Having eaten her fill, Lys looks around for a few minutes at the dwarves, talking and laughing, then silently gets up, places Nori's knife on the spot where she was sitting, and slips out of the room.
She finds herself in a long, open-roofed corridor composed of many arches, which make the soft light fall in regular stripes over the smooth marble floor upon which her footsteps fall.
She looks down at her feet. They are still clad in her extremely battered canvas sneakers. Sudden memories pound against her brain of staring down at these same shoes, staring down at…
She kicks them off and takes off running, bare feet slapping on the stone, long and thin and pale, across the stripes of light and darkness which come and go like her breathing, like her heartbeat, like her pulse.
She ends up in a sort of courtyard. There is a fountain in the middle of it and she stops abruptly, staring at it motionlessly, letting the soft rush of water fill her ears.
Footsteps approach. She does not turn, afraid to meet the eyes of whoever it is, afraid of what they might see. They stop next to her, a figure entering the corner of her vision, and somehow she knows who it is. Elrond.
She can feel a sort of serenity radiate from his presence, and at the same time she knows that, like Gandalf, he sees everything. He knows. A slight tremor runs through her at that thought, and her breath catches in her throat. Then she realizes that this does not bother her as much as it should. He knows. But unlike her, he does not judge.
"You are weary." His voice erases all trace of panic left inside of her. It is calm and gentle and… kind. And oh, how true are his words.
"I will show you where you can rest."
He turns and she follows him, her flight instincts no longer attemping to surface. He knows. But she doesn't mind.
The room he shows her is large, and light, and bare except for a bed and a washstand. He closes the door and she stands alone for a long moment, inhaling, exhaling. Then she walks over to the window, draws the curtains and proceeds to strip to the waist and wash in the dimness that surrounds her, troll and warg blood creating black spirals in the clear water of the washbasin. She removes her filthy, ragged jeans as well, then goes over to the bed, slips into the thin sleeping garment spread out on it, and crawls under the covers.
Lys is just surfacing from sleep when Thorin cautiously pushes open the door, barely woken by his knock. She turns over in bed and sits up suddenly at the sight of him, eyes widening momentarily before she recognizes him and relaxes. He feels a pang of guilt at waking her. Her hair is disheveled and her eyes slightly swollen with sleep, something he has never observed before. In fact, he has rarely seen her actually sleeping.
"We're leaving," he informs her. "The elves do not know. We must be quick and silent."
She nods, pushes back the covers and steps onto the floor. He remains in the doorway as she walks through a thin tendril of early morning sunlight, spilling through the crack between the curtains, over to the washstand, white nightgown hanging loosely from her bony shoulders, hair falling like a tangled waterfall down her back. She suddenly looks so fragile, regardless of the lean muscles that he knows cover her skeleton, her grim, unforgiving stare, the deadly precision with which she wounds and kills. Right now she is a child roused from sleep.
She turns and he is pierced by those pale green eyes that he just cannot trust, and the image is gone - she is no child.
She looks at him expectantly, hovering in front of the pile of clothing on the washstand.
"Right. I'll be outside," says Thorin, and closes the door.
Lys hurriedly slips into the clothes set out for her. Last are a pair of boots. They are tall, but light and supple, made of something she can't quite identify. She pulls them on and makes for the door. Noticing a cloak hanging on the back of it she grabs that too, then opens the door and steps into the hallway beside Thorin.
She falls into stride behind him as they silently make their way through the corridors of Rivendell to join the others and continue their journey.
Deafening claps of thunder echo all around as the rain beats down, driving hard and bitter cold, making the mountainside slick and even more treacherous. A biting, howling wind has lifted as well, so strong that it sometimes threatens to pry the travelers from their precarious path over the Misty Mountains.
They clamber laboriously, clinging with raw fingers to the rough, sharp rocks, as the storm worsens by the minute.
Suddenly a huge silhouette looms up close by, a humanoid figure as tall as the mountains themselves. Slowly, jerkily, it reaches down, lifts a huge boulder and throws it, causing the mountainside to reverbate once more with what is not thunder but the sound of stone giants at war. They have walked into the midst of one of their battles.
More figures arise all around them, moving with slow gargantuan strength, hurling boulders and striking each other with their fists. One boulder lands on a ledge above them and brings several tons of rock crashing past the dwarves.
"We must find shelter!" roars Thorin, but it seems it may be too late. Suddenly the Company is sundered as the very rock which bears them begins to move, prying itself apart… they are clinging to the knees of one of the stone giants!
