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Song inspired by Garmarna – Bläck.
Chapter 13 – Unexpected Saviour
The next hour was a flurry of movements. All dwarves were summoned to enter the town to prepare some kind of defence against the approaching orc hoard. Plenty of grown men, those who were able to hold a weapon, joined them and quickly accepted Thorin's authority in the situation. Dwarves were known for their extensive military training and discipline, and Hemery recognised a trace of relief in the men's eyes to have such a confident leader to turn to in the face of this unprecedented threat.
However, she knew many more people dwelled in the area. It seemed they chose to not participate. How they would protect themselves and their families, by hiding or fleeing, she would rather not guess.
Hemery was surprised at how easily the dwarves took their stand. Blackwater was not their responsibility, but none contemplated the alternative of not fighting. It did not seem to even enter their minds to just leave the town to its fate. They knew they had to stay because it was the only reasonable way, the only honourable way, to be. It was not their custom to turn their back on a conflict––especially not on ground that connected veins of stone and precious metal to Erebor.
A few women also joined them, but only those who seemed to have experience of combat or were skilled with a bow and could stay back from brawn and blades.
When Hemery exited the lodge where she had retrieved more knives to fasten around her belt, Thorin's voice reached her.
"You are not fighting."
She whirled to face him, surprised.
"I'm perfectly capable––"
"Irrelevant," he interrupted her. "I don't want you to."
And Hemery did not want to fight. She wanted to be at home in her bed in Erebor, but she guessed neither would have their wishes granted. She nearly scoffed. It did not matter what he wanted or thought appropriate.
"You need all the help you can get," she spoke lower, not allowing anyone to hear her less than positive argument.
"You've never fought orcs, and if can help it, you never shall."
"Dwalin has trained me since I was twelve––"
"And you do not believe he would express exactly the same opinion as I on this?" He raised an eyebrow in challenge.
She gritted her teeth. Dwalin would probably agree with Thorin. A rare occasion indeed––one which Hem would see the humour in had the circumstances differed.
"Aid in gathering the others at the temple. It has sturdy walls, a decent gate. It should keep the children and old folks safe."
Safe? For how long? Thorin could not guarantee anything, and he knew it.
"I'm to do nothin' while you're out here riskin' you're neck?" Hem glared at him.
He stared back, his patience on a knife's edge, but he managed to ignore her provocation.
"Make sure the others are safe," he maintained, calm but determined. "If you must join us, do it after, and stay at the back. Keep close to the others––you will protect each other. Don't stray from your line."
He concluded his speech and left her in the street to return to the northern gate. Hemery kicked the gravel hard with one foot and clenched her fists. Damn dwarf.
Then she froze, remembering something.
"Oy! Where's Kíli?" Hem called after him, but he had already disappeared in the swarm of people.
Frustrated and without purpose, she did as Thorin suggested. She helped gather the people who were still huddled in their houses, urging them to go to the temple where they would be safe. Safer.
When she had checked that the houses furthest from the temple were empty, she went back to the northern gate, but there was no one there.
Suddenly, hollering and screeches filled the air, echoing between the buildings in the ghostly vacant street. She spun around, trying to find the origin.
Hemery cursed under her breath. Of course, the attack would not come from the northern gate. The orcs did not have to break down the fence when there was a gaping hole at the eastern end where the fire had devoured it.
Hemery ran towards the sound when something heavy dropped from the air, landing in front of her. She skidded to a halt in the mud.
The hunched creature rose, long limbs sluggish, hands hanging low near the ground, clutching a weapon of black metal.
An orc, she settled despite the dark. It must have climbed the fence.
Slowly, the round head tilted up, nose sniffing, focus darting. He saw her. Something sparked in his eyes. A sharp curiosity akin to hate, cold and piercing, cut her with those eyes.
He raised his blade and lunged at her with a squawk like a giant, hoarse magpie.
Scarcely had he moved before the knife from her left holster left her fingers, soaring straight at his chest. It clanged and bounced off his armour.
He swiped at her, she ducked under his arm and turning around, facing his back, and buried her second knife in his exposed neck.
