Chapter 11: Trials of Courage

Hope continued to grow in Tauriel as she tracked Kíli and his captors eastward across the lightly sloping plains of the broad river valley. She knew she gained on them: she saw where the orcs had rested at midday, though she had barely halted since setting out that morning.

What was more, the orcs were headed towards Mirkwood, and once under its leaves, Tauriel would have the advantage of both speed and stealth. Though she was not personally familiar with the southern reaches of the forest, she was born and bred to such trees. Orcs were not. Surely, by the next morn, she would be at Kili's side once more.

Shortly after nightfall, she stepped between the first gnarled oak trunks. Almost immediately, she knew something was wrong. The whole wood seemed to vibrate with some sound just beyond her hearing, but which quivered in every leaf.

Spiders.

They must have been stirred up by the recent passage of the orc troop chopping their way through the woods. Tauriel proceeded along the trail more cautiously. She had no wish to become a spider's prey, or indeed, to relive this morning's encounter with their powerful venom.

After about an hour's slow progress, she found the first webs. She touched one lightly, careful not to disturb it and alert the spiders to her presence. Yes, it was fresh, two hours old at the most. Her quarry had been here so recently!

The branches above her quivered slightly, and she sprang back just as the livid, swollen body of a spider dropped on its thread before her.

She slashed a knife across its eyes, and as it constricted its legs in pain, plunged her second dagger into the center of its body. The corpulent shape convulsed, and then slithered down its thread to the forest floor, dead.

Already, Tauriel could see the webs ahead of her trembling. More spiders, alerted by their comrade, would soon be here. Judging by the extent of the webbing, there would be too many of the creatures for Tauriel to face alone.

Bitterly reluctant, she turned back. She would have to skirt the spiders' hunting ground; continuing forward through groves laced with webs and seething with angry spiders was foolhardy and suicidal. Yet every hour lost—every minute!—put Kíli further into danger.

The orcs, she knew by now, must be taking him to Dol Guldur. The fortress had once been the palace of Oropher, Thranduil's father, when the woodland elves had dwelt further abroad. Nearly two millennia ago, they had been driven north, and their old capitol had become the breeding ground for spiders and orcs and black magic. Though the Necromancer had now been driven out, orcs might still gather there. It was an evil place of imprisonment and torment, and few who were brought there ever left alive.

She slipped between overgrown and grasping branches, her movements instinctive and requiring little concentration, leaving all her thoughts to her fears.

Could Mandos truly be so cruel as to doom her to widowhood so soon after her marriage? The blow would be even more harsh in light of Galadriel's revelation that Kíli might enjoy an unusually long lifespan. Of course, it had been foolish to count it as a certainty that Kíli would live even the two and a half centuries that most dwarves did. Life, as Tauriel was learning most painfully, made no promises for tomorrow.

Her steps faltered and she clasped her hands to her mouth, stifling a sob. Kíli had wanted to give her, if not quite a promise, then a hope for her future: he had offered her the chance for a child.

How would it have felt to know that, whatever befell Kíli now, she carried part of him as a babe in her womb? Would that little life give her courage and comfort, even as her heart was breaking at the thought that she might never see Kíli's smile, never hold him, again? Or would she be doubly afraid knowing she must relive the pain of losing Kíli, should their child suffer any harm?

Tauriel trembled with the effort of holding back the tears she refused to shed; they would do no good. Whatever might have been, Kíli was all she had now, and she would spare nothing to save him, if the cost was the breath from her lungs and the blood from her veins. Forcing her hands down from her face, she clenched them round her daggers and pressed on through the dark wood.

Grignar's troop arrived at Dol Guldur two nights after capturing the dwarf prince. They had made good time, even with the spiders' attack, and overall Grignar was pleased. He would have preferred not to have lost two of his soldiers fending off the spiders, but such was the cost of revenge. What orc wouldn't give his life to buy the humiliation of his bitterest enemies? And the dwarves of Erebor, having waged a long and thorough war against the orcs, were bitter enemies, indeed.

