Wittkun huddled beside the crackling campfire, its light dancing across his weathered face. Fire burned brightly beneath the Weathertop, which stood tall above, its jagged ruins like broken teeth. The wind rustled the leaves in the small grove, and the babble of the spring joined the crackling flames. Insects chirped in the tall yellow grass, lulling Wittkun into a contemplative mood. The fire’s warmth was a small comfort, but it could not quiet his restless thoughts.
He sat on a broad log, rhythmically sharpening his axe. The motion was almost entirely muscle memory, freeing his mind to wander - and there was plenty to consider. The past days had stirred him more deeply than anything in a long while.
He was thinking about the company in which he found himself. He thought of Vratni, wondering if the merchant was as prepared for the journey as he tried to appear, or if he was way out of his depth? And of the elves he didn’t know what to think; he had not yet seen them in action. He knew very little of their kind, and still the appearance of the Eldar made him feel they were too soft and gentle for what the wilds could throw at them. If he knew, of course, the deeds an elf could accomplish, he would feel more grateful to have them as companions. Flent he understood little - he was in many ways the opposite of Wittkun himself - but he was capable, that was certain, even if it remained to be seen how capable he was outside the marshes he knew so well. And then there was Tivlyn.
Of Tivlyn he thought more than others, for she was a capable warrior, which he always admired in others, be they friends or foes. But there was something else he returned to again and again in his mind. Back in the Marshes, she was very clearly afraid of spiders, and that fear was different from the fear for one’s life that they all felt. It seemed that somehow the very idea of a spider was able to make her very uneasy. That he understood well, for it was not too dissimilar from what he himself felt when imagining venturing deep inside a cave. And yet there was a difference that made him frown and, strangely, almost ashamed and inspired at the same time - the way she could overcome her fear and keep on fighting. He couldn't help but wonder if he himself could do something like that. But back there, they were spiders, and in his past... without wanting to, he kept returning to the visions instilled in him by the brood mother, back in that swamp.
For a long time, Wittkun had avoided those memories, and all that could bring them back. Even in the halls of his people he was rarely seen because of that. How funny it must seem to others. Pride coiled tight in his gut at the memory of the table back in the inn, especially Flent, finding it amusing that a dwarf should be afraid of caves. He shouldn’t have minded it, for they did not know what he had faced down in the depths: past the stone trees, past the flames that never die, caverns where an unearthly light revealed creatures without names. And yet, the shame lit up a fire in his chest. Feay claimed to have seen Moria, but he couldn’t bring himself to believe her words, not before seeing what she could do with his own eyes. After all, in the dark caves, how could a hobbit survive when all the pale creatures came crawling out of the many holes in the stone walls, dark and twisted as the roots of giant trees…
A sudden, sharp pain snapped him back. Wittkun looked down to see a fresh cut across his palm, a thin ribbon of blood curling around the haft of his axe. No wonder his grip had faltered—his hand shook as badly as if he’d just awoke from an uneasy sleep after a night of drinking. In the blade’s honed edge he glimpsed himself: a pale face cast in deep shadow, hair matted wet against his brow. Grunting, he brought the wound to his lips, tasted iron, then rooted through his pack for a bandage.
“Fool, thinking all that,” he scolded himself. Before binding the cut, he poured brandy from his flask - carefully on the wound at first, then a good swig down his throat.
The night stretched on before him, and dawn still felt a long way off. All sounds were still the same, the flowing water, the crackling fire, but one was missing. The whetstone was no longer beating metal: the axe was sharp and ready.
