Chapter 12

Disclaimer: Middle Earth and its inhabitants belong to the great JRR Tolkien, not me!


Elof signed his name at the end of his missive to Ryn, praying that she would be the only one to read it. It contained information regarding the opening of the Vault that could prove…problematic…if it were public knowledge. Things he hadn't planned to tell her until they were standing before the small stone trapdoor, ready to collect the Umräd.

Things he'd planned to do himself, that now she would have to do instead.

The thought gave him pause; he could not send her to…

But no. There was no choice. He could not go anywhere near the Starstone—the magic that laid upon him now was definitely malevolent. He'd likely intend to bring it to her and instead end up taking it straight to Melkor.

And the idea of Melkor possessing the Umräd? It was unthinkable.

No, this was his only option. To leave, and quickly. Get himself as far away from his friends as possible. Give Ryn enough information that she and Talos could complete the mission on their own. Make sure they knew he was safe so they didn't come after him.

This was all he could give.

Clenching his jaw to stave off tears, the young Man buckled his leather pack securely and hoisted it onto his back. It was heavy, but manageably so, and it held what he hoped was enough provisions to see him safely to the next town he ran across on his way to…

Elof swallowed a sob. Where exactly would he go? He couldn't go back to Edoras. There was nothing for him there. The memories that had been assaulting him in a wave since late last night had made that option moot.

Because she was not there.

There were four of them; tall men, dark-skinned with tattoos depicting horrific acts Elof preferred not to even consider. Their robes were of rich scarlet, and they held rune-stones which glowed menacingly, giving off sparks of power.

In their midst, a woman, floating six inches off the ground, feet kicking desperately. Her blue eyes were wide in her still-young face, and she choked his name in panic.

"Elof! E-Elof, my son…"

"Stop it!" he screamed, struggling against his own bonds, to no avail. "Please, don't hurt her!"

The tallest of the men turned to him, scarlet eyes glowing like his rune stone. "In case you get any ideas about fighting the enchantment we will place on you."

Maera was growling now, eyeing the man with something akin to hatred. He did not see—none of them did, their gazes fixed upon the young human on his knees before them.

"Elof!"

"Mama," he whispered, brokenly. She looked to him and her eyes softened.

"Consider this…a warning, of a sort," the warlock was still talking.

I love you, éafora, Maera's lips formed the words. Remain strong, my little bear.

The warlock twisted his fingers, and his mother's neck jerked, snapping into an unnatural angle. Elof didn't hear himself scream as the light left her eyes.

His mother was not there. Edoras held nothing but memories now; he was unfettered, free to go where he willed.

Not even that, for he would have chosen to stay with his friends if that were an option. So really, he was free to go anywhere but where he wanted to be.

Taking a deep breath, Elof pulled a folded scrap of parchment from his coat. Carefully, he looked down at it, warring with himself whether to keep it or leave it. He ran his fingers lightly over the careful sketch Ori had made for him as a gift. It had been drawn the night before they left for Fjallstadr; in it, Talos sat beside him on a wood bench, laughing and saluting with his ale. Ryn stood behind them, grinning as she ruffled their hair. Elof himself was smiling, his gaze having flicked up to the soon-to-be Princess.

The young man swallowed past the lump in his throat—he could not afford to break down, not now, Ryn would be back soon and he needed to be long gone by then—and placed the sketch carefully on her pillow, along with the letter.

He did not intend to survive this journey, and he would not see that gift destroyed or worse, given into the hands of an orc or the jaws of a wild animal.

Perhaps someday his friends would forgive him.


Fíli pulled absently on one of his braids as he stared at the polished redwood of his writing desk. It had been a gift from one of the Dale craftsmen named Brandt, whose son had been caught under a collapsed building after the Battle of Five Armies. Fíli had been in Dale three days after the Battle; he happened to be taking a rare break, walking through a shattered courtyard, when he'd heard it:

A tiny cry, weak and small: "Someone help me! Anyone!"

He'd rushed to the pile of rubble where the sound came from, began yanking cracked wood planks and massive stones off, tossing them every which way.

All he could remember was thinking, Never again will one die because I lack the strength or fortitude to save them.

Never again will one suffer Thorin's needless fate on my account.

Never, Uncle. I'll do better.

Young Halden had been saved that day, the collapsing beams and boulders having created a small void, just large enough for the child to fit in. He had been relatively unharmed; only weak from hunger and thirst.

Brandt had presented Fíli with the desk several weeks later, refused to let him pay for it, and expressed his thanks in terms both eloquent (for his family had been members of the Court of Dale before Smaug came) and effusive.

