Heirs of What

| Part 2 |

-A Lost Prince-

Chapter (10) 'Stand or Fall'

Bilbo Baggins had expected a great many things the morning he went racing out of Bag End.

That night, his home filled with dwarves and his mind fuller with uncertainty, he had thought long and hard about embarking on such a perilous journey, he truly had. And he'd made up his mind; he could not go. Of course not. He would die. The more he thought about the dangers, the risks, the more certain he became of his decision, and the more certain he became of his fate should he venture outside the shire. He had fallen to sleep that night, or rather the very early morning after hours of thinking and wondering and deciding, and he had been entirely certain of his safe and reasonable choice.

But then he had changed his mind, quite suddenly. Bilbo wasn't sure what kind of insanity had gathered his processions into a bag without his reason's consent. He didn't know what senselessness had put on his coat and ignored every ounce of the wisdom he knew he possessed. And he couldn't say what type of madness had pushed him out of Bag End, past his neighbors and the gardens and fields, further than he had ever gone until it was too late to turn back. It had been a crazy thing to do.

But still, it was not without a clue that Bilbo left. As he'd gone running though the Shire with all his sense, and reason, and respectability shut firmly behind his round, green door he had known that much awaited him. It was a daft and dangerous venture true, one hardly befitting a Baggins or their reputable place in Hobbiton. But Bilbo had made his choice knowing full well the risks he could face. He was not entirely mad after all, despite what all the rest of the Shire folk surely must have thought, only close to it. He was not silly enough to think luxury and safely would be plentiful out there. He knew, or could at least take a sound guess at the things he would encounter. Bilbo decided leaving his home to race into uncertainly was only as foolish as it sounded if he didn't have a good reason. And even if a wild impulse of Tookish blood could hardly be considered a sound cause, he was willing to call it such, if only to justify the insanity of the whole affair to himself.

A few short months ago Bilbo would have thought the very idea of him on any kind of adventure was absurd, utterly laughable, and entirely out of the realm of possibility. Back then he had considered them quite horrid things not at all worth the trouble and nothing but bad news for respectable hobbits. He would have never believed when Gandalf's shadow fell upon his garden that the very next day he would be running out his door with not so much as a single sane thought of hesitation or, he was soon to discover, a handkerchief. If someone had told him then that he would sign the contract knowing full well the chances of death folded in those pages where his name was written in a hasty scribble, Bilbo would have called them mad. If he'd been warned that night, before thirteen dwarves felt into his home, that his life was about to change forever, that he was about to throw away the comfortable existence he'd built, that he was about to ignore all sensibility and suddenly go against the reputation he had come to bare so faithfully all on a nonsensical whim, Bilbo would have denied it with his every breath.

But things change. He had changed. For reasons he still could not name, he had packed a few belongings and chased after the Company leaving behind him everything he'd ever known and come to value. It was exciting truly, and frightening for certain. More than once Bilbo had wondered if he made a mistake in coming. More than once he'd thought of returning to the Shire. More than once he, and others, had questioned his place on the quest. But in the end he had stayed. Why, he wasn't entirely sure. Perhaps it was became he'd wanted to prove that he could. He'd wanted to show that he was a bit more brave, and a bit more tough than he appeared. Perhaps because he'd been too curious and too invested to turn back after so much time and so much effort. Or perhaps he'd been too afraid of going back and regretting it for the rest of his safe and comfortable life. Whatever the reason, it had made Bilbo the braver for it, his courage had grown. And it had made him all the more eager and willing with each irreversible step he took. The closer he drew to the dangers and threats, the further he came from returning to the quiet, unexciting life he had always lived.

Thinking back, he could still hardly believe he chose possible death, probable death, over the Shire. It certainly wasn't that he wanted to die. No, he had many things to live for. He guessed in the end, he'd gone because he could. Because for the first time in his life he'd been given the opportunity to do something his never would again. And when force to pick between seeing so much of the world during an ever death dodging adventure, or never seeing any of it at all, he couldn't bare the second. He couldn't bare staying in his armchair forever while thirteen dwarves marched across Middle Earth to take back their own home. He had to help if he could. He had to go. It didn't really feel like much of a choice in the end.