The fortress was empty, as Grignar had hoped. Some scattered bones and trash suggested that others had passed through here in the years since the defeat at the Mountain, but there was no sign of any long-term occupation since the Necromancer had gone. Grignar felt no regret over the sorcerer's disappearance; while the dark powers of the world had traditionally allied themselves with the orcs, Grignar—like others of the Misty Mountain clans—believed the orcs were a power in their own right, deserving more than to be the mere pawns of some conspiracy hatched in the East. An orcish empire, ruled by orcs, was no less than the desert of his race.

While the outer areas of Dol Guldur were crumbling, the lower levels—which had seen the most use during the Necromancer's tenancy—were still very much intact. A secure cell was easily found for the dwarf. After a brief rest, Grignar searched the dungeons further and was rewarded with just what he sought: a chamber still furnished with all the tools and devices needed for filling his prisoner's last days among the living with a variety of torments.

As Grignar stood admiring the array of clever branding implements—burning the flesh was a particularly favored method with him—he had the sudden, unnerving sensation that he was no longer alone in the room, though he had heard no sound and seen no shadow in the feeble torchlight. His skin crawling with gooseflesh, he turned slowly so as not to betray the fear that thrilled through him.

In the center of the damp, stone-flagged room was a figure entirely enveloped in a black cloak. It was man-sized, though no features could be seen within its full hood, save perhaps the faint glint of eyes. Yet as unimposing as its appearance was, it emanated an aura of unmistakeable dread.

The Necromancer?

No, Grignar did not think this creature, whatever it was, could be that fabled sorcerer. The Necromancer would not have waited so long to reveal himself; he would have done so instantly to assert his authority. Whatever this thing was, it approached Grignar in the pose of equality, as if it were a potential ally. Yet the orc captain knew better than to let down his guard. If this creature was confident enough to face him alone, it must be powerful still.

Determined as he was to make the other speak first, Grignar found it increasingly difficult not to blurt out a challenge merely to alleviate the unsettling tension in the air.

After perhaps a minute, when the orc had begun trembling and sweating, the thing finally hissed, "The dwarf. You think he is someone special."

It was a test, and Grignar knew his answer would determine whether this encounter went smoothly or not. So, as loath as he was to reveal his prisoner's value, he grumbled, "It's the dwarf prince of Erebor. The younger one." He spat, annoyed.

There was a long pause that once more threw Grignar off balance. "And what is Oakenshield's heir doing here in the wild?"

Grignar shifted, despising himself for being unable to conceal how uncomfortable this interview made him. "Buggered if I know. He visited the tree elves, and he was traveling with one as his bodyguard, too. Not one of the high elf-witch's people, but a leaf-eared chit from Mirkwood."

There was a soft hiss as of indrawn breath, but the thing in the cloak did not move in the slightest, as any normal, breathing being would have. What in the pits of Mordor was this creature?

"And where is this she-elf now?"

"Fled. Disappeared. Though not, I think, dead." Grignar gave what was meant to be an unconcerned shrug, though the movement was a trifle stiff for ease. "Not a concern either way, though. If she comes after him alone, we'll take her. If she goes for help, she'll be too late."

The thing sniffed the air, and Grignar had the weird feeling it was somehow taking the gauge of his words. "You are from Gundabad," it said.

The orc grunted in affirmation.

"Yesss. Gundabad had word that Durin's heir was crossing the mountains. Your general placed a bounty on the dwarf." The black hood moved slightly in a nod, though the movement was somehow too smooth. "I had no cause to recall that order when last I visited your northern fortress, and I see no reason to counter it now," it mused aloud, presumably for the orc's benefit.

Of course. It was clear, now, who Grignar was dealing with: this was one of the Necromancer's former lieutenants. There were more than this one. Eight? Nine? It was rumored they were dispersed when the Necromancer was driven east, but Grignar had heard rumors, when he had still been stationed near Gundabad, that one of them had paid a visit to the fortress. Grignar had resented the idea of outsiders interfering with orcish affairs then, and he resented it now.

"The prisoner is mine," he said.

The slightest wheeze, like a laugh, escaped the creature. "And what do you intend for him?"

"He'll suffer, and then he'll die. His head will be sent to Erebor."

