I do not own the Hobbit.
This was written for a prompt from So-Sings-Nightingales (check out her story 'Poisoned arrows, poisoned dreams' - it's written very well so far). The prompt stemmed from this passage in the book: "It was difficult to think of pursuing goblins behind, and when they had put many miles between them and Beorn's house they began to talk and to sing again and to forget the dark forest-path that lay in front. But in the evening when the dusk came on and the peaks of the mountains glowered against the sunset they made a camp and set a guard, and most of them slept uneasily with dreams in which there came the howl of hunting wolves and the cries of goblins."
So-Sings-Nightingales: hope this meets your expectations.
Everyone else: Enjoy, though I do not recommend reading some parts of it dead at night if you are prone to nightmares yourself. If you think I should change the rating, please feel free to message me. Also, I apologise in advance for Thorin's short POV but by that time I really couldn't be bothered to write much more of a nightmare. Besides, you have five others to enjoy.
Dwalin and Fili had been elected as the first guards and Kili, without the comforting presence of his brother beside him, was plagued by dreams that he would not wish on his worst enemy. He twitched and turned in his sleep, restless as his eyes flickered endlessly beneath the flaps of skin which covered them. Once or twice he let out a whimper but the sounds were inaudible and failed to grab the attention of the two dwarves keeping watch over the relatively silent campsite. The dark haired dwarf's eyes snapped open and for a few moments he just laid there, panting quietly for air as he allowed sleep to take over once again. Kili dreamed and his dreams were not those of an innocent child's wild imagination.
Wolves. They were everywhere, surrounding him on all fronts. Kili swallowed nervously, his heart beating painfully loud in his chest. The brunette hoped to Mahal that the beasts around him could not hear the fear slamming its taboo inside of his body, a body that was deemed slight for that of a typical dwarf. This was not how he wanted to go.
The moon broke through the trees above him, the canopy illuminated by the ghostlike light. The wolves threw back their heads and began to howl, deafening Kili with the mighty din they managed to put up. The young dwarf threw his hands over his ears in an attempt to block or at least tone down the loudness of the combined sounds. A mistake as the wolves took this as sign of hostility, except they weren't wolves anymore, they were wargs, frothing at the mouths and eyes glinting red in the darkness. The swarming mass of flesh began to suffocate him, hitting him at full force and knocking him off his feet in one go.
Kili cried out as teeth began tearing into his flesh, ripping and mauling his limbs, torso and, though rarely, his face. He did not know how he could possibly be still alive but he was for every torturous moment. Blood streaked into his eyes which were, for some reason, refusing to close leaving him awake to bear witness to the horrific event unfolding.
After the first few antagonising initial seconds, all the young dwarf could think of was pain. He was in a world of hurt yet he could not scream for the sheer agony of what was befalling him stole his voice and most of his breath, leaving him gasping for air that his lungs forced himself to inhale. He wanted to die, tormented by the fact he was so close to the five lettered word but so far away, unable to give himself the final push needed to send him over the edge.
And then it stopped, the wargs just disappearing. The pain also subsided, just a bit so that he was able to think relatively clearly again. His thoughts running rampant through the fog in his head, Kili used this new clarity of mind to determine the situation he was in.
Turning his head ever so slightly, the brunette could see that he had somehow gotten from the forest to a barren plain, one where the wind was constantly ravaging it. Kili shivered as the strong gale rushed past him and turned his head so that his eyes, at least, would not be stung by the dirt and grit that was swept up in the wind's teasing fingers. The wounds that the wargs had inflicted, however, stung like a white hot flame, only serving to add insult to injury as the overpowering feeling summoned tears to Kili's eyes. It was then he caught sight of his brother looking at him, or more like staring with blank, unseeing eyes a few feet away from where he laid.
Kili cried out in shock, words silent as he continued to be rendered mute. The blonde's hair had been turned completely scarlet having been drenched in blood from the no less than seven arrows protruding from the dwarf's back and neck. Kili felt his vision double and suddenly he was seeing two dead Fili's instead of one, this time both decapitated. He blinked again and there were four Fili's in front of him until finally all he could see were the dead corpses of his brother. The brunette could feel his head swimming sickeningly, the pain he felt only adding to the nauseating feeling in his stomach.
