Chapter 10

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine!

A/N: The Ring of Ahyrunul is entirely summerald's idea and used with permission, 'kay? Also, she's a total rockstar, and just started her fifth story in the Erebor, 3022 series—you should hop over and check it out!

The only art prompt for this chapter is "Sunrise in the Shire", which you can find on my Pinterest Board (just search River Steele Pinterest and you'll find it) My Hobbit AU!

Thanks to everyone who reads and reviews; I appreciate all your perspectives on the story! Enjoy!

Fíli, King Under the Mountain, was brooding.

Kili likely would've smacked him upside the head for it, and his mother certainly would've boxed his ears; but neither of them was here, and he couldn't help it.

He wanted his uncle. He wanted his brother and his mother too, but right now, he really wanted Thorin. Uncle would've known how to deal with an attempted assassination; likely would've shrugged it off as part of the job and gotten right on with his life. He also would've known how to get the information he needed from the assassin, rather than leaving the lad languishing in the dungeons whilst he tried to make sense of his council's advice.

"My Lord, a firm hand is needed to address such a crime…"

"He must be given a fair trial!"

"Kerif is not even the problem here; we need to find out what we can about his Master. At any cost."

"He is a dwarf, not an orc! You can't torture him for information!"

"Who said anything about torture? There are other ways…"

Balin had chased them all off before Fíli lost his composure and threw the lot of them out on their padded dwarven rears. Then he had put a heavy hand on the young king's shoulder and drawn their foreheads together in a gesture of fatherly comfort.

"You will be all right, lad."

"What do I do, Balin?" He'd asked desperately. The old dwarf had shaken his head.

"You must decide, Fíli; I cannot do this for you. Whatever decision you make, remember what kind of leader you once told me you wanted to be. Hmm?"

Fíli had nodded. "Fearless, but kind. Merciful, but undaunted."

"Very good," Balin had murmured. "Just keep that in the forefront of your mind, my King."

Fíli had spent all that night considering. He had trouble focusing, though; he didn't want to admit it, but the attempt on his life and the continuing threat that was implied by Kerif's ramblings had shaken him. He was no stranger to having his life threatened; but it had always been in a skirmish, battle, or situation in which he could see his opponent, could fight them outright.

This skulking, sneaking sort of threat was not something he was used to.

His unpleasant thoughts were interrupted by Frâr charging in with Balin and a young guard who held a large raven on his arm. The bird spread its wings for balance and squawked indignantly as the lad skidded to a stop before Fíli, saying breathlessly,

"My Lord! A message for you from the Prince!"

Balin stepped forward, concerned. "It's a bronze buckle, lad."

Fíli's stomach turned at the code—bronze buckle, while not as urgent as black buckle, meant something wasn't right. It seldom required any action on the receiving party's part, but was never a harbinger of good things and usually meant another update would be issued as quickly as possible. He opened the case, murmuring his thanks to the raven, and broke the seal on the letter.

Brother,

Please sit down before you continue reading.

Are you sitting down yet?

Seriously. Sit.

Well that was comforting. Fíli sunk into a chair as he continued to read. His heart thumped painfully at the mention of Laketown, and that night he had come so very close to losing Kili forever.

He was in Ryn's debt again, it seemed, for saving the one person he loved most in the world.

When he finished reading, Fíli sat stunned. He had never heard of such a thing; a wound calling dark creatures to a person and the Mountain (or any location) being their only protection. However, he'd never known anyone who had been pierced by a morgul shaft, either, much less survived the process. In addition, he was quickly learning that the Mountain had many, many secrets and ties to the Line of Durin that he'd never known about.

He sighed, putting down the missive to see Balin, Frâr, and the guard watching him expectantly. He nodded at the lad.

"Thank you, Hari," he said gently. "You are dismissed." The lad bowed and made himself scarce.

Fíli looked up at his advisor and his Captain.

"He fell ill," he stated bluntly, and Balin sucked a breath in. "The morgul poison—it apparently summons dark creatures to him. We never noticed it here because the Mountain protects him, but….travel is exceedingly dangerous for Kili now."