The blade cut through flesh easily; she felt the brief resistance as it snapped tough tendons, and then the stop when it finally met bone. Black blood gushed between her fingers as she held on, following the creature in its fall to the ground. When there was no will left in him, she pulled out the knife and staggered back.
Was it a he? She did not know. She could hardly look at him, having to force down bile at seeing the blood mix with muddy water.
She turned, eyes searching the streets, the fence, and the rooftops. Was there more?
It was too dark. She could not tell. She could not stay here; she had to join the other fighters. She collected her knives and moved on.
She stopped abruptly and ducked into an alley at the sight of a moving figure up ahead. Peering around the corner, Hem saw the slight, fair-haired person, definitely mankind, moving towards the fight.
She tried to focus better in the dark. Asta?
Hemery ran after her to catch up. It was clear she was returning to the burn site. What was it with this girl? She must have known it was dangerous.
"Asta," Hem said, touching her shoulder, willing her to stop.
The girl ignored her, moving closer to the cacophony of orcs and men screaming and metal meeting metal. Though one or two buildings separated her view of the battle, Hem knew it was only a matter of time before they were in drawn into the fray like in the surge of the undercurrent of an unstoppable river.
"Come away. You can't be here."
"I need to be with my mother and father."
"No, you really don't. I know you're sad about what happened, but you can't help them now." Hemery tried to gently lead her away towards the temple.
"No!" Asta jerked, tearing out of Hem's grip, striking her across the face with the back of her hand. The girl must have worn a ring or something because a sharp sting smarted on Hemery's cheek. She froze for one heartbeat, and then blood boiled up within her.
If Asta was responsible for the fire, she was partly to blame for the orc attack, and Hemery would not let her perish this night like a martyr suffering under her parents' whip even after their death. Hem gritted her teeth.
"Move," she barked at Asta, her patience wearing thin. She grabbed the girl's arm roughly, pulling her along. Asta complied, probably due to surprise and general subservience which had probably been beaten into her from a young age.
They did not get far. Before they reached the temple, two orcs blocked their way. The girls stopped. Hemery looked around, two more approached from behind. The line of defence must have been crumbling, even though only a few had broken through at the moment. More would soon follow.
The buildings around them had no doors on their side, but across the yard was a stable. All horses had been gathered before the fight; those doors might have been left unbolted. Could they make a run for it?
Hemery threw one blade at the closest orc, settling it deep in his throat. This unforeseen attack made one other step back, hissing and screeching discontentedly, but it was only a temporary hesitation. One might scare hungry wolves with a burning torch, but it would never stop their advance completely.
Hemery kept Asta close to her back, shielding her with her arm as much was possible.
"This one pricks," one growled in a stilted accent, pulling out her knife from the neck of his comrade. "Will you pin us with your thorns?" he taunted, as if excited by the little woman who was not as harmless as they initially thought.
"I'll rip those thorns from her body, and the white fingers and the hair and the eyes," another said menacingly.
Hemery gripped another blade, calculating whom to strike first. She feared she would not have time to take all three down.
"Their milk will spill on my tongue. Sweet, soft, tender––" The orc's revolting hiss and his movement towards them was interrupted by a sword violently piercing his neck from behind, converting the words to bubbling, gurgling, unearthly noise. His neighbour followed him, swiftly cut down by the same sword. It glinted in the dark like a vengeful spirit in the night.
Thorin. Hemery was so relieved to see him. She felt a strong urge to embrace him, though she could not. They had to leave, quickly.
She turned to usher Asta away from the fight, but was stopped as if by an invisible wall, a burning pain tearing through her shoulder. Shocked, Hem looked down.
A sword protruded from Asta's chest and had entered Hemery's shoulder, as if it had been living within the girl and now decided to give birth to itself, breaking through its cage of bone and flesh. But when Hemery lifted her gaze, she saw her own reflection in the black eyes of an orc right at Asta's back.
The pain dragged a broken cry from Hem as he withdrew the sword, mauling her flesh further. Asta slumped in Hem's arms, the light quickly fading in her eyes.