Kili woke, a cold sweat covering his entire body. It took a moment to place what had woken him from his terrible dream but when he finally figured it out, he breathed a small, somewhat shaky sigh of relief as he shifted over to give his brother some more space. The blonde settled into the blankets next to his brother and rolled over onto his side, exposing his back towards the other dwarf. Kili wriggled forward and half buried his face in the warm and familiar object, keen to ward off any more blood-filled visions. He promptly fell asleep, slumber clear of any sort of dream that might invade it. Fili, too tired to notice the childish move of his brother, also gave into a blissful oblivion, his soft snores soon mingling with the others that sounded in the camp air.
Ori looked nervously over his shoulder but the pitch black surrounding him meant that he could see nothing, a terrifying notion to one as timid as he. The ginger dwarf would be the first to admit that he was not a true warrior, as it was he preferred the arts of drawing and scribing than sparring with his two brothers to pass the time. A flash of silver pierced the gloom and Ori began to move towards it, eager for anything that might help release him from the clutches of the intense darkness but he soon got lost, unsure of where the flash had originated from.
Another silver streak pierced the air, though Ori could not tell if it was in a different position than last time. Never the less, he took several steps forward and then stopped, as the glow once again blinked out of existence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the same thing happen but this time it was replaced much faster by another gleaming light. It happened again and again, disorientating Ori until he was surrounded by the silver flashes, all merging into one giant streak as it flew around him in circles, as if he was in the centre of one massive ring.
Ori suddenly had the sensation of falling, feeling as though he were drowning in the silvery substance that had now taken over his vision. Wraithlike faces appeared, pushing their way through the silver wall and charging at the ginger dwarf, falling short just a few finger breadths away screaming the whole time they flew. Ori had never been more frightened in his life and it was only going to get worse as voices started chanting in some strange language that sounded akin to that of elven tongue.
Arms windmilling as he continued to fall, the scribe felt a quill, a small bottle of ink, and a few spare sheets of parchment slip from his pockets. The pieces of paper unfolded themselves and set themselves on a tilt straight up in the air as the quill dipped itself into the black liquid of the bottle and began to write, scratching its tip against the parchment as it formed all the words that Ori had previously been worrying over; weakness, coward, destruction, death ̶ all words that showed how little of a dwarf he was. The quill dropped down the hole below him, falling endlessly after it had finally succeeded in filling up every part of the paper, both back and front.
The little bottle of ink fell as well, spilling midnight black droplets over him, staining his hands, face, clothes and anything else it touched. Fear fluttered in the dwarf's chest at a greater rate, the ink feeling horrid and sticky against his skin. The parchment above him began to rip themselves to shreds, shreds which alit on fire as the tearing became faster and faster. The flaming shreds drifted down and engulfed him, burning every part of his body that they touch, but, to Ori's surprise, it was an icy burn he felt not a raging hot one.
The pain and terror of being covered in ice-cold flames, the hypnotic state of the forever spinning silver ring, and the endless sense of falling was what finally jolted the dwarf from his dreams. Ori gasped and hugged himself, glancing over to where Bifur and Bombur had changed shifts reassuring himself that he was not alone, not blinded by blackness, and most definitely not on fire. The goblin laughter echoed faintly around the clearing and he shivered, knowing very well that he might not get back to sleep that night.
Bilbo too was in the clutches of a nightmare, the visions causing him immense grief as he tried to fight off unseen enemies with soft hands that were tangled in his blanket.
"Bring him to me," the orc ordered, sounding half amused at the display in front of him, "And stop wasting time. I want to see the little fellow perform for us." Bilbo could hear him grinning from behind the shadows which covered his face.
The vile beings surrounding the hobbit grabbed his flailing arms, knocking Sting from his grip and almost snapping the bones in them. Bilbo could not help but cry out.
"Careful, I want him in one piece so he may amuse me to his full abilities. The loss of both his arms might prevent that." As the orc finished speaking, he smiled cruelly at these words. The other orc began to treat him with more car but were still rough, however, when they pushed him to his knees before their leader. Bilbo help back another whimper of pain as his knees and lower legs scraped the stony floor.
