[i]What they say about Mirkwood was true[/i], Húldas thought. [i]A dark place[/i]. [i]A cursed place[/i]. [i]A fell place[/i]. 

Neither the defeat of Sauron nor the efforts of the Elfking Thranduil had been able to fully dispel the darkness of the wood. When one crept the paths of Mirkwood, one sensed a [i]lingering[/i], a [i]scuttling[/i], not of some beast or creature (though those both were present in equal proportion), but of the very air itself. Something stirred, beyond one's vision, beyond one's hearing, beyond one's very ability to perceive, and yet one [i]knew[/i] that it was there, in the deep places of the wood where no light could ever hope to reach. 

The colonists of Dôr-min-Taur were fools, and likely they had met a fool's end. But it just so happened that one of them was his brother. And, dead or no, he had to find him. 

Húldas could not fathom why Dúnmer had chosen this place, of all places, to fly from the sight of their father. Gondor would've been his choice, if it had been him, or across the Misty Mountains to Arnor, places far more comfortable, and at the very least tamed. Perhaps he had, though; although they had been corresponding by letter for two years, Dúnmer had never been quite clear on the thirteen or so years between his flight from Rohan and his arrival in Dôr-min-Taur, and Húldas had not pried. But one thing he had to admit: if one wanted to hide from the eyes of the world, Mirkwood was perhaps the best place in all of Middle-Earth, barring the deep mansions of the dwarves. Dúnmer claimed he had come to Dôr-min-Taur for the opportunity to get rich from the mithril boom, and Húldas did not doubt it...but was there more to it than that? Húldas was unsure, and he couldn't be sure of anything about Dúnmer any more. After all, he hadn't seen him in thirteen years. 

[i]Soon enough I'll know the truth[/i], he thought, leading Hárfax through a particularly treacherous tangle of roots, [i]About all of this[/i]. 

It was cold in the wood. The close, humid air had a way of chilling you to the bone, creeping underneath your furs like a thief. Húldas pulled his cloak more tightly about him, his breath fogging in the gloom. He paused for a moment, regarding the closely knotted canopy above; even in winter, it seemed, the trees did not shed their leaves. 

[i]Just another sign of the wickedness of this place[/i]. 

A small brook, dark and bitterly cold and choked with smooth, egg-like stones, ran quietly not too far off. Húldas decided this was just as good a place as any to take a rest and get his bearings. He planted his spear (which he had been using as a walking stick) into the earth, sloughed off the saddlebags Hárfax's back, and finally lowered himself down onto a soft bed of leaves at the foot of a gnarled oak. Hárfax, free of her burden, wandered off towards the brook. Húldas' legs ached from the saddle, his bones felt like they were rattling, and he was hungry besides; what's more, he thought that he was lost. From the saddlebag he extracted the map he had bought at the small settlement of Woodmen who lived on the forest outskirts (forced out by recent events), along with a rind of moldy cheese and a crust of stale bread. He ate ravenously while trying to make sense of the thing. Scrutinizing the terrain, trying to match the brook with the little squiggles on the map, even for ten or more minutes, availed him no greater understanding of his environs. It all looked the same to him: dark trees, dark streams, dark paths, dark, dark, dark, with little light to guide him. He could be anywhere in Mirkwood, for all he knew. But what else could he do, other than go forward? The Woodmen said that if he continued on his northward course, he should reach Dôr-min-Taur within the matter of days, though even they were unsure of its exact location. As they had said, "Once you enter the wood, you shall be alone, utterly, and shall have yourself only for guide." A comforting thought.  

He brushed the crumbs off of his clothes, rolled the map up, and with a grunt, hoisted himself up onto his feet with his spear. He had lost sight of Hárfax, but heard a whinny a little ways off. Spear in hand, he shouldered the saddlebags and headed towards the direction of the brook, calling out softly, "Hárfax! [i]Tolo anin naur[/i]!" He found her watering in the stream. "I hope that black water doesn't corrupt you too," he said tenderly in her ear, stroking her dark mane, "I'm sorry...but I must burden you again. We must press on. [i]Gwaem[/i]." 

Then, he heard it, faintly, above the cooing of the waters...[i]voices[/i]. 

He froze, and immediately let the saddlebags down onto the mossy shore. He pricked up his ears and listened; it was coming from the northeast...a man...no, a Dwarf, and a female...an Elf. [i]A peculiar pair[/i], he thought. He couldn't understand what they were saying; he knew he had to get closer, and if they were friendly, hail them. It could have been merely some glamour of the wood, trying to trick him, or bandits trying to prey upon those who had wandered in in search of the colony. He doubted it, though; he thought that he had heard some Sindarin, and later some patches of Westron. Perhaps they were colonists who had lost their way; Dwarves, Men, and Elves lived in tandem in Dôr-min-Taur, after all. Glamour or no, bandit or no, friend or foe, he had to know who they were. 

"[i]Boe i 'waen[/i]," he whispered to Hárfax, "Stay here." 

He leapt nimbly across the brook, and, kneeling down, began to creep through the brush towards the direction of the voices. His heart was pounding; it was like the sensation of stalking a deer. He threw his hood up. In the sylvan gloom, his breath was the only thing that marked his progress. The voices were drawing nearer; he was able to discern multiple speakers, not merely two, as he had at first...multiple Elves, and still only one Dwarven voice. Curious indeed. Finally, in the midst of the trees, he found them: four Elves, all with bows drawn, and led by a strikingly beautiful female. Their bows were directed towards an imposing Dwarf, with an axe slung over his shoulder. 

At a sign from the Elven leader, the others stood down and adopted a less hostile, but still wary posture. They began to discuss Dôr-min-Taur; it seemed that they were both in search of the place. 

[i]It still could be a glamour, a trick of the wood[/i], he warned himself, [i]Or bandits arguing amongst themselves[/i]. 

But he decided that it was the worth the risk, whoever they were. If these were people in search of the colony, and, more importantly, if they knew where they were going, he had to risk it, at the very least to ascertain the right direction, if not join them outright. He might not have the chance again, and he did not exactly fancy dying a slow and cruel death in the bowels of the forest ensnared in a spider's web. 

Thus, Húldas stepped quietly from the shadows towards the group, and immediately all five brandished their weapons, the elves redirecting the attention of their bows towards him. He dropped his spear, and raised his arms above his head in surrender. 

"[i]Goheno nin[/i]...[i]Im foeg cin baw flae[/i]. [i]Peditham hi sui vellyn[/i]?" he asked, hood still obscuring his face, "Apologies, master Dwarf. I am not so good with the Westron speak."