So when Bilbo left the Shire he had expected, and maybe even hoped for, many things. But sorrow had not been one of them. The weight of grief and sadness they carried with them he had not expected. The dwarves traveling in woeful silence he had never hoped for, even if he had joked that he did. The sadness that ever throbbed in his chest now he had never wanted. But it was here, another unexpected twist their journey had taken without their bidding. And as miserable as it made him, Bilbo found that he could hardly be surprised. He had gotten his share of nearly everything else on this quest, why not pain too? He should have known he wouldn't escape all the bad among all the danger. But perhaps he had. Maybe that's why he almost hadn't gone in the first place.

Either way, it was certainly there, the pain. And there was so much of it. A sorrow born from sudden grief, and grown in worry. Worry. It was everywhere. It lay upon every face of the Company. It could be heard in every word they spoke. It could be seen in every movement they made. It was so heavy that Bilbo was sure he could almost feel it weighing on them, so thick he could nearly reach out and touch it and pull it from the air where it was trying its utter best to suffocate them. As the Company settled into their encampment for the night, darkness having claimed its place in the sky, it was with a troubled and sober mood. A sense of missing had found its way to the empty place Kili left among them.

After crossing over the Long Lake and the beaches surrounding it, Thorin had led the Company up the slopes bordering the lake and through the grassland that lay before Mirkwood. They had reached the meadows along its perimeter just as sundown came. Rather than spending the night inside Mirkwood's menacing fold, they chose to camp in the clears where they all felt more safe. Even so, they still remained an uneasy distance from the black forest edge, and Bilbo noticed that no one chose to sit with their back to it.

Tasks were performed quietly with only necessary conversation. And the meal was taken in silence save for the muttered 'thank yous' as they were served. It seemed no one had anything of comfort to share, nothing pleasant to say so they all remained hushed. Even Gandalf kept to himself as he smoked his pipe and watched the forest with what could be curious interest or wary concern. Bilbo wasn't sure which. He only knew that he was glad when the dreadfully solemn meal was over and he could retreat to his bed, or rather the pile of wraps he had slept on for months now. He didn't feel like talking any more than the rest. When there is no comfort to be had, sometimes the greatest comfort is to simply be alone in your misery, and Bilbo certainly found that true. He was miserable, or as close to it as he'd ever been. He missed Kili, quite awfully. He had grown rather fond of their youngest member and his infectious joy. That was no surprise really. Bilbo wasn't sure anyone could help but love the ever pleasant dwarf. Kili had certainly brought much brightness to the Company during their quest to the Mountain. And his absence was sorely felt and even more painfully missed. It was terribly clear in the woeful state of their camp and particularly, in their youngest present member.

Fili had stayed by the fire long after the meal was finished. He had remained long after the others had gone off to sleep. And he had lingered even after the flames had long die away into rich red embers. He was neither tired nor driven to do anything in particular. He just was. And all he could feel as he sat there unmoving was an overwhelming worry. He felt it in every breath, in every heartbeat, like he was drowning in it or trapped in its hold. There was no escape from its dark presence and its cruel stare that scorched his soul, or the phantom fingers of dread it touched him with as it squeezed his stomach and wove knots inside him.

It had taken a long time, days, for the panic to truly die away. So long that now with its absence Fili felt exhausted. Exhausted from the unending rush of horrors drumming through his head at every moment. Exhausted from the unceasing trembling and undying energy that came with his delirious panic. That is until it all crashed around him and he was left completely drained and wishing he could remain utterly still. It was exhausting to even think now that the wild, frantic fear had finally waned and the hysterics had relented, giving way to something that now seemed much worse.

Rational terror.

Now there was nowhere to hide from his worries. Every fear he now had to claim as his own. He couldn't attribute them to his panic or hysterics any longer. Each one was the product of days of thinking. Every fear he had left was logical and sane. And that was more terrifying. Because that meant they were real. He had real reason to fear them. And the greatest trouble was, very few had vanished with his panic. Nearly all had remained as rational worries Fili couldn't deny. They filled his chest and his throat. They clawed slowly and painfully in his stomach, ripping him apart tactfully, cruelly. They chewed on his heart, spilling his blood one drop at a time. And it was the most painful think Fili had ever faced.

It all felt very much like a dream, or at least unreal the same way dreams were. And in brief, desperate moments Fili would actually think he could make it all go away, that he could drag himself from a slumber of terrors and rid himself of the nightmare being lived out around him. But it was only a fleeting notion. One that came when he wasn't thinking to stop it and gone as suddenly as it appeared. The wild thoughts were so temporary Fili almost couldn't remember them when they were gone again. But even after actuality stunned him back to the miserable present he couldn't make the unreal feeling leave. Maybe he just hadn't know before now that one person could feel so afraid, and worried, and in such pain. Maybe he hadn't realized those things were so real until now. He had never felt anything like this before, just as he had never stiffened at his uncle's approach like he did as Thorin appeared beside him. He didn't pull away knowingly, but Thorin saw the slight flinch and lowered himself down beside his nephew slowly, cautiously. Fili however, had quickly reassumed his still gaze at the fire.