Helpless, Hem held on, feeling Asta's hot blood seep through her clothes. It soaked them, its heat leaving a fine mist in the cold night air. Unbidden tears filled Hemery's eyes, blurring her final vision of Asta who would never again been seen alive by anyone but her. Faintly, she was aware of Thorin killing the orc before he could finish Hemery as well.
"Keep moving," he grunted, the stress palpable in his voice as he gripped her collar, prompting her to stand.
Still holding on to Asta's lifeless body, Hem looked up at Thorin. His eyes were wild, blood spatter on his face, but it did not frighten her as much as the fourth orc at his back. Thorin was just about to turn when one leg gave beneath him, cut from behind by the orc's blade.
"Thorin!" Hem cried, letting go of Asta.
The orc sliced the other leg as Hemery stood, rising above the now kneeling dwarf, and plunged a dagger into the eye of the orc. She left her blade in his skull as he fell twitching to the ground.
"Thorin," she called, carefully lifting his face to hers. But her trembling hands were covered in black blood, so she did not want to touch his skin.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, fearful that he was fatally wounded. He had been protecting her. He should not have had to be here, fighting three orcs alone. She should have done something. Why did she not have more weapons? Why had she not reacted quicker? Why––?
Thorin growled in pain. Hemery cursed herself. She did not have time to dwell on her own shortcomings right now.
"Let's get out of the street," she said, pulling at his arm. She knew more orcs could appear at any moment. Glancing at the stables, she decided to take shelter there. If only she could move him.
Thorin fell forward on his knuckles when he tried to stand as usual. Leaning heavily on Hemery, he managed to rise and take a few steps towards the stable door. He collapsed on the threshold, pushing the door open with his weight.
"We have to move," she wheezed, frustration and terrified anger swelling in her throat. "I came here to stop you from fightin'. I'll not die for you."
"I would never ask you to," he said.
Hemery would die for him, though, whether he asked her or not. Perhaps she would be forced to prove the extent of her loyalty tonight. The thought gave no comfort.
"Come on––get up," she commanded, pulling at his cloak. Her voice was thin and strained.
Thorin tried, but fell to his knees with an involuntary, guttural sound. Hemery tore at his shoulders, supporting him with her good arm, but she could not help carry him more than two stumbling steps into a corner where he slumped down against the wall.
Hemery quickly closed the door, and then crashed beside him, looking over his legs. She had no idea how bad his injuries were, but he had not fainted from blood loss . . . yet. She tore up her shawl into small strips, binding his legs to stop the blood flow. There was nothing else to do.
Carefully peeking through the window, she saw the distinct movements of orcs in the shadows. Overcome by fatigue and hopelessness, Hem lowered herself onto her knees next to Thorin.
Thorin sighed, resigning himself to an uncertain, but surely mortal, fate.
"If you go out the back, you might make it to the temple." He put his hand on her shoulder, pushing her away.
She merely sat back. A lump formed in her throat.
"They have us surrounded. I can't get in. It's only a matter of time before they start breakin' down doors, searchin' every house."
She looked around for a solution, a way out, a better hiding place, or weapons. But there was nothing.
Thorin took her hand suddenly.
"Hide yourself on the loft."
"Why?" she asked. Hem heard her voice break, despair giving it a high pitch. "To save a few moments? To prolong the inevitable? No."
She shook her head, determined.
"Bloody stubborn woman, will you just do as I say?" he growled impatiently. "I will not lay here useless while they come in and violate you before my eyes."
"And I won't hide myself to stay alive long enough to hear them come for you first."
"You will save yourself," he said. "I'm not debating this with you."
"Well, you can't do much about it, so––no, we're not debatin' this."
Thorin gripped her hand almost painfully, groaning. In pain, frustration, or both, Hem did not know.
She glanced at the window. Shadows in firelight flashed by, one by one or groups, all moving in the same direction. If anyone came in, they were done. Thorin could not rise. Hemery had one dagger left, but her shoulder was hurt. They would not be able to defend themselves for very long.
