongst its valleys and forests under the leadership of Lenwë and his son Denethor, were of a different stock than the Sindarin to which Elrond belonged through his mother's lineage, or the Noldor and Vanyar to which he was connected to through the line of his father, the great mariner Eärendil.
Ha! Bilbo knew he had memorized that part correctly! As mentioned, recalling family lineages is considered crucial in any proper Hobbit's good manners after all.
'Though then again, a true proper Hobbit wasn't exactly supposed to be out and adventuring either, much less creep along the darkened underbrush of haunted forests…' Bilbo thought somewhat morosely to himself.
"No, little Dori. This place… this darkness… it is not merely an absence of light, but a presence of something… darker. It's not that light cannot reach us here through these thick woods. After all, back in ancient times, when mountains were still young and this forest still new and unexplored, just as thick with trees as now, the forefathers of the Elves that dwell here were so entranced by its beauty that they called it Eryn Galen and chose this place as their home over promised Valinor. Though the sun had not yet risen in those days, for Men had not awoken as the Elves had in Eastern Cuiviénen, and thus no sunlight would've shone upon the forest floor, the ancient Nandor would not have stayed here if true darkness, true Shadow lingered beneath its boughs, for Elves cannot stand it. No, it is something else that wards against the light, that strengthens the shadows, something other, fouler, than mere leaves and trees. It is even resenting my presence here, trying to stifle me with its stillness. It does not wish me to go on, but turn back and leave this place."
That took Bilbo and the others in the Company by surprise. They knew of Michael's strength of course, and back in Goblin Town they had seen what befell those who set their own will against it. Even Beorn had experienced this, in his bear-form even. But for an entire forest to be this hostile to one of their own.
"To stifle sunlight itself and to be hostile even to one such as yourself, Hyperion… I have heard tales of haunted forests, of ancient trees awoken from long slumbers with a great wrath, but even they do not possess such malevolence. Something else is causing this than the trees themselves, no?" Balin, eldest amongst the Company, pointed out wisely, his burly brother at his side hefting his axe in a firm grip as Dwalin sent a baleful glare at the looming trees.
Michael nodded, one of the few times his expression was serious and devoid of any mirth, his own glance hard and harsh as he looked at the surrounding shadows as if they were a personal insult to him.
As a Titan of the Light, they probably were, Bilbo realized.
"Well said, young Balin. Look there, between the grasping arms of that thicket!" Hyperion exclaimed (ignoring the baffled look of the white-bearded elder) as he extended a long, pale arm. From his marbled palm, a beam of light shone as if from a white-golden lantern, providing the first true source of illumination in what felt like half a week of watchful marching.
There hung cobwebs, but nastier than anything they had ever seen. Completely unlike the wispy ragged cobwebs that are often draped carefully over long-forgotten places like a misty veil, where not even Time may dare move them, these strands were unnaturally dark and dense with threads extraordinarily thick, often stretched from tree to tree, or tangled in the lower branches on either side of them. There were none stretched across the path, but whether because some magic kept it clear, or for what other reason they could not guess.
They needed no further explanation from Hyperion (nor did they truly want to hear what monstrosities had produced such awful netting), but he spoke grimly nonetheless.
"S.O.U.S., no doubt about it. Of all the things, in all the multiverses, I hate S.O.U.S. the most."
For a moment, the Company fell silent, before young Nori (who, over the course of their journey, had taken to sticking close to the former Titan and scribbling down his words in a notebook) chanced a question, looking up at the tall Man.
"Uhm… Lord Hyperion, what is a… sous?"
"Hmm? No, a S.O.U.S. You need to capitalize the letters."
"… you can hear capital letters-?"
The question was silenced as Michael ploughed on regardless of the young Dwarf's baffled look.
"Yes, my fellows. The work of S.O.U.S., no doubt. Spiders Of Unusual Size, most assuredly." He said, giving a firm nod, hands placed on his hips, ignoring Bilbo's loud gasp, the poor Hobbit feeling not very assured at all.
