Thorin steps lightly through the thick foliage of the woods surrounding the orc encampment, he sneaks a look about himself at the small crunching sound to his left, his hand on the axe's handle, as Dwalin appears at his periphery. They both turn to the main threat just a little ways ahead.
The accounts of the supposed orc pack were neither imagination nor exaggeration as Thorin had hoped; Balin had suggested that the grieving minds of the dwarrows survivors could be addled by the unfortunate events, but it seemed that even among terror and loss, scattered wits could still count as well as any other.
It was not an overwhelming number, but it concerned the exiled king; the orcs had sacked a small village of the dwarves now neighbors to Durin's folk - but not kin, nor friendly; however, whatever ill feelings there was between his kin and the dwarves of the Blue Mountains, the looming threat of attack on both communities proved a great conciliator, Thorin mused, as he spied a few Blue Mountais dwarrowmen among his own.
The orcs had not done the damage one would expect after a raid, which made Thorin believe that the attack was not planned; there were sacked dwellings and casualties, but not anywhere near the devastation a pack like this one could wreak. Thorin's hatred of orcs did not blind him to the implications of this discovery, for although those disgusting creatures were savages they were not fools when it came to warfare, and underestimating an enemy is not a trait that Thorin possesses.
The orcs travelled far, thinks Thorin looking through the encampment, they appear ttravel-weary and irritable, arguing with each other in their foul language; supplies, old and new, lay farther ahead with the rest of the pack – Thorin guessed were the more low-ranking scum – that were probably forced to carry the load in light of day. Orcs so near the mountains was thankfully not a common sight; wherever it is they are headed must be worth the risk they are taking in wondering so near to dwarvish settlements.
The king under the lonely mountain looks around his company; they had quietly done for the few sentries that were positioned around the camp and were waiting, waiting his signal.
The battle lasts eternal in the way that only bloody matters are, however the moon is still high in the sky by the time their enemies lay felled. They had closed around the encampment as if cornering a prey, and making quick work of the ones in slumber, and the ones nearly so, muffling their grunts with one hand and cutting off their cries with the other; by the time the others realized what was happening it had already happened, and when the battle was properly joined the scales were much more level.
The aftermath was nearly disturbingly silent after the cacophony of noise, and the company disbanded to search through the camp or to tend to the wounded, and the two dwarves that had forfeited their lives in the conflict – one who was of Thorin's own company. Thorin spied a movement from the corner of his eye and turned, axe aloft and ready to be buried in bone and flesh.
The thing crawled forward on bound hands, and Thorin saw that what he had previously mistaken for wild game the orcs had not yet slaughtered or a possible surviving orc was much, much worse than that. It was a child, a child whose features were not only visible through the light of the moon and stars, but also from a discreet light that seemed to emanate from the being itself, and that was enough for Thorin to know exactly what the child was.
The orcs had a captured elfling in their midst.
Small, fair and pale, it approached the king and his company as they became aware of the child's presence and stared with varying degrees of alarm and dumbfounded expressions.
Clear blue eyes rolled into their head and the little creature fell by Thorin's feet, unconscious.
Thorin is snapped out of his stupor by the sound of running feet, and suddenly Oin is crouched by the elflings side, the other dwarves approach carefully and crowd around the fallen child; Thorin finds himself by Oin's side before he even knew he moved at all and looks down at the small unconscious figure.
And it is small, despite being an elf it couldn't be much taller than his own nephews; the child has a long elegant face with prominent cheekbones and a small nose; looking at the child makes a sick feeling rise in his stomach, not only because of the marks of abuse upon the fair face or the hints of blood in his clothes (for it is a boy, Thorin is almost sure), and the pointed ears are not what makes Thorin reflexively fist his hands – it's the color of his hair; the boy has the pale – almost silvery – hair that still features in Thorin's darkest thoughts.
Thorin tears his eyes from the boy to his company "Bofur, Dori, Nori help the wounded back to the ponies; Toichar, Nadir see to the dead, the rest of you pile the carcasses and burn them." The dwarves relunctly tore themselves away and went off talking amongst themselves, filling in the ones who had stayed behind with the fallen and the felled.
"What can you tell me Oin?" Thorin said quietly to the older dwarf when it was just the two of them and Dwalin.
"The boy took a nasty blow to the head, I'll sew and bind it, but there in naught more I can do until we return to the Blue Mountains, Balin has salves I could use for the burns on his torso."
"Burns?"
"And cuts, most of them caused on purpose I'm sure, but they've not festered, either the orcs have been caring for him or the boy has been cleaning the wounds by himself. Wherever he came from, he's a long way home judging by the state of his clothes; they must have set a brisk pace, the little one looks as if he hasn't been having any rest." And he did – there were dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises, his cheeks were slightly sunken and he was thinner than Thorin though elves ought to be.
Why was the little elf here? Why was he alone? Younglings were as rare a gift to elves as it was to dwarves, and the ones they have were precious and fiercely protected – and as far as Thorin was concerned that was about the only thing their races had in common. How could one this young be so alone and far from any elven dwellings Thorin did not know, but suddenly he was faced with the dilemma the creature presented: what was he supposed to do with him?
Thorin looked at the little creature lying at his feet, the child's fair hair brought him back to the day his life had ended for the first time and he knew what he should to do, what he must do. He would not turn away, especially from a child in need of aid – no matter their race.
"Strap him to my pony, he's coming with us."