"You should sleep," Thorin told him gently.

"I can't."

Fili heard a heavy sigh next to him.

"Neither can I."

A loud, still silence lapsed over their soft voice for a while.

"Where do you think he is now Thorin? Do you think he's alright, or…" Fili didn't finish, the rest far too painful to force out of his mouth.

"I don't know."

Fili had hoped for more. A lie, he guessed. Because no one could really know. He wasn't sure why he wished for news that would be nothing more than a guess no better than his own. He didn't know why he longer to hear words that he knew might be untrue. Any reassurance of Kili's wellbeing would be fake, utterly unreal. Nobody knew. He didn't. But still he wanted to hear something hopeful, even if perhaps it was a lie.

"He told me once," Fili spoke quietly, not entirely sure why he was doing so at all, "that he was most afraid of being helpless. Of not being able to protect himself. Or others. I told him it would never happen. Because even if he stumbled, I would be there. You would be there. We weren't," he said, his voice hardening with a trace of what could be bitterness or pain or both. "I wasn't."

"When did he say that?" Thorin questioned, wondering when his youngest nephew had ever taken the time to consider something so earnest.

Fili shrugged faintly "Just one night."

"During the Quest?"

The younger dwarf stared at the fire, wondering if he really want to tell his uncle the story, if it even mattered. It felt like it mattered, like it was a moment between he and Kili and he wasn't sure if he wanted to share.

Finally his head nodded weakly. "Yes. It was one night after we were trapped on the cliffs. He said he thought we might actually die that night, that we would be killed by the wargs or fall to our death and there was nothing he could do about it. He said he never felt so powerless, so desperate." Fili looked back at Thorin. "How must he be feeling now? He's alone and can't… and I-"

"You were right," Thorin cut in. Fili looked at his uncle sharply, confusion and unbelief obvious. "When you told Kili he would never be helpless, you were right. Because even if he is alone, your brother could never be defenseless. His heart is too brave. His will is too strong." Thorin smiled softly, halfheartedly. "His tongue is too sharp." Fili started at his uncle in silence. "He'll never give up," Thorin said gently, meeting his gaze.

"But I lied to him. I wasn't there. I failed him."

"No, I failed you both." Thorin's voice screamed in the throaty tone he kept his words steady with. "I'm so sorry I left you behind," he nearly whispered.

"You didn't," Fili stated. "You left Kili behind. I chose to stay."

His uncle nodded weakly. "Still," he tired again, "I was wrong. I should never have left."

"You're right, you shouldn't have. But we can't take them back, our mistakes. You can't any more than I can. Being sorry does not help Kili. It doesn't stop him from being taken."

"No, it does not," Thorin agreed sadly, his eyes dropping to his hands, unable to watch his nephew's face any longer. "But I want you to know that I am sorry. And if I could change what I've done, Fili, I would do anything. I don't ask for your forgiveness. I don't deserve it. I can not make right what I did but-"

"Stop Thorin. Don't. Don't make amends to me like it's too late. Like we won't get him back. I don't want to hear it. I can't," Fili said, his voice wet and tight.

Thorin looked again at Fili's face, the younger dwarf's features were drawn in hurt. "I want him back too Fili. More than anything. It must seem like I've done everything in my power to prove otherwise, but I failed you both once and I will not do it again. You must know that."

"I know I watched my brother dying once. He was dying. You weren't there, you didn't see it but I did. I saw the poison slowly choking him to death. I watched the life draining from his eyes. He was so sick. I thought he was going to die. I thought I was going to loose him. I can't, I can't face that again. I know it doesn't matter what you or anyone else thinks or does, I have to find him."

"But not alone. You can trust that we will be there now. I promise you Fili."

"I can trust in you," Fili repeated quietly, a humorless chuckle falling pass his lips.

"Do you doubt it?" Thorin asked, the hurt plain in his eyes though he hardly had the right to be surprised. He broke that trust.