Many of the Company blanched at his words, and more than a few kept a wary eye on the thick, dark strands that choked the life and light out of their surroundings. That gentle, but ominous swaying of the threads, that must simply be the wind, right? Nevermind that the air was thick and cloying and felt more stale than an abandoned mineshaft…
It was something that had been pressing on them the moment they had entered Mirkwood, and after a couple of days on the path and underneath its hanging boughs, they were sick for a sight of the sun and of the sky, and longed for the feel of wind on their faces. There was no movement of air down under the forest-roof, and it was everlastingly still and dark and stuffy. Even the Dwarves felt it, accustomed as they were to their underground halls, but poor Bilbo felt as if he was slowly being suffocated, as if a kerchief (and not a proper one of good quality either) was constantly being pressed to his nose and mouth.
"To think mere spiders are capable of calling forth such shadow. They fear the light, I know, but to weave darkness itself…" Bifur said warily and Michael nodded at their words.
"A dark gift from their terrible ancestor. Many of the S.O.U.S. here are of a lesser brood to the terrible Shelob, who stalks the dark tops of the mountain peaks high above bleak Cirith Ungol, the pass named both for her presence and the foul being that gave birth to her and the rest of her terrible ilk. For Cirith Ungol means 'Spider's Path' in Sindarin, the tongue of the Elves, who do not go that way anymore. The very word for spider comes from the very first who entered this realm, a great primordial shadow that came from a far-off distant void, which took the shape of a monstrous being with far too many legs and far too many eyes and whose hunger devoured the ancient light of Valinor. The dread spider Ungoliant, as she was named by the first of the dark spirits of this world, was consumed by such a terrible, unending hatred and hunger, she was led to the beloved trees Telperion, father of the moon, and Laurelin, mother of the sun, who filled the world with their silver and golden light in a harmony not seen when the gods first filled this realm with the lantern-light of the blue-white Illuin in the north and golden Ormal in the south, before their smiting by the Arch-Coward Morgoth. And just as Morgoth dimmed the light of this world in those first days, so too did he again with the beloved trees, for he commanded Ungoliant to sink her poisonous fangs deep into the trees and drink greedily from their light, sucking it into itself and leaving only death and ruin in her wake. When all the host of Valinor descended upon the villains with a great vengeance and sorrow, they fled and Ungoliant spun not web, not even Shadow, but true anti-Light, that snuffed out all sight so that even the great Huner Oromë could not see his way and lost them to the endless darkness. But feasting on the light of the trees had swelled Ungoliant to an unbelievable size, so that she towered even over Morgoth and she filled him with dread and he fled from her, his frightened shriek still audible in the wailing winds of Lammoth in the far, icy north."
"So her daughter now stalks near Morgoth and the lesser of that brood now lurk amidst these woods. But what of their mother, this Ungoliant from which all spiders come and derive their name?" Thorin asked, stoically trying to ignore the way the shadowy webs seemed to pull and shift at the very name of the first dread spider.
Regardless of his misgivings in discussing ancient spirits of shadow responsible for the darkening of the world out in the open, well aware that names have power, Thorin would rather be informed if there were any other oversized critters standing between him and the reclamation of Erebor.
One overgrown lizard was quite more than enough, thank you very much, he could very well do without gigantic spiders on top of that!
"She fled to some forgotten dark hole, spun of shadow where she gave birth to her many daughters, of which ancient Shelob now remains as the eldest amongst them. Nobody knows where that ancient lair is, and though I could find it should I try, I will not go on such a venture, even if as a Lord of Light, I would long to smite such a foul place with the full might of the Light Dimension. Do not fret though, Thorin and Company, for it is unlikely we shall stumble over it's ancient remains, for the end of Ungoliant has long since come to pass."
"Has she been slain already?" Nori asked in surprise, fully absorbed in the legendary tale, and Bilbo shared his disbelief, struggling to imagine any in this world who could deal with such an ancient being made of sheer terror and shadow.
Michael could do it, he didn't doubt that, but then the former Titan was a being entirely its own, even diminished as he was, who freely boasted he could beat Tulkas himself in an arm wrestling match and Bilbo didn't hesitate to believe him. Still, the Hobbit remembered one of the first histories that Michael had told him of Bilbo's own world, which was the slaying of the mighty black dragon Ancalagon, whose ruinous fall smote the mountains themselves, yet despite his mind-boggling size was still slain by Elrond's father Earendil.