"Lady Deorynn healed him?" Frâr asked.

Fíli nodded. "She did. And they are confident they can finish this mission and get everyone home safely."

"You believe that?" Balin asked.

"I do," Fíli answered. "I don't really have much of a choice."

Kíli's Company crossed the Brandywine River into the Shire early that morning. Both Aran and Ryn relaxed visibly when they were firmly on Shire soil, and Ryn told him when he asked that the hobbits' homeland was much more strictly guarded than even Buckland. Rangers passed unseen everywhere within the Shire, and on the fringes of it; meaning there was less danger here than there had been anywhere else on their road, save perhaps Rivendell.

"So are you going to relax your magic while we're here, then?" he asked, noting her pale face and dark-ringed eyes. He felt a pang of guilt; she was exhausted, doing everything in her power to keep him safe. But she shook her head.

"Not until we reach Thorin's Halls. It's not the Lonely Mountain, but it's still more defensible than a roadside encampment."

"You're exhausted, idúzhib. You should take the opportunity—"

"No," she said flatly. "Kíli, no. Don't ask me to let it go." The look in her eyes held more fear than he liked. More than he thought the situation warranted. "It's all I can do to protect you. Please," she murmured, "please don't."

He stared at her. "Ryn?"

She shook her head and spurred her pony forward, settling into a more sedate pace next to Bilbo. He could see the tension in her shoulders from here, and wondered what he could have possibly done wrong.

"Leave her be, young sire," Aran pulled up beside him, unbidden. Kíli tensed. The Man didn't see, his eyes firmly fixed on Ryn's back. "There are some pains in her past even I know nothing about; and I was nearby for this particular one."

"What pain?" Kíli asked, voice low.

Aran shook his head. "I can only tell you my part of the story, which is all I really know of it." Kíli nodded his understanding, and Aran spoke quietly. Gloin's boisterous singing (he was getting more cheerful by the day as they neared Ered Luin) kept him from being overheard.

"It was a few years after I'd met her," Aran began. "She was always a loner, even more so than us Rangers; didn't trust anyone, never spoke of her past. I only knew about any of it because she'd been half-delirious with pain and fever the night we met—when I rescued her from the orc camp. The things they did to her, Kíli…" he trailed off, shook his head. "But that is another story. Urízir was one of us; a Ranger of the North, son of my dear friend Gimilkhâd. He was young and rash and bitter when she met him, and somehow they became fast friends. At first, I approved of the friendship—Deorynn seemed to soothe his resentment toward the world. I don't know how it happened; but I do know the next time I saw her, Urízir had joined a band of renegades terrorizing the citizens of the north, Men specifically; Deorynn had refused him when he asked her to stay with them as well, but she was wavering. Instead of her healing him of his pain, he had exacerbated hers to the point she nearly lost herself.

"I talked her out of it, and Urízir gave me this for my efforts," Aran pointed to the long thin scar on his face. "Good came of it, though; that act proved to Ryn once and for all what Urízir had become, and she defeated him and saved my life."

"What happened to him?" Kíli asked, struggling with the idea of Ryn even considering joining up with bandits.

"She didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking. He's out there somewhere. Probably near Evendim, his home had once been near there."

They sat in silence for a few moments, before Kíli wondered aloud, "What could have pushed her that far? To the point she would've been willing to become one of them?"

Aran looked grim. "I don't really know, Kíli. But I do know her protectiveness has known no bounds since then; it's difficult for her to give someone her heart, but once she does? She will do anything—even if it harms her—to save them. I think she believes she could've saved Urízir, and feels the necessity to never make that mistake again."

Kíli looked back ahead, where Ryn and Bilbo were riding; the hobbit waving his arms animatedly as he wove a tale for the lass, her green eyes sparkling in the mid-morning sun as she laughed at his antics.

Mahal, but he'd never seen such strength in a person before, save perhaps his mother. To have lived a life so full of pain and betrayal, yet to have become what she had become?