Hemery had heard stories in Tirith about the orcs from Mordor, how they sometimes would eat their victims, tear their limbs and drink their blood. Asta's broken body flashed in her mind––how her eyes dimmed forever. Silent, hot tears ran down Hem's cold cheeks. What could she do?
"Thorin . . ." she whispered.
He grunted in reply, blinking up at the ceiling, clearly refraining from squeezing his eyes closed in flares of pain.
"When they come . . ."
He shook his head. "Not another word."
She ignored him. "When they come, I want you to––"
"No," he growled. "Do not speak it."
"I want you to do it." Hemery placed her dagger on his chest as if it was an offering.
Thorin's other hand clutched hers over the dagger, stopping her from letting go of the blade.
"I said no. Never."
"I don't want to die at the hands of an orc, not . . . like that." Her voice wavered. She tried to blink away her tears.
"You will not die," he insisted. They both knew he could not promise that. But he could promise her to make it as quick and painless as possible when the time came.
"Just one cut––" she said, putting her fingers on the big vein in her throat.
Thorin put his hand on the side of her face, clutching her hair in his fist, as if holding on harder would make her stay alive. He forced her to come closer, her forehead touching his.
"It'll only take a few heartbeats, and then it's over––" she breathed.
"No," he maintained. "I can't. I won't."
She closed her eyes, unwilling to see the pain in his features. No, she could not ask it of him. When it was time, she would take control of her own fate.
"Then I'll do it myself." She tried to pull back, but he held her fast.
"Would you do the same for me if I asked you?" Thorin asked harshly, tightening the fist in her hair until it almost hurt.
An image of Thorin with a knife in his chest, Hemery's hand on the blade slashing his throat, his eyes lifeless and hollow in her mind. She shuddered, and her head fell on his shoulder. Her grip on the dagger loosened.
He was right. That was not the way.
"Sorry," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
The hand in her hair let go to stroke her head, the other on her back, warm through her layers of leather and wool.
He hushed her gently.
Hemery's arms snaked around his chest, holding on to him as much as she could. It felt better than she ever could have imagined, just having her arms around him, feeling his scent. She was ashamed of how good it felt to touch him after so much time of invisible restraints forbidding it. And she should not take any pleasure out of this moment which may be one of their last, but she did.
Thorin seemed to relax, leaning more on her and the wall. With his legs immobile, there were no more challenges to rise toward, no more mountains to climb. He sighed, holding on to her.
"It was dusk." His voice was low and distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
"Yes," she said, wishing she could go back in time to before the orcs came. "They come at night. That's what they do."
She was tired. And it was useless thinking about what she should have done differently.
"When you returned," he explained. "You had the sunset at your back when your greeted your sister, your face in shadow. But when you turned––I knew the sun had barely risen."
He sounded delirious. Was it the blood loss? She pulled back to look at him.
"What are you talkin' about? How do you know? You weren't there."
"I was there. I just . . . did not go down to meet you. I could not."
Hemery remembered that day. He had not wanted to greet her with the rest of his family. For a long time, she thought he had been angry with her. But the look he gave her now confused her.
Thorin's eyebrows were tightly knitted in focus, pain, or a question? Hem could not tell.
"You were my dawn, Hem. It was always so. A sliver of light after a century of darkness. My beloved friend."
He raised her hand to his mouth, pressing her icy fingers to his lips. Though the gesture was affectionate, it did nothing to calm her. It sounded too much like goodbye in the face of death, as if he greeted it like a friend––not her.
"You're makin' no sense, as usual," she said, trying to smile but sure it was only a tight grimace.
"It's the only sense I have made in many years. Any sensible words heard at my court has been uttered by you––a child of men, the most unlikely of sources."
Hemery chuckled without joy. She was harshly reminded by the drama around his court, though she was much distracted by the way he kept brushing his lips over the pads of her fingers.
"I shouldn't have let myself be wrapped up in the politics of Erebor. I was foolish to let them affect me."
"There's always some truth to idle talk."
She frowned. "Surely, the king of Erebor doesn't listen to gossip?