Fíli ran his fingers over the silky-smooth polished wood, back and forth, barely noticing what he was doing.

He'd been filled with that same desperate fear last night when he'd found Kíli at his door, hair askew, face white, eyes wide and dark and full of terror. It had been Halden all over again as he looped an arm around his little brother's shaking shoulders and drew him into the chamber, settling him down and hearing what he had to say.

Thorin's fate will not be his. The Shadow cannot have him.

I will save him.

I'll do better.

Fíli sighed. He knew there was little else he could do at this point; the mithril magic was ready—or as ready as he could make it with his (and Balin's) current knowledge. He'd been shoring up his fledgling military with warriors on loan from Dain—who, despite his stubbornness and general bad temper, still acknowledged Fíli and Kíli as family and would do anything he could to protect them. Fíli had secured promise of aid from both Thranduil and Bard should Melkor show up at the Mountain to claim Kíli for his own; he had appealed to the Dunedain as well as the Beornings for the same.

He'd even gone so far as to gather contacts from Ryn before she left, people she'd had dealings with during her years on the road; vagabond Men and Dwarves who could be…persuaded…to fight for his cause, if his pockets were deep enough.

Fortunately for Fíli, he had just about the deepest pockets in all of Middle Earth.

The Mountain was ready. Melkor would never be able to wrest it from the dwarves of Erebor, not unless he managed to destroy half of the Free Peoples in the process.

Yet for all his preparation, for all his meticulous planning and foresight, for all his sleepless nights, lying awake trying to think of one more thing he could do to keep Kíli safe, he could not prevent the Dark Vala from infiltrating his brother's mind. Suddenly angry, Fíli stood abruptly and swept the parchments and inkwells littering the desk onto the thickly-carpeted floor. He slammed his palm into the top of it with a roar of impotent rage. The sturdy furniture thunked with the force of it, but did not break.

He did not deserve such a beautiful piece of craftsmanship, any more than he deserved to be entrusted with one so precious as his nadadith.

If he had been the one to leave his barrel that cursed day on the Forest River…

If he had seen Bolg's bow pulled taut with a poisoned arrow…

If he had prevented Kíli from ever having been shot by a morgul shaft…

If he had…

"Fíli?"

The King whirled to find Sêla standing just inside the door, worry etched clearly into her lovely face.

Mahal knew, he didn't deserve her either.

"What's happened, my love?" she murmured, dropping the basket she had brought and coming to stand before him. She brushed an unruly strand of hair out of his face and ran her fingertips down his bearded jaw. "Is it Kíli?"

He clenched his teeth and nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

"Tell me, Fíli," she said, her voice low and soothing. "Let me help you."

Fíli bowed his head. "You cannot," he croaked. He hated how vulnerable he sounded, even to his own ears. "There is nothing you can do."

She simply stood, running her thumb over his damp cheek, refusing to let his gaze go.

"I've tried, Sêla, for Mahal's sake, I've tried," he was almost begging, for what he did not know. Her understanding, perhaps? "I have done everything I know to do to protect him from Morgoth, but…I cannot save him from his own mind."

Sêla blinked furiously, blue eyes shining with unshed tears. "He is despairing, then."

Shamefaced, Fíli nodded.

She shifted closer to him, standing on tiptoe to press a sweet kiss to his lips. "You must not give up, Fíli," she whispered. "If he has lost faith, you cannot. You must hold on, for Kíli."

"I have failed him." The words tasted like ash in Fíli's mouth.

"No," Sêla countered, her forehead pressed hard against his. "No, you have not failed him; he is not lost to us yet."

Not yet.

Fíli felt his heart swell at her words; she was right, Kíli was still theirs. There was still time, still strength left in both the Sons of Durin.

He had to endure, for his nadadith. For Kíli's beloved, and his friend. For their mother, who had lost so much already. For the sweet lass stroking his hair and whispering encouragement against his brow.

He would endure.

The resolution made his chest ache, and he pulled Sêla even closer. He pressed soft kisses to each of her cheeks, her nose, and finally her lips. Mahal knew, he did not deserve her any more than he deserved Kíli. But the Valar had seen fit to gift him with both of them, and he'd be damned if he simply gave up when the road got treacherous.


Dis couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips as she quietly shut the door to the Eastern Watchtower and turned.

Ah, I knew it.

Kíli sat leaning against one of the stone pillars, looking toward the already-risen sun; she wondered that he was still out here, he usually only came to watch the sun come up, then got on with his day. Softly, she walked toward him.

Fíli had told her last night had been rough, though he'd not been forthcoming with any details. To be fair, she hadn't asked; Fíli had seemed upset enough that she knew it was bad. So she'd rushed out to search for her younger son, knowing he probably wouldn't want her, but that didn't matter.