He loved her all the more for it.

"This mithril magic is slightly terrifying, you know that, right?" Fíli informed Balin as the old scholar stood excitedly over the circle of runes in the midst of a large hall that had been discovered last night. Balin was in his element, sussing out the mysteries of Erebor; but Fíli was leery about having this much power. This particular set of runes—which Balin had happily named the Ring of Ahyrunul—forced whoever was inside it to tell the truth when it was activated.

What would happen if they tried to lie, Fíli did not know. Nor was he eager to find out.

It seemed Balin disagreed. "Lad, it won't hurt you, you're the King Under the Mountain."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Fíli muttered to himself. To Balin, he said, "all right, what do I do?"

Balin grinned.

Fíli had the Ring and its uses learned within an hour, which was when Balin evidently saw his chance. "Fíli, I was thinking we should try this on Kerif."

Fíli blinked, hard, then immediately opened his mouth to tell Balin no. The old dwarf knew it, and interrupted before he could answer, "I know you're not thrilled about how this might work, but we need to know who the Master is and what he wants from you. How to protect you, how to eliminate this threat once and for all. Fíli, please. This is important." Balin paused. "You are important."

He was probably right, Fíli thought, and there was no denying the mithril magic was a powerful tool.

But power corrupted faster than anything Fíli knew, and he refused to allow himself to become corrupted. He had seen what the gold did to his Uncle, and continued to see what power did to Dain—turning his distant cousin from kin into an arrogant autocrat—and he swore then and there not to allow that to happen to him.

Vow made, he nodded to Balin.

"Bring him."

Rognus and Gimli stumbled into Duillond late that morning, their horses exhausted and the lads themselves needing healers and baths in the worst way.

Rognus cursed to himself as he dismounted and took in Gimli's pale face, blood-matted beard, and broken arm. "Blasted wolves," he was saying as he led his pony to the hostler, eyes alight with rage.

"Those were not normal wolves," Rognus corrected, remembering the glowing red eyes while assessing the damage to his own body. A few lacerations—one of which would definitely require stitches—bruised ribs, and a sprained, swollen ankle. He grimaced. "Not wargs either, they were too small."

"What were they, then?" the lad beside him asked.

"I wish I knew," Rognus answered. "What I do know is you and I are going to go get that arm set before you hurt it worse."

Gimli made a face, scratching at his short beard with his good hand. "Elvish healing, bah! Going to try and magic me up, the lot of them."

Rognus rolled his eyes. "Gimli, you're just like your father. I promise I won't let them use anything but herbs and slings on you." He carefully threw an arm over the lad's shoulders, smiling down at him as Gimli gave a short bark of laughter.

The red-haired lad had been nearly beside himself with excitement when he found out Lady Dis herself had requested he ride to Duillond with Rognus to provide more protection for Kíli (Prince Kíli, he reminded himself) and his Company on the way to Thorin's Halls. He hid it well, young cadet soldier that he was; but Rognus knew it was there.

The trip had been relatively short—three days ride on shaggy mountain ponies—and easy enough, until the night before when the wolf-creatures had attacked. He and Gimli had fought hard, killing a few of them; but there hadn't been time to gather their camp gear before they barely managed to catch the ponies, mount them, and run.

Still, he reflected as Gimli yelped in pain when the young elf lass set his arm, at least they made it in one piece.

Though he was rather certain Master Gloin was going to have words for him once he saw the state of his son.

Frâr marched down to Erebor's dungeons firmly, refusing to let his feet falter despite the pit of dread in his stomach. The King's Chief Advisor, Balin, had discovered a hall with an odd mithril circle design in the floor—evidently it was magic to force one to tell the truth.

And they were going to use it on Kerif.

It made sense, a large part of him knew. They needed that information, and short of torturing the lad, there was really no other way to get him to give it up. Dwarves were hardy creatures, not easily intimidated or coerced. Getting information out of one without resorting to cruelty was difficult indeed.

Which was why the mithril magic made sense.