Now, Elrond was certainly a tall Elf, especially by Hobbit standards, but Bilbo severely doubted his father had been large enough to stand over mountains like his foe, so it was not unheard of for the small of this world to take on the greatest challenges he knew.
Still, Michael's answer surprised (and slightly disturbed) them all.
"Yes, she was. By her own gluttony. Isolated from the world, and gone mad with ravenous hunger, she devoured the only thing she could attack: herself. She feasted on her own flesh until nothing of her remained."
Briefly the company shuddered at Michael's words, before Bifur sullenly kicked a pebble off the beaten path and into a nearby thicket of underbrush (which kept rustling uncomfortably long after the stone had already landed), his hands fisted deep into his pockets, a mulish expression on his face.
"Nothing save her endless brood of sous, that is."
"S.O.U.S., yes. Make sure to capitalize correctly."
"… okay, no, seriously, how-?"
"What must we do then? Do we turn back?" Bilbo interrupted quickly, trying (and failing utterly) to keep the hope from showing in his voice, glad to be away from the oppressive underbrush and palling forest path.
Not a small number amongst the Dwarves, not at ease anyways amidst leafy greens, much less blackened lichen, were quick to agree, but Thorin shook his head at the suggestion. Though even he seemed somewhat reluctant to waylay the Hobbit this time, his hands still on the handle of Orcrist, his eyes never leaving the sides of the narrow path, leading boldly, but warily from the front.
As one of the few veterans of war amongst the assembled Dwarves, Thorin knew watchful eyes were tracking them.
Far, far too many eyes, it felt like.
But no, he knew they need to press on, or forfeit the Quest entirely. So he spoke, his voice low, as if the forest was pushing in to press down on sound as it did to light.
"No, Master Baggins, we cannot turn back, as we've already discussed back at the house of the bear-man Beorn. Already when we arrived at the entrance of this accursed forest, we calculated that travelling around it would mean we could never hope to reach the Lonely Mountain in time, now you would add the days of walking we've already done to our journey by back-tracking our steps? We press on." The Prince said with a firm tone of finality.
And so they did, all throughout what felt was most of the day, and only stopping when it became truly dark, to the point you couldn't see your hand if you waved it in front of your face. Bilbo knew, he tried. Their only respite was the fire they built at night. Usually Michael left them to their own devices in such regard, only offering aid when they needed it (though much less often when they asked for it), but this time, probably out of his own desire to drive back the reaching shadows, he made a large roaring fire out of nothing.
He simply pointed at a patch of ground near the edge of the path, a bolt of light flew from his fingertip faster than Bilbo could follow and a small fire grew hungrily as it soared to a height surpassing that of all the Dwarves save Dwalin. Bilbo was a little worried the fire would spread to consume the surrounding trees, but even he was only worried a little, considering how oppressive said trees had been for the past few days.
Nonetheless, he needn't have worried. Even without fuel, the fire stood in its place, never growing and never dimming, it's vibrant golden light illuminating deep into the tree line, sending shadows scurrying away and throwing the cloying cobwebs in sharp relief. The glints of eyes that had come out when night fell, glowing, blinking, fading and then reappearing elsewhere in the underbrush (and occasionally in the branches above their heads, which frightened Bilbo most of all) dared not approach the large circle of light, retreating back deep into the darker shadows of the surrounding forest.
The only thing that approached their fire were thousands upon thousands of thick black moths, some as big as their hands, but after a few dismayed shouts when the things whirred and flapped around their ears, Hyperion drew a large circle around their company and fire, which gave of a very strong citrus-like scent, which deterred most of the flying beasts. Those that could not resist the allure of the flames found themselves mercilessly zapped in a quick flash of electricity the moment they set foot (… or wing, rather) into the protective barrier.
