[Imladris]

Balin

Balin braced himself as he saw Malí approach, her brows tied in a knitted frown, her spectacles perched upon the end of her nose. In her hand were papers and it looked as if she was reading them. Yes, he would hear again about how foolish it was to go through Mirkwood.

"Balin, sir, I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Mali said, a queer smile on her face, “but according to my calculations, which I never show unless absolutely correct and triple-checked, if we keep walking at this pace and go through Mirkwood-" she paused, skimming her papers again, --"-then we will arrive at our destination in almost three years!"

Balin’s eyebrows shot up and he stared at her. Three blasted years? He shook his head and narrowed his eyes at her, a small smile playing about his lips. “Three years, you say, to make the journey through Mirkwood? You must have made a mistake, lassie.” He grinned broadly and winked at her before bursting into a loud guffaw. “Come come, Malí,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her away from the chattering elves, “You don’t really want to go through Mirkwood do you, lass?”

Ori

Ori stretched a crisp piece of paper onto a stump and dipped his fin goose quill pen into his tiny bottle of ink. Pausing, he raised his head upwards, pondering what to write.

Hail, King Dain, (may your beard ever grow longer),

The journey has been without event or danger. The dwarves are full of song, especially Nali, and there have been no serious quarrels along the way.

There is one problem, though: a problem of honour, according to Balin. He wants to pass through Mirkwood instead of circling the long way around. He says that we should not be afraid of those elves who captured us so ignobly before and that if the elves want trouble, they’ll have to come and make it themselves. You must admire him for his honorable spirit, but I’m afraid that the elves will take this ill. Thankfully, Balin promised not to annoy the elves purposely, but still, I am uneasy at this turn of events.

Ori

Carefully folding the parchment, he sealed it with a drop of hot red wax and with a firm hand addressed it to King Dain with dwarvish runes. At his whistle, a sleek raven dived from a nearby oak and landed upon Ori’s outstretched arms. The raven was one of the last birds that yet spoke to the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain. Ori tied the folded parchment to the raven’s leg with a piece of string, and said, “Bring this to King Dain, and then return to me.”

With a nod in reply, the raven spread is sable wings and circled into the air before gliding south towards the Erebor.

Sighing, Ori sat on the stump, remembering his time in Thranduil’s prison. It had been a humbling experience, but was it worth deliberately entering into the forbidden forest? It was a land of elves and spiders and dwarves had no place in it. But Balin was in command of the group and not himself -- he would follow Balin no matter what he ordered.

He saw Flori and called him over, saying, “We haven’t had much time to talk since we left the Mountain,” he said. He glanced over at Ori with a smile, but stopped: his brother’s face was a little pale, and his eyes sad, almost guilty. “What is the matter, Flori?” he asked gently.