The Price of Brotherhood (7/8)
Gandalf found Thorin in the deepening darkness beneath the roof of Beorn's porch. He sat himself down beside one of the pillars carved from an entire tree, and spent a long moment measuring the stars as they winked, one at a time, into existence. Finally, he spoke. "Thorin, have you given thought to what you will do next?"
The dwarf lord sat in a quiet study. He had barely moved from this spot since abandoning his nephews in the sick room, feeling their need at his back but unable to answer. He looked at the wizard, "What would you have me do?"
Gandalf shook his head. "That is not for me to decide. From the beginning, I have tried to advise you, but your choices must be your own."
Thorin looked down at his hands. There were scars – white nicks left by sharp metal, old burns from the forges he had worked all his life, hoary calluses from the handles of tools as much as weapons. He had been a prince, but he had also been an outcast. A warrior, and a blacksmith. A leader, and a parent. His history was in his hands, the flesh of his people. Every effort had been to find a place for them. It had been his passion and his obsession. Erebor. It still called to him, even now.
"I do not know what to do."
The painful admission drifted out into the evening sky, swallowed up in the shadows. Gandalf looked saddened. "I'm sorry that it came to this, Thorin."
"Can you not help him any more?"
"I have done everything in my power to help Fíli," Gandalf answered. "However, certain wounds have a shadow over them. Sometimes they never heal at all."
These words renewed the pain in Thorin's chest, and his arm ached, throbbing with his heart. He murmured, "Will he live?"
A sorrowful sigh. "That is hard to say. I fear he may slip away, past recalling. If so, he may sleep for years, lost even as he lives. Or he might fight to return to us. But even if he does wake, the road to recovery will be long, longer than perhaps you know. His future is very clouded. All that I know for certain is that he needs greater help than we now possess."
Thorin looked up sharply. Instinctively, he knew that Gandalf was indicating more than he said. "Speak plainly."
The wizard narrowed his eyes. "Fíli's condition is grave, and while Beorn has some familiarity with the healing arts, he uses them more to ease the birth of his animals, to sooth scratches and splint bones. Óin, too, was an apothecary and not a healer. However, there is another option."
Here Gandalf paused, his eyes becoming sharper and more focused. Thorin knew that whatever he said next would not be welcome.
"Elrond is the greatest healer known to me, but Rivendell is many days over the mountain and Fíli would never survive that journey. Still, there are others with gifts almost as powerful who are nearer at hand. You could ask for their help, and they might answer."
Sensing where this was going, and growing angry, Thorin asked, "Of whom do you speak?"
Gandalf's eyes were unyielding. He refused to look away. "The folk of Lothlórian are practiced at pushing back the shadow. They, unfortunately, have had practice in this kind of healing. They might be able to draw out the poison that Azog will have left in his soul."
"Elves? You would have us go to the elves?" Darkly, Thorin said, "I tried that before. Should I beg them again, just to have them turn their back?"
"They are just as threatened by Azog's return to the lowlands. They are allies, Thorin."
"Your counsel reeks of elven influence. Do you care anything for my people?"
"Care!" With a voice like thunder, Gandalf stood. His eyes were wild under his bushy brows. "Thorin Oakenshield, from the beginning of your quest, I have done everything in my power to help you succeed. I was friend of your father, and his father before him. I watched over you even before you knew me. And you ask if I care for your people? I would have you back on your throne, and see a great number of other problems solved besides. After all, there's a great deal wrong in the world apart from the lost treasure of dwarves."
"You mock me."
"No!" Gandalf said at great volume, but his voice swiftly quieted. "No, Thorin. But I do grow tired of trying to help someone who would turn away every friend and make him an enemy."
Thorin's lip curled. Since his youth he had always been hot-blooded, and bitterness had done nothing to make him more patient or tolerant of the judgment of others. He ground out, "What do you want me to do?"
"A choice stands at your door. The Day of Durin will be upon us soon, and with it the surest chance of finding this hidden door the map speaks of. But only behind us, with the elves, might lay healing for Fíli. You cannot accomplish both yourself. You will have to chose."