He needed her.

It had taken a shamefully long time for it to occur to her that he might be up at the Watchtower still; she had checked his chambers, the training grounds, even the nearest pub before realizing it. And now here he was, eyes closed as he slumped against the marble.

Dis took a second to study him before he noticed her presence. Kíli was pale, and the dark circles that ringed his eyes bespoke of many sleepless nights, of late. He seemed thinner, too, and she tried to remember the last time she'd seen him eat.

It had been too long, she knew that for certain.

Oh, my son. What are you doing to yourself, lad?

Fighting back a wave of guilt—she was their mother, after all, she should've forced him to see her sooner—Dis sat beside Kíli, who opened tired eyes without so much as a jolt of alertness like she would've expected from him.

"Ma?" he murmured in a small voice. Dis' heart broke.

"I am here, inúdoy," she answered, reaching up and brushing an errant strand of dark hair from his face. She let the motion continue, stroking Kíli's head tenderly, remembering how it had soothed him as a lad. His eyes fluttered closed again, and he turned his head into her hand, silently begging her not to stop. Dis smiled.

She wasn't going anywhere.

"You should have come to me," she murmured softly. "I cannot fix what ails you, but I will always be here to help you through it." She knew he was listening because a small grimace flashed over his face, gone a second later.

"Didn't want to burden you…" he slurred, sounding exhausted.

Tears choked her as she continued caressing his hair. "Never, Kíli. Your burdens are mine, do you hear me?" She leaned forward and kissed his brow, pulling him to lean against her. He came willingly, not even putting up a token struggle, and Dis wasn't sure if she was glad of it or heartbroken.

Her youngest was more weakened than she knew, it seemed. He had pushed too hard, taken too much alone, shut her and Fíli out until the weight he carried crushed him.

"Kíli," she whispered, rocking gently with her son wrapped in her arms. "Do not give up. You must fight him, you must."

Kíli stiffened at that. "I cannot," he whimpered. "Amad, I am spent."

"A raven arrived late last night," she answered. "It was from Ryn."

He lifted his head, a wild hope alight in his dark eyes, and Dis smiled. "It was a small message only, but meant for your ears, I believe."

"What did she say?"

"Ambushed by orchadân in Dol Guldur, but Enemy is not there," Dis quoted, and Kíli tensed instantly. "All is well, the dawn comes quickly now." Her son stilled, as though letting the words sink in. When he said nothing, Dis added, "she signed it idúzhib-më."

Kíli blinked big brown eyes at her, a gentle blush rising in his cheeks. Dis had not been a widow so long that she did not remember what the endearment meant, and she grinned. Kíli looked down with a small grunt.

"She said all that?"

"She did."

The lad simply sat, still leaning against Dis' soft shoulder; and she didn't move, didn't press him as he took shaky breaths to calm the tears she suspected he was hiding.

"It's a code," he said finally, quietly. "She says she's nearly there, that they're very close to having the Umräd in hand."

Dis had suspected as much, but was relieved to hear it, nevertheless. Kíli, while he was making no effort to move from her side, had stopped trembling, and his voice was stronger already.

"She'll not fail you, Kíli," the Princess answered. "None of us will. You are not alone."

Next to her, Kíli simply nodded, then leaned again on her shoulder, closing his eyes. "So tired, ma…"

"Then sleep."

"Keep the bast'rd out 'f my head f'r a while?" he mumbled.

"I will chase him off myself," Dis answered thickly, knowing she couldn't, but that she would do literally anything to be able to protect her son from this agony. And if that meant standing guard while he slept, so be it. "I will stay with you."

She kissed his forehead, and he settled against her, breathing deeply already.


A/N: Thanks for reading, everyone! Hope you're all having a wonderful holiday season!

I've embarked on a new project: a collaboration with my writing pal, Summerald, and it's a hit! We're shamelessly exploiting a plot hole left (deliberately?) by Peter Jackson and the film team, creating a tantalizing 'what if?' story. It's called Wayfarers, and Chapter Four will be up early next week! It's on our joint writer profile Summerandblue, feel free to check it out-and follow us to stay apprised of any other collaborations that may come up!

You won't regret it, I guarantee that much.

As for Ryn and Co, this story is already planned to the finish-so fear not, I'll never abandon it incomplete! Updates will still come regularly-and things are about to really pick up, so stick with us. Everyone is a bit frustrated and depressed right now, as is often the case in tough situations-the darkest hour is just before the dawn, and all that.

Please leave me a note or review, tell me what you think! Your feedback is fuel for my writer brain!