There was another long, preternatural silence. Even the soft sounds of the dungeon—dripping water, the distant whistling of the breeze far above—were muted. Grignar hated the way this thing, whatever it was, made him wait each time it spoke, as if he were a mere underling.

"We will permit it," the figure rasped at last. "Durin's line must be ground out."

Grignar bared his teeth in a grin. On this, at least, he could agree.

Kíli was in very, very deep shit.

He was alone, imprisoned, and waiting for a bunch of orcs to cut him to bits, beat him till he crumbled, disembowel him by inches, or whatever other horrid fate their twisted, hateful minds could devise.

He had hoped, and indeed prayed, that Tauriel would have reached him before now. His spirits had risen when they entered the forest, for surely, with her experience on the king's guard, she would be at the greatest advantage sneaking through the trees and picking off the orcs with her bow. And yet she had not come.

Please let it be that the spiders had cut her off from him, that she was only delayed. He could not bear the alternative: that she had taken some reckless risk for him and become the prey of the same monsters she had hunted victoriously for years before Kíli had ever been born. If he had been the cause of her death—

But then, he would very likely be dead in a few days' time, as well.

He shifted, seeking a more comfortable position as he lay on the rough stone floor of the cell. Everything ached. His arms, bound for nearly two days, still felt sore and weak now that they'd untied him at last. His ribs were bruised from the orcish boots, knees, elbows, and fists that had come in contact with him over the past few days—the captain, while ensuring no serious damage came to the prisoner, had not objected to general rough handling. Worst of all was that damned iron collar they'd put on him. It had pinched and scraped and bruised from his collarbones to his jaw, and his hair kept getting caught in it. Yet none of all these pains would be anything to what was in store for him.

Oh, Maker.

He almost wished he had tried a run for it, in the chaos when the spiders had attacked. He had stayed with his captors then because he knew that with dozens of hungry predators about, he was much more likely to be caught and eaten than he was to reach freedom. Better, he had decided, to bide his time and wait for Tauriel's arrival. But now, becoming a spider's dinner sounded far preferable to being tortured by orcs.

There was still time, he told himself, for Tauriel to rescue him. He had to hold out, for her sake, as long as he could. Mahal, give me courage.

He tried to fill his senses with the memory of her: her bright, slightly upturned green eyes against pale skin warmed slightly by her blush; the wonderful, woodsy spiced scent of her silken hair as it fell down over him; the smoothness of her skin against his fingertips, his lips. He might never experience such sweetness again in life, but even a painful death could not outweigh the good of having once been Tauriel's, and she his.

He groaned.

What a bloody fool he had been to waste the last months he had with her in a quarrel! Why couldn't he have simply enjoyed her love? Tauriel had never stopped caring for him; he realized that. But instead, he had pushed for the child he wanted, and in doing so, had pushed her away, too. Damn him! He had lost two months of the last happiness that could have been his, and for what? Not only had his stubbornness proved pointless, but now Tauriel's last memories of him would be ones of sorrow and regret.

"Forgive me, Taur," Kíli whispered, and he brushed his fingers against her braided hair that was set within the heavy silver cuff bracelet at his left wrist. He was grateful that the orcs had not stripped this token from him. Tauriel's first gift, it was now the last piece he had of her, and it was a comfort to think that she would be with him, in this small way, even when he died.

Kíli was roused out of these wretched thoughts by footsteps outside his cell. As the door clattered open and two orcs entered, he scrambled up and moved back against the wall. Yet though his fear and the desperate need to survive gave him a new, wild energy, he had barely scuffled with the first orc before the second grasped the iron collar and choked him into submission while they once more bound his hands, this time in front of him.

Still with a tight hold on the chain at his neck, they marched him from the cell and down several dark hallways towards a doorway through which a fire's fitful light shone.

Inside was a broad, high-ceilinged room. A few torches hung in brackets on the walls, but most of the light came from a brazier that burned at the far end. The floor of the room was open, but along the walls were a forbidding array of implements and apparatus that confirmed what Kíli already knew: he was here so that the orcs could finally have their cruel sport with him.

