By Dawn's Early Light by Grundy

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The Shadow

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Bilbo watched her out of the corner of his eye. It was the only choice, really, since both of them had been given a place at the high table- he as one of the company of Thorin, she as the elf who had, like a hero of old, helped prevent complete disaster for the dwarves. Not that she wouldn’t have merited a high place in any case, as the daughter of Elrond, but after the battle, no one spoke of her as her father’s daughter- they all knew her.

Bilbo had seen her during the battle. Everyone, it seemed had seen her during the battle. The she-elf of the Battle of Five Armies would no doubt be legend before the winter’s end. There were already songs being sung of the paragon of a warrior made inscrutable elven flesh- female elven flesh, which to Bilbo’s disgust seemed to fascinate the Men of the Lake no end.

Privately, Bilbo was quite sure Lady Anariel hadn’t known one dwarf from another in the heat of battle, but Dain Ironfoot had credited her with saving Kili, and although Anariel herself wasn’t too polite to argue with the Lord of the Iron Hills, both Gandalf and the elf king had pinned her with stern looks that had stopped any further protest on her part. She had to accept her role as the protector of the new young King Under the Mountain.

Poor Kili seemed quite overwhelmed by the turn of events that had made him king, and insisted that his older cousin Dain stay. Dain would no doubt be among the young king’s most trusted advisors, probably second only to Balin. Kili had, even before Dain’s guidance, declared his intention to honor Thorin’s agreement regarding the disposition of one fourteenth of the treasure to ransom the Arkenstone.

The Arkenstone had been returned to Kili before the feast this very evening, with Anariel acting as the representative of Kings Bard and Thranduil. Bilbo had heard murmurings from several sides that Kili was the luckiest male in the huge tent that had been raised specifically for the feast- he had both the gem and Anariel at his side.

Bilbo himself was concerned. When he’d watched her return the stone, he’d noticed that Anariel was not herself. At least, not the self that he remembered. Warrior or not, he had seen her kindness and her humor- and her mischief. The words he was hearing whispered about her, and the evidence of his own eyes bore no relation to the Anariel he’d seen in the elf king’s halls, and only slightly more to the goblin bane revealed in battle.

If anything, she seemed in that moment to be an extension of the Arkenstone- pale, remote, gleaming with a light all her own. But that light was cold, a winter morning now where before it had held the warmth and cheer of a summer afternoon.

He had observed that her own people seemed concerned about her also. Her brothers, both so very like their father that he should have guessed them sons of Elrond on sight even had he not been properly introduced, kept quite close to her ever since the battle’s end. King Thranduil watched over her, and there seemed to be a guard of elves around her whenever she moved through the camp. It was a bit silly, to Bilbo’s mind. A girl who could fight the most fearsome goblins in Bolg’s army had little to fear from men, and nothing at all from her own people.

So it was quite the surprise to him when she managed to slip away from the feast. Not unnoticed, of course- Anariel Dagnis would never again be unnoticed by Men. Her brothers exchanged a troubled look, but allowed her to sneak out of the tent unaccompanied.

Bilbo tried not to smile. He had not had the chance to speak to her since the battle, and now was as good a time as any. And unlike others at this feast, he could follow her without being seen.

Slipping the ring on, he followed in Anariel’s wake, which was easy enough to do- even without her in sight, all he needed was to look for the men (and even a few elves) who had the expression which told him she had passed by them.

She moved swiftly, and something in her face must have warned other elves not to approach her. Men would not- they were well aware she was beyond their reach. It was only when she reached the edge of the camp that her pace slowed. She didn’t go beyond sight of the camp- Bilbo suspected there was an agreement between her and her king- but she did look more at ease.

She stood still, regarding the all too fresh mounds marking the burials of men, elves, and dwarves who had fallen in the battle. Not Thorin, of course- he had been entombed in the Mountain itself, and Kili had declared the Arkenstone would be laid on his tomb, in his keeping for all time. But all other dead had been laid to rest in graves, each with their own people. While she regarded each mound in turn, it was not surprising that her eyes lingered on the elves’ mound.

She must have known he was there- she had always known when he was there- so he waited, keeping vigil over her as she did over her fallen, until she was ready to speak. He had quite lost track of how long he waited by the time she did.

“You know, I’m sure I told you to be careful with that invisibility trick of yours,” she told the air around her.

