Chapter Text
The village of Uffington was not where she thought an adventure would start. It was neither bustling, nor eerily quiet, and the inn she chose was a plain place with no ghosts or other strange rumours to give it character. The most out of the ordinary features of the place were the prehistoric sights that decorated the chalk downs: Dragon Hill, the White Horse, Uffington Castle, and the ancient barrow known as Wayland's Smithy. But even those features were common across England, and so were not in the least suspect.
Emma Smith did not come to Uffington with high expectations. It seemed like a pleasant place to begin her research trip across England, visiting the barrows that she was doing her dissertation on, writing about their Anglo-Saxon names. Wayland's Smithy would be her first visit, and the only barrow she'd visit before spending the next several days in the libraries of the University of Oxford.
After hauling her bags through the inn and settling into her room, Emma pulled on her tougher hiking boots. It was early in the day and she wasn't feeling so jet lagged yet from her overnight flight that she thought she might go out and go for a walk around the chalk downs. After quickly writing to her parents to let them know she'd arrived, and sending a message to her supervisor that, with any luck, she'd have answered in two weeks, Emma set out.
According to the innkeepers, the quickest route was down the Broad Way, which would take her straight to Dragon Hill. Though she hadn't meant to see the chalk carvings until the next day, when she would take her photographic equipment and her file filled with the site documents and maps, the kind old couple insisted on her going. In the end, she supposed that it wouldn't be too bad to check them out briefly and be able narrow down the equipment she'd need.
On the late June day, there was a cool breeze in the air and the sun was hidden behind dark clouds that threatened rain but withheld. She kept herself in the green brush along the way, as the lane was too narrow for even a person to share the road with any cars that may pass by. But at that time of the morning, and with the strong chance of rain, there was no one about. Occasionally Emma peered over the hedges, but even in the fields of farm land there was no one to be seen. It was as though she was the only person in the world.
Normally that sort of thought was a comfort to her, having grown up in a large family, but for the first time since her arrival, she felt a sense of unease settle into the pit of her stomach.
After a half hour of walking, she reached a crossroad, beyond which a small hill rose. Dragon Hill, she assumed, zipping up her jacket. The wind was growing stronger, but she hadn't thought to bring a scarf or hat, as she should have. When she reached the hill, she found what appeared to be a small footpath, and climbed it to the top.
On a brighter day, the view down to the village might have been beautiful, but with the looming clouds and fell wind, it only added to her unease. The chalk patch was smaller than she expected, after the legends that it had inspired. She had read that it was St. George slew his dragon, and the chalk was where the dragon's blood fell, and no grass had grown there since.
As she turned to leave the hill, Emma's ankle gave out beneath her, sending her flying into the chalk. Her elbow dug into the patch, hitting a sharp object. With a gasp, she pulled herself up, making sure that she caused as little damage to the hill as possible. Only the gouge where her elbow landed seemed obvious to her, and she reached out to brush it back to its original state when her fingers brushed against the small object. It was not a rock as she had thought, but a ring, tarnished as though it had sat in a fire for a long time. The craftsmanship was incredible, under the scorches and soot, and a deep red gem was set into it. After staring at it for few moments, she pulled a handkerchief out her purse and wrapped it, placing it gently in her pocket. She would take it to the local museum for them to look at, but she doubted that it was too old.
She looked up at the White Horse Hill, wondering if she should bother with the climb, when the breeze picked up, seeming to push her towards the horse. Not wanting to walk back facing wind, Emma made her way up the hill carefully until she reached the face of the white horse. According to local custom, walking around the eye of the horse counter-clockwise seven times would allow her to make a wish and have it granted, but she wasn't in the mood for that. She just wanted to press on and see Wayland's Smithy before the storm came in.
Uffington Castle was at the top of the hill, but Emma chose not to bother with it, as it wasn't part of her area of interest. There was a dirt road just beyond it, the innkeeper had told her, that would take her to the barrow - the Ridgeway.
It took another half hour to reach the Smithy, past empty fields. A few scattered rain drops hit her head, but never managed a full shower. She pulled up her hood anyways, just in case.
At last she reached the gate to the barrow. There was a ring of trees up ahead that hid it from view, and she hurried up to them.
She had her reasons for choosing this barrow first. The local legends claimed that if you left a coin at the entrance and tied up your horse there overnight, in the morning you could return to find your horse newly shod. But Emma knew the truth of the story.
