I should have supposed that the opportunity was always going to be too good to be true. A caravan of Erebor dwarves and Barding merchants heading westwards seemed like the perfect chance for me to get away from Dale once and for all. I needed a fresh start. The Watchmen of Dale were at their wits’ end with me, and the folk of Lake-town were getting rougher with those they deemed criminal or unsavory.
When we departed from Dale, it was morning. The sun had yet to rise over the mountains and a thick fog covered the path before us. The swaying of my horse as we departed made me queasy, and I should have known then and there that this journey was not going to be one of ease or light spirits.
We traveled for a day before turning southwards; we would not go through the Mirkwood, with its untold dangers, but we would take the extra time to go around - but we stayed within sight of the forest line, so we did not take too long and overshoot our turn west once more. It was sunset when we saw it - a farm, ravaged and ruined, the only sign of life being two figures digging through the rubble. We were torn on whether to stop or not, but I and a few other bleeding hearts turned our horses to go check on the pair.
I was thankful we did.
“You must help us!” The woman cried. She looked no older than I, and in fact perhaps a bit younger. Curly bronze hair framed her face in her hysteria, and a bow was slung around her back. “My brother and I - we went to Lake-town to fetch supplies, and when we return, our home is destroyed and our parents missing!”
I looked aside her and saw the boy in question; he was no older than thirteen winters, with a round face and blonde hair, and he was hanging onto her arm and our every word. He didn’t speak, but the hopelessness in his blue eyes was enough to grant me pause. They are only children.
We dug through the ruins of their home until the moon was all that was left to light our work. The caravan had gone ahead to find somewhere to stop for the night. I saw the fruitlessness of our efforts beginning to weigh on the siblings; Mercwri, the girl was called, and Marwol her brother. It was not until we entered the ruined house that we realized what tragedy had befallen - silvery, sticky threads of spider silk were spun about the rafters. I did not let them enter.
Ultimately, I convinced the siblings to join me in going westwards. I do not know what came over me - perhaps pity, or sympathy, knowing what it is to be an orphan and to be without a home. Perhaps pride in thinking that I could offer them a better life than what I had grown up with. Whatever the case was, I took them as my own charges; “They shall be my responsibility”, I told the caravan, mostly malcontent dwarves who feared that they would slow our journey down.
Our journey around the paths of Mirkwood and Lorien to the Vales of Anduin was mostly without danger - the three of us formed a family of sorts, and Marwol quickly became as attached to me as he was to his own sister. I became quite fond of them as well, especially so as the dangers of the High Pass over the Misty Mountains became apparent. Our caravan was set upon by goblins from the start, and I think it a miracle that any of us survived the ordeal. Some did not.
By the time we arrived in Bree, we were tired and desolate, not to mention short of coin. If I was going to help these people… I needed to think of something, and fast. Yet, I do not want to fall into my old ways again. Did I really wish to become a thief again? No. I have to find an honest way to provide for them.
Daniel F. Gerhartz; "Streamside"