The orc whose face was still cast in shadow studied him with all the care of one who was studying a polished gem with a highly trained eye. The hobbit felt butterflies of fear and nervousness begin to dance around in his stomach, a feeling that he would rather not have. The orc laughed an eerie, mocking laugh seeing the scared expression upon his face.
"You are very right to fear me little hobbit," he said only causing the small being to try and shy away from him more, an action that was prevented by the no less than three pairs of orcish hands which served to hold him down.
The creature in front of him cackled again, voice grating itself in Bilbo's ears and setting the hobbit's teeth on edge. The short fellow's bones themselves rattled with fear as a face was pressed up against his own, massive, huge and in every sense upsetting. Except it wasn't a face, it was just a smooth flap of skin serving to cover the skull and flesh attached to that same skull. It was all he could do not to let lose a deafening scream. Bilbo swallowed audibly as the orc spoke again, voice drifting from somewhere inside of the faceless face.
"Do my looks please you?" he asked wickedly. Bilbo did not know how to respond, and even if he did, his whole body would not obey him it was shaking so much. "Well, answer me!"
"Please," Bilbo said, desperate to be free of those restraining him so that he could jump up and make a mad dash for freedom.
"Please," the orcish leader repeated, mocking his despairing tone, "Please what? I think it is high time you started to earn your keep. I hear that hobbit's have thick soles on their feet." Bilbo did not like where this was going.
"W…what do you mean?" he asked, stuttering over a few of the words. The orc stepped aside to reveal a deep pit of which there emitted a strange orange glow.
"I would like to put that notion to the test," the faceless orc informed him, moving slyly behind his captive, "Don't you? So you shall dance for us nonstop in that pit down there upon a bed of burning coals." He did not wait for the hobbit to answer, rather shoving him head first into the glowing red of the pit. Bilbo scream soundlessly the whole way down.
"Dance! Dance! Dance!" came the chant from above and dance Bilbo did, feet having pure agony tear them apart for every moment they touched the flaming grill below him. The rotten stench of burning flesh filled his nose and he began to gag while bouncing up and down in an endless dance. Laughter sounded above him, both deranged and cruel as he was forced to continue on and on.
Bilbo was gasping for breath when he woke, his covers clenched tightly to his body like ropes. Sitting up, he took a few moments to check the soles of his feet before allowing himself to lay back down once he saw they were unburnt. The dream had seemed so realistic though.
Turning his head to face the flickering flames of the small fire they had going he shuddered, wondering what else this journey had in stall for them.
Balin had been woken from his dreamless state by the return of his brother from keeping watch. It took him a while to drift back off to sleep, but he eventually did despite Dwalin's loud snores that sounded just across from him. Rolling over so that his back faced his sibling, Balin let the comforting grip of sleep envelop him, except this time it wasn't comforting at all, haunted by the laughs of countless goblins rebounding off the mountains in the night air.
At first Balin didn't know where he was, all he knew was that he was not supposed to be here. A strange sense of foreboding lifted up from the place. In front of him, thirteen distinct figures were ushered along by a black swarm of grotesque bodies. Opting to follow, the white bearded dwarf kept to the shadows, sneaking through narrow stone pathways and rickety bridges that for some reason appeared familiar. He wondered where the motley group was going and what would be at their end destination. It would not be long until he found out.
Wandering down, after the group, Balin could see from his position that the thirteen figures in the middle of the mass were struggling against the shadowy hands that were pushing them forward. Once or twice one managed to break free but they were quickly subdued in the most brutal of manners. Balin bit back a cry as once again one was hit rather hard over the head and back, the resounding crack of the long wooden staff echoing in the cavern around him. He felt fury stir in his old limbs and had to hold himself in check, knowing full well that if he acted too soon in the heat of the moment it would result in more injuries and possible deaths. It was not a risk he was willing to take.