A great divide opened in Thorin, his very being raging to be so torn in two. His home, Erebor, was in sight. To turn away from it was against the fiber of his nature, his very blood. He had fought in wars all his life to reclaim the strongholds of his fathers, and yet never had he succeeded. To give up now... His feet were loud against the wood floor as he paced.
Gandalf looked at him as though his every thought were known to him. "Thorin, though I know we both feel the pressure of time, and fate seems urgent, but I must ask you: Would it be so terrible to retreat for now, and come at Erebor again when the company might be mended? Your people have lived this long in exile; they could survive another year."
The memory of exile was like the a knife twisting inside. Like the red-hot metal of the forge, anger enflamed him. "My people are slaves. They are forced to serve unworthy men, to supplicate and beg and toil for all but nothing. We were once kings, rich beyond all imagining!"
"And if you go on, you may regain your jewels," Gandalf said. "But some things can never be reclaimed once they are gone. Is treasure really worth a life?"
The question provoked something deep and dark in Thorin, a greed that echoed the same madness that had seized Thrór so long ago. Beyond reason, and certainly beyond fear of who might overhear, Thorin raged, "One handful of my grandfather's gold would be worth a life!"
It was the faint sound of horror that brought him back to himself. As one, both he and Gandalf looked to the doorway where Kíli stood, his face wane. How had he come to be there? Had it been a desire to mend with his uncle's company? Had a longing for fresh air finally overcome him? Thorin would never know, for it did not matter. The words were already said. They hung in the air, thick in the sudden silence.
"Kíli," Thorin said, distraught. He stepped toward the door. "Kíli, no. I did not mean –"
However, his nephew had already disappeared back into the darkness of Beorn's lodge.
Kíli was running, barely able to hold his sword. A bridge went out from under his feet, while the shrieking voices of goblins echoed from every niche under the mountain. He careened, he fell. Every muscle in his body strained to stop, but momentum pulled him on, ever downward. He fell until the mountain caught him, and then he was scrabbling to reach the gate high in the face of the rock. He could not reach, yet he could almost feel the hot breath of the goblins as they swarmed behind him...
"Don't be afraid of them, Kíli."
Sick with pain, his cheeks wet and dirty, Kíli turned and came face-to-face with his brother. Fíli gazed at him calmly, his braided mane of hair neat and well-groomed. He smiled at his little brother and put out his hand, thumbing away the tears. His expression was the gentle one of their private moments when they were not the heirs of Thorin, bearing the burden of outcast dwarven nobility, but just themselves.
High, squealing voices filled the background, and Kíli snatched at his brother, desperate to hold onto him, to keep him safe. But Fíli just pushed him back to arms length with inexorable strength. Then drums began to throb from far off, but not the drums of goblins. Kíli's heart stuttered with every beat. Orcs. He clung to Fíli's sleeves, seeing the fear that was echoing in his brother's eyes.
"Go," he said, pushing Kíli a little away. "They're coming."
In his minds eye, Kíli saw the twin corpses of the orcs he had killed; their dark, leathery skin, their teeth, jagged against their lips. Their cruel hands. Shaking his head violently, he cried, "Fíli, I can't. Please, let's leave this place. Let's go before they arrive."
Haunted eyes, clear as the lake of Evendim, gazed at him. Kíli saw his brother tremble. "It's too late. They have me already."
"No," he denied. "No, you're with me. Hold my hand, and we'll go."
But the image of Fíli was agitated now. He waned, his checks become stark lines against his face. A bead of blood oozed slowly down his forehead. He no longer looked at Kíli, but away into the dark, with the drums. He gasped. "Kíli!"
"Fíli!"
Reaching for him, Kíli found himself separated by a great darkness. He flung himself at it, but it only widened. He pleaded for mercy, but no one answered. A great figure stepped into the space behind Fíli's shoulder, and rested a pale hand on his shoulder. Teeth like sharp mountains, grinning.
Fíli and Kíli opened their mouths as one.
Twin screams woke the house of Beorn.
One was shrill and filled with panic, the other raw and hoarse, scourged by pain and terror. Thorin knew them both, and he flew from his pallet. When he reached the sickroom door, Kíli's head bolted up, beseeching him with wild eyes. His hair was disheveled as though he had just woken, and he pleaded with a voice Thorin remembered from his childhood. "Uncle, please, help!"