What follows is an eternity of holding on for dear life, sailing through the rain as the giant moves, trying not to think of the possibility of getting crushed against another mountain or giant, and of the question of how they will be reunited with the others. But reunited they are - and nearly crushed in the process, as well. One slab of rock moves rapidly towards the other, picking up speed… and stops just before collision, hurling its riders back to their companions, and they continue their journey against all odds.
By some chance - or some misfortune, as it turns out - they find a large cave in which to take shelter. It is decidedly empty, so they settle down to get some rest, Thorin having forbidden a fire.
The storm has quieted down, and the Company appears to be fast asleep. Bilbo listens for a few more moments, then, with all the stealth of a hobbit, gets up, packs his few belongings, and begins to tiptoe gingerly through the cave strewn with sleeping figures. He has just reached the entrance when a voice stops him.
"Where are you going?" Of course - Bofur is on watch. He had forgotten that.
He slowly turns to face him, and the two converse in hushed voices, unaware that two other pairs of eyes are open, staring into the darkness - one piercing blue, roused by the muted sounds, the other pale green, having been open all night, unaccustomed to sleep.
Both hear Bilbo's words of returning to Rivendell, of not belonging with the Company. However, neither interferes. Bilbo is about to step out of the cave when Bofur notices that his sword is glowing blue.
At the same time, Thorin feels a faint tremor in the ground beneath him. He jumps up and wakes the others, but within a few panicked seconds it is too late. A fissure opens rapidly in the rock and they all tumble into the dark bowels of the mountain.
They land on a hard surface - a wooden platform, they realize, and then the goblins are upon them. Hordes of the foul creatures swarm all around them, and the dwarves, still stunned by their sudden fall, are unable to fight them off.
They are seized and hurried along a path that winds through the mountain. They turn a corner and a grotesque, eerie sight meets their eyes - a huge cavern, lined with flimsy wooden structures, flickering with thousands of torches… and swarming with tens of thousands of goblins.
At the end of the platform upon which they stand is a throne bearing an immense, revolting creature - the king of the goblins of the Misty Mountains.
Upon his command they are disarmed and questioned about their purpose. But Thorin will not reveal their quest… not even when the goblin king decides to revert to torture.
The goblin king announces that he will torture the dwarves, and dread overwhelms Thorin. He does not fear the pain, but he does not wish for the others to endure it. And he is sure that they will - he does not doubt their loyalty. As for the hobbit and the human, however… will they talk? He looks around for them, but instead catches sight of Kíli and Fíli exchanging a glance, meaning to reassure each other but unable to conceal their fear. Red-hot anger pulses through him. They do not deserve this. He must do something, anything! He is about to call out, but Lys beats him to it.
"Wait."
It is not a plea, it is a command, and all movement ceases as everyone is compelled to obey the cold voice radiating through the cavern.
The goblin king is the first to react. "What have we here?" he muses. "What is a little human girl doing with you lot? Well, let's hear what she has to say."
He peers down at her with utter condescendence.
"I offer to fight one of you," says Lys. "If he wins, you do what you like with us. If I win, you let us go."
The goblin king pulls back in surprise, then begins to laugh.
Thorin considers this in silence. If she wishes to sacrifice herself, why not? They are probably all going to die anyways. Looking around at the goblins, he realizes that maybe Lys has more of a chance than he thinks. Most of them are scrawny and hunched-over, flabs of soft flesh hanging off their bones in the place of muscle. The reason they were able to overpower the dwarves was that they had the element of surprise on their side, not to mention their numbers… and of course the ugly bone knives they all carry, once the dwarves were captured.
"Very well," says the goblin king. He watches as Lys allows herself to be pushed roughly through the crowd, then he raises his head and calls, "Grimog!"
The wooden platform creaks and a looming figure emerges from the shadows behind the throne. Thorin's heart sinks. They have a champion. Grimog is the size of a man, slightly taller than Lys and much broader, huge muscles bulging under pockmarked skin. A long, jagged knife hangs at his hip. This is no ordinary goblin - this is a trained fighter.
The goblin king regards Grimog with smug satisfaction, then points at Lys.
"This," he says, and the scorn dripping from his voice makes Thorin's blood boil, "is your opponent."
Grimog looks at Lys and a large, ugly grin spreads across his face. He draws his knife.
"Put down your weapon!" roars Thorin suddenly, feeling the knife of his captor dig into his throat as he strains forward. "She is unarmed!"
The king turns to him in surprise. "If the wench wishes to arm herself, she may."
"I'll fight weaponless." Lys's cold voice cuts through Thorin's growing anger and he remains motionless, breath slowing and muscles relaxing ever so slightly. A small trickle of blood flows down his neck. They are all in Lys's hands now.
"Let the fight begin!" crows the goblin king.