The brief pop and sizzle was distracting, but a far more welcome alternative, so the Company wisely kept their mouths shut and their complaints to themselves. They instead tried merrymaking by the fire, gathering the few instruments they had brought that hadn't broken or lost their strings in the journey so far, but they found that while the shadowy forest could not dampen Michael's fire, it still could dampen their spirits and so they spent most nights huddled together and talking quietly, before giving in to restless sleep. They had offered to take turns to keep watch, but Michael had surprisingly declined, his white-golden eyes intent and focused on their surroundings.
Clearly, even the Titan of Light was on edge, and while his offer was intended to let them all have some more sleep, his clearly visible tension had quite the opposite effect on all of them.
And so it continued, on and on and endlessly longer still, it felt to the Hobbit. The food that Beorn had gifted them had begun to run out, until Michael, some of his old (and strange) humor returning to him, ordered them to bring him one bread and one fish, which he kept tearing small bits off until all their packs were filled to the brim in front of their disbelieving eyes. When Bifur hesitantly mentioned that their water-skins were drying up as well, Michael, still with that strange smile on his lips, took up a large stone that lied on the side of the narrow path, brushed it off until it was clean and then held the stone over a few of their water-skins. Then the Man squeezed and a torrent of water poured from the hardened stone, filling their water supply to the brim.
At Bilbo's shocked look, Michael's grin widened.
"At one point during my reign, I briefly worked as a tax collector." He said as way of explanation, which weirdly enough the oddball Bifur nodded at in understanding.
"Theft is theft, but taxation is also theft!" he said defensively at the strange look his fellows gave him, which was not a smart thing to say considering his Prince and future King stood behind him.
At least the debate that followed took their minds of the cobwebs that seemed to envelop entire trees now, gathered and strung over the entirety of Mirkwood it seemed, save for the narrow path that they begrudgingly took. Yet in all that time they had seen neither spring nor stream. This was their state when one day they found their path blocked by a running water. It flowed fast and strong but not very wide right across the way, and it was black, or looked it in the gloom. It was well that Beorn had warned them against it, or they would have drunk from it, whatever its colour, and filled some of their emptied skins at its bank. As it was they only thought of how to cross it without wetting themselves in its water. There had been a bridge of wood across, but it had rotted and fallen leaving only the broken posts near the bank.
Almost immediately, a good deal of their number looked towards Hyperion (for with his stern demeanour in the haunted forest, it seemed less and less appropriate to call him simply Michael as more and more of the ancient god-king became visible to them). So far during their journey, he had often laughed off their calls for aid, before eventually chipping in should they need it, because, as he put it, while they were on a Quest, he was on holiday and not even he would work while on break.
"Even gods rest, after all." He had said with a shrug by one of their camp fires one night when they had gathered the courage to question him on it and that had been the end of that.
Now however, it would seem that the former Titan was putting a pause on his vacation as they didn't even need ask him to help them ford the dangerous stream, for it was far too narrow to call it a proper river.
"Had I still my former powers, I would've simply reversed Time itself until the bridge was freshly built, but alas, it is best they remain sealed in my former home." Hyperion mused with a furrowed brow as he looked upon the rotted planks, before glancing at the far bank.
"Well, in lieu of that I could always just toss you? It's not that far, after all." he offered with a grin, some of his former humour returning to him as the forest was shook with the indignant roars of thirteen outraged Dwarves (and hesitant protestations of one offended Hobbit).
Holding up his hands in a placating manner (and having to wait quite a few minutes before the Dwarves were actually calmed down enough to even notice the gesture), Michael shrugged, before steadily approaching their end of the broken bridge.
"Fine, fine. It's not much of a bother. I may not have utter control over reality itself anymore, but I still have plenty of magic left for something like this."
Before any of the company could ask what 'this' was, Michael pointed one slender finger towards the bridge, before incanting in a grand tone of voice "Reparo!". While they had all seen great feats of magic from the Titan at this point, they still remained awed at the visual spectacle of his powers.
Rot ate away at the planks and posts in reverse, leaving wood behind that was hale and whole. The planks that had fallen below into the stream now sprang up with vigour as twine and rope tightened itself until no stray frays of strand remained, then it lashed itself to the beams and planks. In mere moments, a quaint wooden bridge crossed over the stream to the opposite bank and Michael dusted off his hands, a satisfied look on his face.