Kíli was terrified, more so than when he'd nearly been skinned and roasted by trolls; more than when the Goblin King had threatened Thorin's whole party with mangling; more even than when he had stepped out from behind the ramparts of Erebor into the battle and believed he went to meet his death. Then, there had been comrades at his side to rely on for a strong arm and a courageous heart. Now, he was alone.

Beside the brazier stood the scarred orc captain—Grignar, that was what the other orcs had called their leader—who grinned wickedly at Kíli as he was brought near. A welcome surge of anger rose in him. Whatever they did to him, Kíli would not let them see his fear. He refused to offer them that satisfaction. He must rely on his pride as a dwarf, as Durin's son, to be his one support in the face of pain and death.

And so he clenched his jaw and set his brow in a stone-faced, empty stare as his guards pushed his back to the stone wall and chained his arms up high above his head. They also chained his feet.

Once he was secured and the two underlings had stepped back, Grignar stood watching him.

I've killed orcs like you. Tauriel and Uncle and Fíli and I all have, Kíli thought.

Grignar had clearly been thinking along the same lines, for he said at last, "You and I were both at the Battle of Five Armies. Remind me; which of us is the victor and which the loser?"

Kíli tossed his head slightly to clear loose hair from his eyes but said nothing.

The big orc stepped nearer. "You're their champion and they must have honored you. Gold, feasting, and songs. Fame and a crown and females eager for your bed so that they can bear sons with the name of the famous orc-slayer: the sister-son of Oakenshield, son of Thráin son of Thrór, and all of them mighty heroes in the wars against the orcs." He laughed. "We may be enemies, but even I can see where honor is due. Let me show you how my people honor a dwarven hero."

"Honor?" Kíli said at last. "I didn't even know you orcs had a word for such a thing."

The orc sneered, the smug expression further marring his already scarred and distorted face. "It's an idea we've developed by dealing with the likes of you, dwarf. And I think you'll find we've quite perfected it by now."

Grignar whisked a knife from some hidden sheath and Kíli flinched involuntarily as the blade flicked past his face, a reaction that clearly amused the orc.

"Come, I expected our war hero to be braver than that," he said with a mocking shake of his head. Then with the aid of a few quick knife slashes, he stripped off Kíli's shirt, so that he was naked to the waist.

Grignar glanced down over Kíli, his eyes narrowing. "You've a pretty hide for a fighter," he said derisively, stroking a clawed hand over the dwarf's skin. Kíli shivered in disgust.

"Hardly a mark on you. But we'll mend that." With those last words, he pressed his claws into Kíli's flesh, deep enough to draw blood.

Kíli's breath caught, but he gave no answer save a glare.

The orc captain smiled back. "This will be more fun for both of us if you play along, you know. I work better with some encouragement. What shall we talk about to unseal that stubborn tongue of yours?" He turned back towards the brazier, where a number of long-handled implements had been stacked. They reminded Kíli of the tools he saw in a forge, but these were not, he knew, intended for the working of metal.

"Now, which of these would you like me to try first?" the orc mused, evil merriment in his tone. He lifted several tools in turn and offered them for Kíli's inspection. Kíli focused on a spot just above the orc's right shoulder and concentrated on keeping his face blank of the mounting panic he felt.

"Perhaps you'll have more of an opinion once we've tried one," Grignar continued. He selected a tool at random and held it towards the brazier.

Kíli swallowed. So it was to be branding. Mahal preserve him.

Yet before the orc set the iron in the coals, he turned back to Kíli.

"That she-elf bitch of yours, is she as delicious as she looks?" he said, experimentally prodding the iron against Kíli's chest.

It took all of Kíli's will not to shrink back at the thought of how the fully heated iron would feel.

"Like most elves, she's not got enough tits, but then that pretty white skin..." The iron skimmed down over Kíli's ribs, finally coming to rest against the soft pit of his belly. "Makes it easy to leave your mark on her. Must be fun to make her scream."

"Don't talk about my wife that way," Kíli growled. How dare this orc sully her even in his thoughts?

"Your wife?" Grignar barked, astonished. "That elf bitch is actually your wife?" With a long, rolling laugh, he turned back and thrust the iron into the coals at the base of the brazier. Then he looked to Kíli, his face still twisted with amusement. "Maybe when you're dead, she can be mine. You think she'll have me? She'll fuck a dwarf, she'll fuck an orc—"

"You tunnel-crawling, dirty-bellied son of a toad fucker! She'd kill you!" Kíli lurched against his bonds, but his arms were stretched too high for him to move more than a few inches.