He finally came to a halt as the group stopped before an almighty beast of a being. The large goblin had a horrid growth under his chin and his face was dotted with many warts, several of which were oozing slimy pus. The white haired dwarf had to physically shove his hand in his mouth to stop himself from gagging at the terrible sight. Apprehension began to take root in his stomach as he realised where he was and when the host of goblins stepped apart to reveal their captives he could only imagine where the situation would now go.
The thirteen dwarves of the company, himself included, were standing in a ragged line, hair rumpled and stripped of any weapon or object they could prove useful in an escape. The Balin viewing this event froze as the Goblin King's gaze drifted his way and unfroze as he realised the vile creature was literally staring right through him. As another scarred goblin stepped through his body seeming unaffected by the fact he had taken a walk through a dwarf, Balin realised he was here as a spectator only and if anything, it made him all the more wary for what was to come.
Through his discovery he could hear the somewhat muffled conversation between Thorin and the goblin leader, a conversation which had evidently taken a turn for the worse. The Goblin King began yelling, demanding that Thorin tell him where he was heading or else he would throw one of the dwarves over the edge of the rocky platform upon which they stood. The exiled dwarf king shook his head stubbornly, egged on by the confident gazes of the others of the company, mainly the Balin standing alongside him. This reaction displeased the gigantic king before them immensely and he barked a short, sharp order to several of his subjects.
A struggle began within the heart of the company and the Balin watching the proceedings could not help but gasp in shock as a wild haired figure was dragged past before being forcibly pushed over the edge. The unfortunate fellow's blonde brother gave a cry and ran forward to where his brother had disappeared but too fell over the edge, a well-placed arrow planted deep in his back. The Goblin King barked a short laugh before informing the rest of the company that it would continue this way until the dwarfish king told him what he wanted to know and that if any attempted to break free like the bastard blonde then they too would be shot down. The Balin who was held within the monster's gaze just stared calmly back, clearly not rattled by the deaths of the two youngest amongst them and informing his king to keep on denying any and all accusations.
The Balin watching could not believe his eyes nor ears as one by one the company was shoved over the edge of the platform until all who were left was Thorin, Dwalin, and the other Balin. He could not believe his ears nor his eyes as each time Thorin attempted to give in to save his men the other Balin informed him they would just be collateral damage, this said smoothly as the old dwarf's face remained impassive to the plight of his friends and companions. He was just as much a heartless monster as the Goblin King that towered over them.
The ruler of Goblin Town asked Thorin one last time where he was going and one last time, under the influence of the Balin by his side, he refused to provide an answer. The Balin observing could only watch in pure and utter shock as his own little brother was dragged forward by the goblins, fighting but clearly outmatched as he was pushed and pulled towards the edge where the others had met their end. He cried out, yelling at both his other self and at Thorin to do something, to just give in and state where they were going and why but his cries went unheard as once again he was proved to be only an invisible spectator. He watched helplessly as Dwalin's toes came in line with the beginning of the drop and the tall dwarf began to fall forward into the abyss.
"Hey, wake up," growled an annoyed voice from beside him. Balin could have leapt for joy as his brother glared at him through half-closed eyes. The burly dwarf stared at him in frustration. "Move over will you?" he asked, "You kick in your bloody sleep."
Balin complied to the warrior's wishes and moved his bedding a few paces, laying on his side so he could watch his brother's chest rise and fall as the younger dwarf drifted back to sleep. The elder of the two took comfort in this small action and closed his own eyes, sending a quick prayer to Mahal to ward off any more bad dreams.
Bofur looked up as the door to his respectable house slammed open again. Shaking his head, he put down the small wooden toy he had been carving and stood to close it for the fifth time. If it was his brother playing a joke on him, it was getting old. Even Bifur knew better than to pull the same prank on the same person more than once.
Poking his head outside, the toymaker tried to decipher if it was children that were doing this to him or if it was just the wind. He could fault neither party however as the streets were empty of any soul save his and not even a whisper of a breeze stirred amongst the lifeless looking buildings. Closing the door behind him, Bofur tried to calm his nerves and convince his mind that he was not going crazy. He couldn't afford to with him being the main income earner out of the three dwarves that called under this roof home.
Going back to the dwarfish warrior he had been whittling away at, Bofur swore as the door slammed open again.