"Well, it's no Piertotum Locomotor, but it is a spell I've always wanted to use, so I say it counts." He said aloud to himself (which was just as well, because none of the others in the Company had a clue what he was talking about), before he beckoned Thorin over.
At the start of their journey, the Prince would've done so, but hesitantly, not exactly keen to follow the directions of another, and a stranger at that and a Man to boot. However, by now he had come to trust Hyperion (or at the very least, trust the strange godlike being meant him and his Quest no harm), so Thorin strode forwards confidently, not even halting in his step when Hyperion extended his arm towards the nearest bridge posts with a flourish and a silken red ribbon appeared between them.
"Why not officially open this bridge for new use, Thorin, son of Thrain? As a good omen that trade and travel may return to these once great lands."
Personally Thorin had… thoughts on just how great woodland realms of stuck up Elves could even be in the first place, but he wisely held his tongue. Besides, he quite liked a bit of ceremony, so without complaint he withdrew the legendary Orcrist from its finely wrought scabbard and approached the brand new ribbon.
He did not have to think for long, before he raised his sword in a solemn gesture.
"Hereby do I, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, the Lord of Erebor and future King under the Mountain once more, declare the official opening of the Great Thorin Bridge!" and down came Orcrist and it sheered through the silky red material with ease.
Bilbo was briefly baffled by the grandiose name for the 'bridge' (that all in all, even with Michael's magic, just accounted for a couple of planks lashed to some wooden posts after all), before he noticed that the other Dwarves had begun respectfully applauding their Prince, so he politely joined in as well, abashedly ignoring Michael's wink and Balin's knowing look.
And so they crossed the stream after some ceremony but with no great trouble, though no sooner had Bombur set foot on the far shore (the rejuvenated wood of the Great Thorin Bridge groaning ominously under his very step), but did trouble find them in the form of flying sound of hooves on the path ahead. Out of the gloom came suddenly the shape of a flying deer, a great black stag, taller than any Dwarf, taller than most Men even, with an imposing rack of antlers showing its great age and strength. It nearly bowled into the gathered Dwarves (and one Hobbit) and would've bowled them over for sure, maybe even knocked a few of them right back in the dark stream, if it were not for Michael, who had heard the stamping hooves before anyone else.
The tall Man protectively stood arms spread wide in front of the Company and either the hart in its flight had not seen him, or in its overconfidence thought it could bowl him over as well.
It was sadly mistaken as the harsh impact could attest to, the noise akin to a sack of grain being thrown against a castle wall by a particularly angry troll. While Bilbo wouldn't be wholly surprised if the deer could speak, since their visit to Beorn's homestead, he was almost sure he actually heard the great animal let out a surprised 'oomph!' as it recoiled from the impact, trying to find its footing on unsteady hooves.
"Easy there friend, and watch your step! What has you in such a haste that you take no care where your hooves may lead you, I was told the great stags of the Greenwood Realm had more grace than that!" the Titan spoke, lifting the dazed deer off the ground by simply picking it up by it's large antlers and placing it back on its wobbly legs.
For some moments, the stag shook his head and stamped his hooves and Bilbo got the distinct impression that the great beast was anxious about something that laid behind, which was concerning considering the large hit it had just taken to the front.
"What's the matter with it Michael?" Bilbo inquired, awed (but respectfully wary) of the hart's great antlers.
"There is a hunt. He was going to sacrifice himself by trying to lead them away from his mate and his fawn." Michael said grimly, gently patting the powerful neck of the large beast, trying to calm it down somewhat as it was still panting and stamping its hooves, its eyes wild as it shook its mighty tines to and fro.
As if to add proof to the deer's words (… well, gestures, Bilbo supposed), they became aware of the dim blowing of horns in the wood and the sound as of dogs baying far off, before suddenly on the path ahead appeared some white deer, a hind and fawns as snowy white as the hart had been dark. They glimmered in the shadows as the hind turned to look at the great stag at Michael's side. Faced with such a prize, Fili and Kili, youngest amongst the company and decent hunters, excitedly made to grab for their bows (the swift black squirrels of the forest with their rancid stringy meat had not made for good hunting after all), but one stern look from the Titan made their hands fall at their sides as they awkwardly shuffled their feet.