"You doubt me," Fili answered, meeting his uncle's steel blue eyes without wavering. "I see the way you look at me. You and all the others. Like I might break in pieces, like I might crumble at any moment. But I won't. Kili needs me to stay strong. So I will. I'm not as weak as you believe. I don't need everyone watching me, waiting for me to fall apart. Especially you."

"I know you're not weak," Thorin denied and it sounded true, almost.

"You think I'm fragile. That I could be weak given the chance. Like I'm standing on ice and one wrong word will send me falling. And that's the same thing. You all think that. But you're wrong," Fili shook his head.

There was no answer. None that came forth at Thorin's bidding though he truly tried to refuse his nephew's accusations.

"You can't deny it. You don't need to. It doesn't change anything." Fili said as he stood.

"Fili, I-"

"And," Fili interrupted as he turned to leave, "just don't make any excuses to my, like it's over. Like he's already gone." His voice was soft and pained. "I can't hear them Thorin."

With wet eyes he turned from the fire and his uncle's silent face and walked away.

OOO

The peaks of Mount Gundabad appeared slowly, its tops rising up like daggers against a gray sky. Kili wondered if it would have been better to arrive at night when the darkness would have concealed the eerie gloom and he wouldn't have to see the hateful figure of shadows it cut into the horizon. Instead, his clothes were still damp from dew and cold morning winds crawled over his skin like a frozen flame. The pale, weak sunlight that edged around the dark cloud from the east where they were gathered only reminded him that the dreadful day had just begun, and there was no near break from his misery.

He had realized quick some time ago that he was being taken to Gundabad. The direction alone was all so telling, but more convincing was his captor's undeniable origin. He knew these orcs had come from the mountain, and it wasn't a far stretch to assume they would return there. Bring him alone was only an addition, no doubt a welcomed one by them. Ocrs, unlike most, enjoyed prisoners. They relished the pitiful cries of their dying victims. They savored the sound of painful woes. It was a vile pleasure that was well credited to their race. Kili knew he was being dragged to their home and it was a terrifying thing. He could not quiet the fear that writhed inside of him and he could not stop his mind from wondering what horrors he would face once they got there.

They had traveled for days, out of Mirkwood, over the stony flat lands before the Grey Mountains, through the canyons at their west end, and past the ridges bordering Gundabad. The unrelenting pace and only short respites had been miserable. Kili had been given very little rest, only a few fleeting moments in which he had immediately collapsed to sleep, every time to been jerked awake again shortly thereafter.

He'd had little of almost everything in the past few days besides pain. His hands had remain bound in front of him, a small blessing in itself for it allowed him to use them if only to a limited degree. But they had long ago lost almost all color, turning a gray purple, and his fingers went numb days past. Kili had tried to keep blood flowing in them, but they tingled and burn each time he moved them and it only made the pain in his wrists worse. The ropes binding him had rubbed slowly, day by day deeper into his skin until his wrists were pink and sticky and tender. Every movement stung enough that he couldn't stop his muscle from tensing in pain or a hiss from rising in his throat. His right wrist was worse, dark red showing on the inside where his skin was softer. But it was only one of his concerns, and though painful, only a minor one.

He had eaten very little as well, and always with long spans between. At least water had been give him at bit more liberally. Kili knew better than to believe it was due to any amount of kindness on the orcs part. They were far too cruel for that credit. Perhaps they only wished to keep him alive long enough to reach the mountain. Even so, Kili was grateful for the satisfying gulps of water that always, for a moment, eased away his pain. It had certainly been a miserable few days, and yet Kili found himself dreading the end of their travel.

As they drew closer to the mountain he got a good look at the stronghold for the first time. Its center peak rose over the others in height and its base spanned twice their width. At the center a large, dark mouth led inside the mountain, a weak glow of torch light coming through it. Though it was concealed well, as he got closer Kili could see that the mountain's outside had more to tell of its occupancy besides the entrance. There were places where the rock was too flat, faces that were oddly smooth. In the dark cracks he could see small openings and tunnels leading through the stone walls. They looked almost natural. The orcs had done a good job of hiding them, making them looked like they belonged. It made Kili wonder just how big and extensive Gundabad truly was on the inside. He'd never had a reason to wonder before and even now, he mused, it didn't really matter. But wondering on any aspect of the mount besides the horrors it surely held was a welcomed distraction and one Kili found himself easily drawn to.