The reason for his panic was clear: On the bed, Fíli writhed under his brothers hands. He twisted, endangering the painstaking work that had been done. Throwing himself toward the bedside, Thorin was forced to put pressure on only partially closed wounds, on mending tendons and bones. The fabric beneath his hands was damp, and still he held on to his senseless, thrashing nephew.
"I woke up to him screaming," Kíli said. "I've called to him and called to him, but he doesn't hear me."
Thorin heard the hopeless guilt in Kíli's voice, yet he didn't have the luxury to comfort the one when the other was in such great need. "Fíli!" he spoke, but his voice failed him. Clearing his throat, he deepened his words. "Fíli, stop this. Lie still, Fíli."
Something of the command must have reached down deep, because the bucking ceased. Then the faint outline of blue eyes reached Thorin, and he saw his nephew for the first time since the wall had slid shut between them in the Misty Mountains.
"Fíli," Thorin said with relief.
The young dwarf's chest was heaving. Sweat was beaded down his forehead and neck. With fingers that could not close, he pawed at the loose sleeves of Thorin's nightshirt. "Uncle," he wheezed. "Uncle, uncle, uncle."
The weak, lost voice shattered Thorin's hope. Aghast, his soul crumbling, he answered. "I'm here." Gently, he pressed his hands to either side of Fíli's face. "I'm here, son."
Fíli's eyes were glazed, snarled as a briar; the pupils were blow wide. Briefly, his tongue darted over chapped lips. "Where's Kíli?"
Eager to be recognized, Kíli took the poor, maimed hand gingerly in his own. Tears streaked down his face. "I'm here, Fíli."
Thorin and Kíli leaned closer, waiting for any reply. But Fíli's eyes rolled back and closed, so swollen. He whispered hoarsely, "It's dark."
His heart breaking within him, Thorin stroked his nephew's dampened hair, wanting only to make contact, to draw him back. To see those eyes open again and know him. He called Fíli's name.
Fili stirred, but a fearful, glazed look had come over him, and a low sound, too cruelly small and humble to be called anything but a whine, wormed its way from between his clamped teeth. He whimpered, "He's coming,"
Thorin's grip intensified, heedless of the bruises. He hissed, "No, Fíli. You aren't with the orcs. You're safe with me. He will never hurt you again. Kíli and I are beside you. Can't you feel us?"
The maddened energy that had briefly seized Fíli was burning out. His muscles, so tense only moments ago, became limp once again. His head lolling back, Fíli looked directly at Thorin. A tear traced his cheek, and he whispered hoarsely, "They hurt me."
Complete devastation. Kíli bowed over until his face was hidden in the sheet beside his brother's neck. He wept, and Thorin put his arm around him without thinking of it. His eyes cast about, seeking help form a place unknown, and he suddenly realized that Gandalf was there. He had a cup, and, seeking Thorin's permission, he gently lifted Fíli and coaxed him to drink, murmuring softly in a language Thorin did not know.
Hearing the sound of a board creak in the hall, Thorin looked to the door and saw that the company had gathered there, looking on with horror in their eyes. Bifur had his arms thrown around his cousin's neck and appeared to be nearly strangling him. Nori looked openly devastated. He groped for Dori, who didn't even hesitate before gripping his hand. Thorin looked at them and couldn't even find it in him to be angry that this moment had not been private. Pale with weariness, he merely shook his head and watched Balin herd them away.
Thorin turned back to his family, to Gandalf who sat upon the bed, almost rocking Fíli who looked like a small child in his arms. Fíli's eyes were still open, but they were blank, unseeing. He started out at nothing that anyone else could see, and breathed.
"Thorin," Gandalf said.
Thorin looked to him as one looked to his last hope, but no comfort was given. Beseechingly, he held out his arms, and his nephew was very gently passed to rest against him. Thorin held Fíli's head under his chin, stroking his hair over and over. Kíli pressed against his side, his fingers gripping through his shirt. Thorin sat with them, while everything in his mind and heart turned over and over. Images of his mountain, his boyhood, his sister.
When the decision came, it was surprisingly easy.