Grateful as they were for the miraculous food that Michael had provided, for well they knew they would have naught but hunger filling their bellies if it weren't for his generosity, they had become quite tired of endless meals of bread and fish, or fish and bread and they yearned for a good bit of venison.
Though it would hardly do to take down a mother and her children right in front of her mate after all. Even if they did look delicious.
Hesitantly, the hind waited as her stag stood uncertain at Michael's side. It's ears flicked with each blast of the hunting horn, even if the sound was dim and seemed far off (though even in regular forests, if dense enough, sounds could be deceiving, not to mention haunted ones such as this), and it only remained standing still because the pale Man's comforting hand upon its flank.
Michael glanced from the direction of the hunting party to the small family of deer, before he shook his head. He looked at the stag besides him, before gently addressing it.
"No name have you, but in possession of great cunning and strength you must be to have grown to such size and fathered such great offspring. I shall name you and may you forever find the hounds at your heels too slow and the hunters on your trail off their mark. And should you ever pass back down this road to the glade beyond, perhaps in less gloom-filled times, be sure to visit a friendly bear in the guise of a beekeeper, and tell him I said 'thank you for the honey'. Go now, and be forever swift, Ceryneia." Michael intoned gravely and he took a soft hold of the stag's antlers.
Privately Bilbo couldn't help but compare his friend's impromptu speech to Thorin's earlier grand gesture and he found the Dwarven Prince severely lacking.
'Though I suppose that's the difference several millennia would make.' He thought, though he'd never say so out loud of course.
Briefly the deer's antlers seemed to shimmer in the still gloom of the forest, before the stag raised its head and shook out its many tines and they seem to glint with flecks of gold in what little light there was, a stunning contrast to its dark coat and as graceful as the soft silvery white of its family.
It stamped its hooves, but proudly instead of anxiously, tossing its head and snorting a great heave of air, as if daring any hunter to face it now, before it did something that took all of them, even Michael, off guard: it took a step back, and then bent one knee and lowered his head in what was clearly a bow towards the Titan. Before the large Man could regain his composure, the mighty stag turned and sprang off into the shadows, its hind and fawn right on its heels as they disappeared between the many trees.
"Well, I'll be…" Michael trailed off in a soft voice, before chuckling merrily, his earlier gloomy mood seemingly all but forgotten now.
"Wait 'till Radagast hears about this!" he said to nobody in particular, considering none among the Company had even the slightest clue as to who this Radagast character might be and why he in particular would need to know about golden-antlered deer bowing to ancient god-kings in haunted forests.
In any case, they had crossed the stream that Beorn had warned them about, now the rest of the path lay before them, though to their dismay it seemed to straggle on just as before. Seeing their dismay, it was Kili who surprisingly lifted their spirits. As said, he and his brother were none too shabby when it came to hunting, and though as dwarves they did not hunt from horseback, they knew enough about it to realize what the bellowing of the horn signified.
"No rider who would ever dare steer his prized steed through thick underbrush and gnarled thickets as we have passed before, it is much too tight for them!"
Balin was quick to understand the meaning of the excited youth's words, a smile splitting his snow-white beard.
"That must mean at last we're drawing towards the eastern edge, and should soon come, if we keep our courage and our hope, to thinner trees and places where the sunlight comes again."
That set all the Company in a good mood and in high spirits they trekked on, leaving the enchanted stream (and the Great Thorin Bridge) behind them for now.
Fun Fact: Tolkien wrote much of The Lord of the Rings by hand with a fountain pen and revised constantly, sometimes rewriting entire chapters multiple times. At one point, Aragorn even started out as a hobbit named Trotter who wore wooden shoes. Humble beginnings indeed.
AN: I wanted to get to the spiders in this chapter, but there's actually quite a lot that happens in the book before the Company gets tangled up with them (get it? Eh? Ehh?), most of which is moot now that Michael is there to help them out, so I need to figure out how to tackle that. Hopefully it's coming out soon, but no promises: this chapter already got published late because (and I shit you not) one of my students got arrested and I had to deal with the fallout. (that's the third one this year…)