He had heard the tales of Gundabad, ancient stories of dwarven heritage being born in its halls. He knew at least that his race had once dwelling within the mountain long ago, and had revered it as something special. It was strangle to know that the dark rock structure before him had once been so prized by his people. It was stranger still that the orcs had been able to so completely rob it of every breath of life it must have had once, and made it so wickedly their own. So many times they had taken what wasn't theirs and destroyed it completely and utterly. But not before they made death look welcoming. Kili could see it now in the bleak figure of stone before him, all darkness and stink. It seemed better if it would just fall, just crumble and die. At least then it would no longer have to stand so broken, so far from its glory, brought so low. How many live had felt the same? How many times did the orcs' victims beg for death? Plead for the end of their torment?

Many. Kili knew that. He had heard it all his life. He had been told of it since his youth. "It would be better to never be born then come to their hands" they would say. But he did not believe that, he could not. Doing so would be giving up before it even began. He would not doom himself to a fate worse than death simply by believing it. No, he would fight until his last breath, not lay down and die. Pain could only last so long. And he could face it, he could survive it. He would have to.

With shaking breaths Kili dragged air into his mouth, pulling strength into his weak limbs and gathering his courage to endure whatever waited for him. He was afraid, more than he have ever been before. A deep terror ached inside of him and his throat burned with panic ready to break forth at any moment. But he was also determined. It pounded in his chest and smoldered in his soul. He would take what was coming to him without breaking and crumbling and dying. And certainly, without begging.

OOO

Bolg, son of Azog the Defiler, savage combatant, captain of his father's northern armies, and keeper of Mount Gundabad's prisons was cruel, wicked, and vicious. He was murderous, brutal, merciless, and bloodthirsty. But he was also intelligent. Surprisingly so for his race and his age. His evil mind twisted in cunning ways. It was the very thing that made him so feared, his capacity for cold intellect. He had dangerously sharp eyes, and frighteningly tactful wit. Enough so, that when his commando returned to Gundabad, dragging a prisoner with them, he knew instantly that they had failed him. He knew before they dare utter a word that Thorin Oakenshield yet lived. This young dwarf they brought to his feet was nothing but an offering to protect their own throats. The dwarf was nothing but an attempt to pacify his rage. But Bolg was not to be subdued.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice chillingly calm and even, though still unable to conceal the anger that blazed in his eyes. The orc nearest Kili, the one that had forced him to his knees at Bolg's feet, now stepped back, pulling away from his leader's furious glaze. It pleased Kili to see the fear in his captors' eyes; a welcomed change.

"One of the thirteen," one of them answered. "We seized him in Lake Town."

"Why did you not kill him with the rest?" Bolg asked, taking long stride in front of them. His frightful stare dared them to lie to him, the savage glean in his eyes almost wanting them to, hoping they would so he could make them answer for it.

"We, we weren't able to kill them all. When we reached them there were only a few."

"How many?"

"This one and three others," the same orc answered timidly.

"And Oakenshield?"

"He was gone."

"You let him get away?" Bolg stopped his spacing and turn on them with a dangerous glare.

"We tried to slaughter him and the rest like you commanded, but he wasn't there! And then the elves came. We were able to grab this one as we-"

"What? Fled?" Bolg now roared, the extent of his rage twisting his ugly features. "Worthless cowards! You have failed me again! I have no need for another prisoner."

Kili watched as Bolg turned to the orcs that were surrounding them and watching the exchange with eager pleasure, his soldiers.

"Kill him," Bolg rested his eyes on Kili. "And them," he said as he glared at the commando pack with disgust.

"But master," one begged, "this one is Oakenshield's kin! His nephew! We have brought him to you!"

Kili felt the air rush pass his teeth and out his mouth. How did they know that? How could they know that? This would make it worse. Azog and his blood hated Thorin and his blood. The pain would be greater. The torture crueler. The misery longer. His connection to Thorin would make him suffer all the more. Kili felt fear crawl up his neck as Bolg's sharp eyes fell on him again.

"His kin?" the orc leader repeated, surprise appearing on his scarred face. He walked to Kili, his steps long and heavy, until he stood before the young dwarf. Kili's nerve begged him to look away, to pull back, to retreat as far as his could in his bonds. But he would not. If a foolish defiance was all he had at his disposal, he would use it to the best of his skill. Forcing his shoulders back and his eyes up, he met Bolg's dark ones with a steady glaze that he hoped did a sound job of hiding his fear. The orc's eyes just stared at him, studying him, sweeping over each of his features with a careful leer. Kili demanded his body to remind still, denying the urge to recoil, refusing to squirm under his gaze.