"Bombur, if that's you, I swear I will…" He trailed off as a horde of twisted shadows presented themselves on the fire lit wall opposite the fire. Bofur let out a small gasp and quickly covered the flames, knowing that it was a futile effort as they would have already seen the glowing light. Stepping backwards, Bofur abandoned his work and fled through the back door. He stopped in shock at what he saw.
The town, which had been deserted before, now laid in ruins, rubble strewn everywhere and blood flooding the streets. There were nor bodies to be seen but that of a small child. Above it a black crow eyed the corpse before stabbing its beak into the mangled insides of the young dwarfling. Bofur was sick all over the ground in front of his boots when he was finally able to tear his eyes away from the tiny heart that was now grasped in the black feathered bird's equally black beak.
Shakily wiping his mouth, Bofur was again alerted to his own dire situation. Turning to run through the razed town as he heard the orcs coming up to him the toymaker reflected on the site he had just seen. It was a devastating blow to him for he loved children though he doubted he would ever marry and have any of his own; he had Bifur to look after as well as his younger brother who was not as good with people as he was. The delighted faces of the children as they beheld his master pieces were the reason why he spent so long on a single one. And now that was all gone, taken from him by the orcs which had obviously been the cause of the carnage.
The toymaker did not know when the scenery had changed to that of a face of a mountain being assaulted by a heavy downpour and lightning strikes, but he did realise the significance of this as he almost ran off the edge of the narrow pathway he had been following for some time. Stone giants rose up all around him and began to pelt rocks at the small figure that had so carelessly stumbled upon one of their own. Bofur cursed as the shard of a shattered boulder cut him right above his left eye. He ran forward as best he could, fighting against the slipperiness of the ground beneath his feet, the blinding rain, and the shaking as giant stones continually hit the face of the mountain.
The toymaker continued on like this for a while before he cried out in pain, things taking a distinct turn for the worst as he was blinded in both eyes by stray fragments of granite. Unable to see a thing, he soon found himself falling as he ran off the edge of the pathway. He came to jolting stop when his body hit a ledge positioned not far below with a sickening thunk and the dwarf let loose another scream as he felt the bones in his back shatter.
Blind, cripple and alone, the toymaker cried tears of pure fear as the rain from above beat down upon his helpless body. Thunder sounded in the distance, straining his nerves even further as it persisted in its attempts to deafen him.
Bofur carefully opened his eyes as someone shook him awake. He smiled at the kind face above him and brushed off the concerned questions posed to him in Khuzdul by his cousin. He did, however, allow the greying dwarf to sit beside him as he drifted back off to an equally restless sleep, the slightly crazed dwarf humming a soft, low and familiar lullaby to aid his kinsman in his mission to find a peaceful sleep.
The great Thorin Oakenshield was unaware of any of these disturbances amongst his company as he was caught up in his own nightmare world, an old world he had experienced many nights in the past.
In his vision Azog the Defiler was laying waste to those of Moria, the destruction and carnage he wrought beyond the dark haired dwarf's comprehension. Friend and acquaintances were destroyed each time they dared to stand up against the formidable force in a vain attempt to quell his reign of terror on the battlefield. Thorin himself could only watch in shocked horror as he was caught up in trying to defend his own life from the orcs under Azog's command, unable to help any other being for fear that he may very well have a sword slipped through his ribs as a punishment for a lapse in concentration towards his own foes.
The exiled dwarfish king's face screwed up as he clenched his fists by his side, the decapitated head of his grandfather and king filling his mind over and over as Azog bellowed with pride of his kill and supposed victory. In this version, however, Thorin did nothing to avenge this death, rather he just stood stock still as the orcs around him began to take advantage of his vulnerability and hack away at his flesh.
In his dream, Thorin did not feel the pain. He did not feel it as first his right and then left arm was sliced clean off. He did not feel it as he was brought to his knees, one leg now a ragged stump. He did not feel it as his chest was skewered over and over nor as he was dealt a final blow to his head, a blow which caused him to sink into a black oblivion.
The dwarf king woke, sweating slightly as he listened to the last of the wolf howls echo throughout the windless night.
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