"Would she? You're just afraid she'd like it."

"Orc filth, you're not worthy to look at her! Come here, and I'll kill you! You dare speak of one of the Firstborn with your tainted lips—" He arched away from the wall and kicked the chains on his feet so they rattled.

To Kíli's surprise, Grignar's face twisted into a snarl of genuine rage. He withdrew the glowing brand from the coals and advanced on Kíli, teeth bared. "I'll say what I like, dwarf bastard. I've as much right to an elf as you. Let me tell you what I'll do to her."

Too angry to care about his own peril, Kíli strained forward, snarling. "Leave her out of this, you slag-faced git—"

Grignar swung the iron close to Kíli. At the same moment, a cold, thin voice pierced the room.

"Stay!"

Kíli stilled, as if ice had suddenly flashed through his veins, though he could feel the heat of the branding iron held very near his skin. Yet while Grignar still glared murderously at him, the big orc was likewise frozen.

"The dwarf must not be touched," that same voice said again.

Kíli dragged his eyes from the orc's face to look beyond.

A dark shape occupied the door to the room. At first, Kíli could not tell what he saw, for the blackness seemed so deep that it was like looking on nothing at all. After several seemingly eternal moments, he realized it was a hooded figure, but not an orc. A human, perhaps?

Grignar growled and lifted his arm. There was a low, nearly inaudible hum, and then the branding iron shattered. Kíli flinched as hot shards of metal skimmed him.

"The dwarf is mine," the orc bellowed, rounding on the newcomer.

The black figure swept forward into the room. Torches and brazier suddenly dimmed, as if swallowed up by some invisible cloud. Grignar fell back as the creature brushed past him, cowed despite his resentment.

Kíli could see no face within the hooded cloak, but still he felt the force of the thing's gaze. He felt sick.

"Kíli, son of Dís, daughter of Thráin," it said, its voice the sibilant whisper of wind over broken stones. "The wood elf is your wife?"

A deep terror rose in Kíli, and he nearly answered out of some desperate reflex. But no— he must not betray his Tauriel to this evil being, and so he clenched his jaw, so hard that a sharp cramp shot up the side of his face.

The figure raised an arm. No hand was visible at the end of the draping sleeve, only a knife, long and slender as an icicle, and radiating the same cold as it neared Kíli's face. Yet instead of cutting him, the creature lifted one of the braids at Kíli's temple.

"Your marriage braids answer for you," it said, a faint quiver that might have been laughter in its voice. "You wear elvish silver on an elvish braid."

Oh, Valar, what did it want with Tauriel? If it meant to hurt him, do so directly! Kíli would accept any torment rather than be the cause for Tauriel's suffering.

"Tell me one thing," the creature hissed, and Kíli felt its attention sharpen. "Does your bride yet carry your spawn?"

Despite the fear spreading its cold numbness through his limbs, resentment sparked hot and bright in Kíli's heart. They dared to plot harm against even his unborn child? Such malice disgusted him.

"No," he said through gritted teeth. "And I'm certain she never will." For the first time, he was grateful for this fact. If he died here, perhaps these villains would let Tauriel alone, since she would then claim no closer tie to him than having once been his wife.

The thing clearly laughed now, a sound like a death rattle. "She yet lives, dwarf. Are you glad?"

Kíli could still see no face before him, but he had the sickening impression that this monster smiled at him. And then a dullness and a darkness seemed to take his senses. Kíli felt as if he were drowning in some black pool of greasy water, like those that collected in abandoned mine shafts. His body went slack at last, and he fell back against the stone. For a while he was dimly aware, as if through a fitful, fevered sleep, of quarreling voices—one thin and sharp, the other deep and belligerent—and then he was alone again in the dark.

Author's note:

Well, that was a close shave for Kíli! Tauriel had better hurry up if she wants to find him in one piece!

Thanks to That Elf Girl for beta reading and helping me plan out the action to fit with future plot developments.