For centuries her family lived in Ashbury, a town not twenty minutes from the barrow. Her family had been blacksmiths with a sense of humour - every night they would check the Smithy and see if a horse had been left. They would bring the horse to their shop, re-shod it, return it, and take the coin as their pay, keeping the legend alive until the late nineteenth century when they closed their smithy down and travelled to the New World. The Smiths were gone, but the legend of Wayland remained behind.
In the stormy light, Wayland's Smithy became ominous and looming. The large stones that stood like guards in front were on either side of the pathway leading into the barrow. As she circled the entirety of it, Emma began making a list in her head: camera, tripod, at least two metre sticks, possibly some lighting equipment in case the weather didn't pull through. She made it back to the front as she was considering the merits of bringing a laser leveller. The wind had died completely, and there was deafening silence in the little grove, but having entered her academic mode, Emma noticed none of it.
Since she was the only one there, she decided to be a bad tourist. Stepping over the little wall that blocked the pathway, she approached the entrance. In this light the entrance was just a black vortex, without any sign that there were archaeological remains inside.
Between the stones before it, Emma's eye caught a glimpse of metal. She kneeled down, careful on her sore knee from Dragon Hill, and picked up a silver coin.
Immediately a strong and freezing gust of wind hit her from behind and tipped Emma into the dark entrance.
As she smacked onto the floor, Emma's first thought was that it had gotten significantly colder inside. Her second thought was that she shouldn't be naked. Pushing herself up, she felt down her body. Pale, freckled skin, but not a scrap of cloth.
Panicked thoughts ripped through her head. Had she been drugged? Did she go into a fugue state, tear off her clothes, then throw herself at the ground?
She groped along the ground for her clothes or her bag. Her fingers brushed over a piece of leather and she grabbed it, yanking on what she thought was her bag. Instead, she touched on what appeared to be the hilt of a sword.
Why was a sword still in Wayland's Smithy? Shouldn't it be in the museum? Maybe she had knocked into a previously unexplored niche and it dropped out. Unlikely, but not improbable.
Pushing herself onto her feet, she felt around with her hands until she felt the ceiling, then the wall. Clutching the heavy sword in one had, she used the other hand against the wall to guide her way and moved forward until her feet tapped against some tinkling metal. Her hands found two small objects - the ring from Dragon Hill, and the silver coin. Briefly she wondered why those would be where she was and not her satchel when she felt a piece of cloth brush against her. Her clothes!
Eagerly she reached out to grab them, only to find some strange rough cloth. When she pulled on it, an earthly screech echoed through the barrow.
Shrieking, Emma pulled away the cloak and felt something grab at her, like the icy hand of a skeleton. She ran as fast as possible towards where she thought the entrance would be and slammed into stone. Dazed a bit from the collision, she saw a piece of daylight sneak through and she shoved at the stone until it pushed open just enough to let her slide through and out of the barrow. Another shriek followed her as she escaped out into an open field.
An open field that was definitely not the grove of Wayland's Smithy.
It was filled with hills and monoliths that stretched as far as her eye could see, with other barrows dotting the hills. There were strange and ancient statues, and in the distance she could spot movements like shadows in the dips of the downs. The only thing familiar to her was the stormy sky.
Looking at her hands in confusion, Emma stared at what she had gathered. The red ring and the silver coin from the Wessex chalk downs, and what she had found in the barrow, what in the light of day was obviously a well-used sword and a tattered and mildew-scented cloak, with a large tarnished silver brooch that was engraved with an eight-pointed star and up-turned crescent moon. She wrapped the cloak around herself - regardless of her confusion and its grossness, she was still cold.
Standing there shivering, she decided that whatever had happened, she needed to go. There were dangerous things here and she needed to find a town or something to help her understand what happened to her. After taking a moment to look in all the directions, she opted to go left, as the shadows that way seemed less mobile.
She couldn't tell how long she walked without her phone to help her tell the time, but she knew it was a long while. She had moved slowly and cautiously to avoid being noticed. The cloak had a hood, so she pulled it up to hide her hair, which might have been noticed by anything out there, as it was a bright copper that she could see nowhere else. Her feet grew numb the further she went and she could see no end to the place she was in. To keep her mind busy from panicking or dark thoughts of death, she recited things to herself: names of Anglo-Saxon monarchs, then Norse and Danish, and then Norman. After that she moved onto the riddles of the Exeter Book.
I‘m a wonderful thing shaped for fighting,
beautifully dressed, dear to my master.
Gay coloured is my byrnie; bright wire that my wielder
who guides me gave me, embraces the death-gem,
who sometimes to strife directs my wanderings.
Then I bring home treasure through the shining day,
handiwork of smiths, gold to the dwellings.