So why was he feeling so upset about it, so….protective? Kerif made his choices; everyone else was left to respond in kind.

And yet it felt like a small betrayal to bring his former brother-in-arms up here to be subjected to Mahal-knew-what inside that ring of mithril.

Still. He was a soldier, and the Captain of the King's Guard. No one ever said his job was easy.

He nodded to the lads standing guard outside the dungeon, taking the thick key and letting himself into the cold hall. A fire roared in the giant fireplace at the end of the stone expanse, but it only heated the large block of cells to tolerable levels.

The dungeons of Erebor, while humane, had clearly not been designed with the comfort of their tenants in mind.

Frâr sighed as he reached Kerif's cell, unlocking the barred door.

"Come, Kerif, you've been summoned—"

He froze.

Then he blinked, stuck the lantern further into the small cell, illuminating the corners.

Blinked again, dropped the key. It resounded in the empty stone room with a tone of finality.

Empty.

Frâr ran.

The next morning found Kíli's company preparing to leave rather more slowly than they had been of late. Ryn tried to tell herself it was because she was tired and Kili had spent a rough night in the bedroll beside hers, fighting nightmares. They had watched the sun rise together, over the rolling gentle hills of the Shire, wrapped up in a single wool blanket and holding hands while she whispered gentle words of encouragement to help soothe his frazzled nerves.

But she knew the real reason she was dawdling, and it had nothing to do with Kíli or her own exhaustion.

Bilbo was leaving them this morning.

Their journey led them due east, while Bilbo and his pony were headed north on the road to Hobbiton, and from there, Bag-End. She knew he was eager to go, to get home; but she also noticed him moving more slowly than normal as he checked the buckles on his saddlebags for the fifth time.

Finally they could delay no longer. Everyone stood in a rough line, wishing Bilbo the best and sending him off with gifts. Raela had sewn him a new leather pouch for his pipe-weed after noticing his old one was rather worn and tearing. Telchar and Farin gifted the hobbit with a long knife that their fathers had forged together back in the Iron Hills. Ibón offered no gift, but gave the hobbit a hearty smile and a wish for safe roads. Gloin hugged him roughly, promising to come and visit, and pressing into the hobbit's hand a pendant that Ryn knew held a rare stone Gloin was quite proud to have acquired at a young age.

Kili placed a hand on either of Bilbo's shoulders and pulled their foreheads together in a dwarven embrace.

"We owe you a great debt, Master Hobbit. All of us. Thank you for being a true and wise friend."

Bilbo smiled. "And thank you for showing this old, comfortable hobbit the wonder of an adventure again. Though not everything turned out as either of us hoped, I wouldn't trade the last year for anything, Kili, Son of Durin." He pulled Kili into a quick hug, and Ryn heard her Prince murmur to the hobbit, "Rasup gamat, Bilbo; farewell and safe journeys to you."

Then it was her turn.

Ryn, while not usually a lass given to tears (not that one would've known it having seen her the last several months—these dwarves managed to bring out her emotions in quite an explosive way), was fighting the moisture gathering in her eyes when Bilbo stopped in front of her. He brushed a thumb across her cheek, catching a tear that had escaped, and made a little sound that was equal parts comfort and distress as he threw his arms around her.

"Bilbo," she choked, holding tight. "I will miss you so much."

He pulled back after a moment. "Now then, my dear, none of that. We shall see one another again soon. Why, I'm to drag Gandalf along to your wedding in a few months." She smiled, and Bilbo squeezed her shoulder. "You are a gem amongst ladies, dearest Ryn. I am honored to be called your friend. Promise me you'll write?"

She laughed. "I will. Thank you, Bilbo, for…everything."

He did not have to ask what she meant, only bestowed a gentle kiss on her forehead and mounted his pony.

Bilbo waved as he rode north, and Kili didn't have the heart to move on until the hobbit was well out of sight.

Ahyrunul—Khuzdul, "dishonesty"

Rasup gamat—Khuzdul, "farewell"