"Oakenshield's blood does flow in your veins, doesn't it?" Bolg finally spoke again with a satisfied sneer. He could see it in the dwarf's features, the color of his hair, the turn of his mouth, the shape of his brow, the eyes. They were Thorin's. Not so sunken, not so aged, not so heavy. But they held the same intense, sharp gaze that Thorin's wore. There was indeed no question of this one's decent.

Kili had remained so focused on holding Bolg's eyes that he couldn't stop himself from flinching when he felt cold steed press against his throat. Bolg had drawn his sword and forced the point under Kili's chin.

"I could spill Durin blood yet this day," Bolg jeered, forcing Kili's head back with the flat of his blade. "Tell me, why would Thorin leave you behind? Why did you not go with him?" When Kili gave him nothing but a resistant silence Bolg laughed, a snarling, taunting burst. "Do you think you can defy me? Do you think you can save your pride? You are a fool! You can not save yourself anything. Perhaps that's why Oakenshield left you, because you are simple. Or maybe it's because he is a coward? Did he leave you to cover his trail to protect himself?"

"He is not a coward," Kili glared, the blade pressing deeper into his skin with each word. "And he is not afraid of you," he said, his teeth gritted and eyes bright with fury. He was suddenly too angry to be afraid. His weak body ached, and his wounded leg burned but the trembling in his fingers was not from exhaustion or pain. All Kili felt was a rage writhing in his stomach.

"He should be," Bolg growled, twisting his blade so its edge now laid against Kili's neck. "I will make his death slower, and more painful than I'll make yours. A triumphant sneer was the last thing Kili saw before he realized he was about to die.

With a flush of panic he realized there could be no other end to the next minute but his death as the sharp sword edge pressed into his neck. He could feel the pressure against his throat and as it cut open the skin he bit back a cry of pain. He could feel blood gathering, warm and soft as it began to drip down his neck. He couldn't breath. Doing so would push the blade deeper. It didn't matter though. His knew his death was fast approaching. Was he afraid? He didn't know. Sad, angry, yes. He could feel both building with the sharp pressure on his throat. But he hardly had a chance to be afraid now. Kili just held his breath as pain, burning with heat, traveled up to his face and waited for death to come.

But it didn't. Bolg draw back his hand slightly, just enough so his blade was no longing cutting the young dwarf's throat. Kili's eyes rose to the orc's face in confusion and surprise, both emotions though drowned by his relief. He watched as Bolg's expression shifted, the orc's eyes staring at Kili's face again.

He didn't know what to do with him.

Kili could tell. He watched Bolg's mind turn and change as the orc stared at him. Bolg wanted to kill him, of that Kili was sure. He could see it in the utter hatred that shown in his eyes. But he wasn't sure he should.

One moment the orc was determined to end him, his blade again pressing into Kili's flesh. A half second later he was uncertain and pulled away a little. Kili didn't know how many times in a matter of seconds Bolg changed his mind. He wasn't sure how many times he felt the pressure at his throat and the sharp burning. He wasn't sure how many times he choked back a noise of pain. Or how many times he nearly collapsed in relief when the pressure lessened again. Finally the orc leader drew his sword away from Kili and instead grabbed a handful of his hair, yanking his head back with a violent jerk.

"You will live, for now," he snarled, leaning into Kili's face. "I may find a use for you yet." His face was angry, furious that he couldn't justify slaughtering this dwarf who was Thorin's blood. He was too smart to kill Kili without proper thought, but it angered him still. With a noise of satisfaction he drew his foot back and delivered a savage kick to Kili's stomach, sending the dwarf to the ground. "Don't count yourself luck yet," Bolg growl down at him. "You may soon wish for death."

Kili barely heard him over his own gasps for breath as he tried desperately to drag air back into his throbbing lungs. But he did hear him, and his next command.

"Take him to the dungeons." Kili felt himself be gathered from the ground and pulled away from Bolg as the orc turned to the commando group that had captured him.

"You brought me a prisoner when I asked for a head. I will have one."

Kili was pulled too far away to see what happened behind him, but he heard it. The hiss of a sword against air and the unmistakable sound of a head hitting the ground.

So sorry for the long wait, but I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Please let me know! As always, thank you to all who have reviewed, followed, and/or favorited. I truly mean that. And a special thank you to those who have faithfully reviewed all or most chapters. You guys are amazing :) Thanks for reading, and I hope you all have a wonderful day!