Often I slay living warriors
with weapons of war. A king adorns me
with jewels and silver and honours me in the hall,
nor withholds my praise, publicly proclaims
my merits before men, when they drink their mead;
sometimes holds me back or frees me when weary
with going into battle. I have often hurt another
at the hands of his friend. I am far and wide hated,
accursed among weapons. I must never hope
that a son will avenge me on the life of my slayer
if ever an enemy assails me in battle;
nor will my kin be increased, the breed whence I sprang—
unless bereft of my lord I might change to a new,
turn from the owner who first rewarded me.
Henceforth I am fated if I follow a (new) lord
to do battle for him as I did for the other,
for my prince’s pleasure, that I must forego
the wealth of children and know no woman;
for he who held me of yore in thrall
denies me that bliss. I must therefore enjoy
single, alone, the wealth of heroes.
Often foolish in my finery I enrage a woman,
diminish her desire; her tongue abuses me;
she hits me with her hands, reviles me with words,
intones a curse. I like not this contest.…
"A sword." Emma whispered, and she clutched the hilt closer to her chest.
As it grew dark, she crested a hill and looked down. A whole forest was stretched out before her. Exhausted, she sunk to her knees. She had no water, no food, and instead of making it to a town, she had instead found a massive forest. Even though she had played in woods as a child and could possibly find some water and berries, maybe even build a small shelter, she didn't know where she was and what would be safe to consume. As well, she was still barefoot and mostly naked. The likelihood of dying from exposure began to sink in on her.
From behind her, she heard the distant thundering of hooves. She turned back and in the dim light she saw cloaked strangers on large horses. They faced the Barrow Downs and lifted their arms.
And then they screamed.
If she had thought that the thing within Wayland's Smithy had been horrifying, it was nothing to this. The screeching made the earth tremble beneath Emma's feet and her heart beat rapidly in fear. As her adrenaline began to kick in, she clutched the sword in her arms, knowing that it would be useless.
The riders turned towards her.
Emma fled. She raced down the hill, bare feet flying and barely keeping herself from falling to the ground. The horses were getting closer and she flew into the woods, leaping over a fallen log and landing on a sharp branch that cut into her foot. Swearing, the pushed herself forward, limping slightly, into a tighter knot of trees where horses were unlikely to be able to make it through.
By the time she felt safe enough to stop, the moon was out. The clouds had been left behind in the downs, and with what little light she had Emma pushed through the forest. She thought that she could hear the dribbling of a stream and thirst kept her moving until finally she saw the moving shimmer of a creek.
Gratefully she knelt down and cupped some of the water in her hands. Praying that it wasn't downstream from anything dead, she drank greedily, spilling all over her face. After a few handfuls, she turned her attention to her foot. The blood had stopped awhile back, but it was still smeared all over. She washed it off as best she could, trying not to re-open it. Her adrenaline was sinking away and she lay down on the ground for a moment.
From the bushes, a man spoke. She jumped, expecting one of the hooded creatures, and turned to see a strange looking man. He was large, but shorter than her, and had a very long beard. In the light she couldn't quite tell what colour his hat and coat were, but she didn't quite care. A man had appeared before her and she was nearly naked.
She shot up, wrapping herself tighter with the cloak and grabbing onto the sword. He spoke to her again gently, in a strange lilting language that she couldn't recognize. The man didn't seem like he would hurt her - he was very old - but twenty-six years of being a women had taught her to be overly cautious.
The man asked her a question in his language, which she was still trying to guess at. It sounded a bit Russian maybe? But she never studied that, she had specialized in Anglo and Scandinavian languages. She shrugged at the man, no idea what he was saying.
The man tsked at her, then hummed to himself as walked over to the water. Picking up a leaf, he folded it into a cup and scooped up some water from the creek. He offered it to Emma.
Although she was filled with misgivings, she had watched him pick the leaf off the ground and had already drank the water. Accepting it from, she took a sip.
"Hey dol! Tom Bom, jolly Tom, knows a trick or two!"
Choking on the water, Emma stared at him in shock. His words were still in that strange language, but now she could understand it, and in an unnerving way, his words were familiar to her.
Hopping off to the bushes, Tom pushed through and she saw that he had moved onto a deer trail. She got up and followed him at a slight distance.
"Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! My darling!
Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling.
Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,
Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,
Slender she came from the silver water
Old Tom Bombadil will join the River-daughter!
Come merry dol! Hop near, daughter of men,
We'll sing and sup in the warmest den!"
Emma stopped short.
If he was Tom Bombadil...
Had she somehow found herself in Middle-earth?