Bilbo removed the ring, now that she had acknowledged him.

“You did,” he replied. “You said to save it for when it was important. I can think of nothing more important than the welfare of a friend.”

She smiled, but it was touched by sadness. The merriment that had previously marked her face was absent, its lack as shocking as its presence had been encouraging.

“I suppose I cannot argue with that. Thank you for being so understanding.”

He knew at once that she meant for leaving her to her thoughts until she felt up to conversation.

“You would have done the same,” he said heartily, sure that he was right. At least, he was right when Anariel was her usual self. He wasn’t entirely sure about this more subdued, distant Anariel.

“Why are you here, Bilbo?” she asked quietly. “I am told hobbits like good food and good company, and I cannot provide either at present.”

“I have always heard it is better to walk a sad road in company than alone,” he offered.

He waited, but she still had returned her eyes to the dead.

“Is it the first time you have seen death?” he asked, shocking himself with his boldness. Elves, he knew, did not die, so it stood to reason that an elf maiden might have trouble with the idea.

“No,” she replied sadly. “Nor the last. Though it is the first time I have seen so much death.”

“Ah,” he muttered. “I thought surely I was the only one who was not impressed with what battle truly was.”

That got no reply from Anariel, so Bilbo pressed on.

“Personally, I shall be happy to return to my own snug little hobbit hole, and the biggest adventure I mean to have after I do will be lighting off fireworks at Midsummer. I shall write poetry, and if I’m feeling particularly daring, I may venture as far as Bree on a sunny day.”

The smile she gave him was marginally closer to what he remembered, just enough to reassure him that she did still know how to smile properly.

“Where is your home, Bilbo?” she asked, sounding more the carefree young elf she had been in Thranduil’s halls.

“In Hobbiton, which if you did not know, is the very nicest part of the Shire,” Bilbo replied. Speaking of it, he could almost imagine his garden, and picture himself seated in it blowing smoke rings.

“Where is the Shire?” Anariel asked. “I may have been told where it was, but my brothers say so many things it’s impossible to remember all of it.”

“West of your father’s house, Lady Anariel,” Bilbo said, heartened to hear her sound more like her old self than she had since those desperate moments on the Ravenhill. “In fact, I shall call on Lord Elrond on my journey home.”

“You will?” she exclaimed, brightening.

It was like watching the sun breaking through the clouds after a storm, Bilbo reflected.

“When are you setting out?” she asked excitedly. “Because I think we go back to Imladris when Thranduil returns to the Greenwood. We could make the journey together.”

Bilbo found himself grinning at the sheer infectiousness of her enthusiasm.

“I believe we will set out when the elf-king breaks camp,” he replied. “Gandalf speaks of stopping in the Woodland Realm before continuing the journey. I think we will also stop at the house of another acquaintance of ours, Beorn.”

“The bear-man?” Anariel asked, sounding intrigued. “He doesn’t mind elves, does he?”

Bilbo laughed.

“I doubt it. You will praise his animals, so he will doubtless like you better than me! But will your brothers not object to joining us?”

Anariel waved that off.

“If Mithrandir’s with you, you must be on the list of folk it’s ok to hang out with,” she assured him airily. “Come on, let’s go find the wizard. And my brothers.”

Bilbo hesitated a moment. While he was pleased to see her more herself, he couldn’t help but wonder at the abrupt change.

“Lady Anariel?” he asked.

She snorted.

“Bilbo, we’re friends, right?” At his nod, she continued. “Then call me Buffy. They call me Anariel, and Dagnis, and other names that aren’t me, and talk as though I walked straight out of a song with a sword in one hand and the light of Elbereth in the other.”

Bilbo wondered if perhaps part of the answer to his question hadn’t just been given, but he asked anyway.

“Buffy, then. Why were you out here, watching the dead, when the entire camp is feasting?”

For just a second, her seriousness returned, though her light blazed brighter in the darkness.

“A reminder to myself,” she said grimly. “And a warning.”

Bilbo couldn’t think what she meant.

“A reminder of what?”

“The price of failure,” she said, and for just a moment, his friend Buffy was not the one speaking, but the mighty elf-warrior Anariel Dagnis. “Of why I must fight the Enemy wherever he is, and see him utterly defeated. Nothing can ever erase that sight, but it may take away some of its sting.”