Thorin pulled on her hand, so she leaned over his chest, his other hand going to her cheek.
"If death awaits us this night, I see no harm in telling you . . . I have seen magicians and witchcraft, and you are no bewitching fairy––whatever the fear and narrow minds of people say––but I am under your spell. This is the truth."
Hemery was on the verge of refuting his words, but found that she did not want to. She knew the wounds affected his senses––blood loss, pain, and poison from an orc blade will do that. His eyes were glassy, but his hands strong. He was not himself at this moment, but he was also right.
Tonight was all there was. Nothing followed it, nothing related to it. This moment was separate from time and existence. Separate from Erebor and the roles they played there. If they were to be no more, nothing she did now would matter.
Hemery leaned in and carefully brushed his lips with hers. Thorin responded, urging her closer, his mouth bruising hers. Her hands came up to his cheeks, feeling the rough beard in her palms. His arms crushed her chest to his until she had no breath. He tasted of salt and iron, sweat and blood. Even as they met over and over in searing kisses, Hem mourned that they were to be tarnished by battle and death––though they would most likely not survive long enough for it to become a memory.
He drew back abruptly, groaning in pain and gritting his teeth. Breathing deeply through his nose, he managed to overcome the wave of agony. He closed his eyes and leaned back, clutching her hand to his chest.
"What can I do?" Hemery asked, fully aware there was nothing to alleviate his pain. She reached out tentatively with her free hand and pushed hair away from his forehead.
"Sing to me."
Hem snorted a half-laugh at the absurd request. "What?" Was he making jokes at a time like this?
Hemery sang with her sister to pass the time, to Híli when lulling her to sleep, and to Dwalin's viola on rare occasions when he brought it to dinner. She never sang in Thorin's company.
"Somehow this smelly stable and the blood seeping from my toxic wounds make me wistful for some faraway land," he replied, not without sarcasm. His remaining wit gave her comfort.
"Hanah's the singer, not me."
"I hear you when you and your sister come in at night. Your voices echo all the way down the hall."
She almost blushed at the thought. It was their favourite thing after a long day, she admitted, to slowly ascend the stairs and raise their voices, distorted under the high ceiling. But only when no one was around. She knew it was not always pretty; they just enjoyed the strength of their sound.
"Transport me with a verse––if you would be so kind," he added, smirking.
With the lump in her throat, she did not know if she could produce anything close to a song. And even in this late hour, she was embarrassed to sing to Thorin.
"Please." He brought her hand back to his mouth, kissing her knuckles.
Hem tried to clear her constricted throat, but it did not feel any better. When she began, it came out gravelly and dark, almost without tune.
Pray, give me ink and paper
I wish to pen a letter
And thou will sense and witness
That I will love none better
Soon fire will eat us all
Soon sun will slow its crawl
Dove lose its wings and fall
Ere I leave you here, My Dear.
I used to play the golden dice
I used to play the lute
At once old sorrows left me
Like air flows from the flute
Soon fire will eat us all
Soon sun will slow its crawl
Dove lose its wings and fall
Ere I leave you here, My Dear.
Hemery noticed his grip on her hand loosen. She looked down at his face. It was calm in unconsciousness. Had she not known the poison clawing at his heart with the dull talons of a slow death, had she not seen the blood drenched breeches, and had she not felt his cool, clammy palm on hers––she may have found his visage relaxed and peaceful.
The lump in her throat choked her, rising and expanding until sobs broke free on their own.
"No, no, no––Thorin?" Tears escaped her eyes. "No, don't leave me. Don't––don't––" Her stuttering voice was compressed into a desperate whine. She forced herself to be as quiet as possible. They were still in danger from the orcs.
Hem felt for Thorin's pulse. It was still there. But she did not know how long it would remain.
Suddenly, a clamour rose outside. Her grip on his coat tightened, her body tense as a fox trap.
Screeches, weapons on armour, howling of wargs, voices of men and dwarves, outrage, hysterics, and after a few moments––nothing.
Carefully, Hemery untangled herself from Thorin, reluctantly leaving the warmth of his company, and peaked out through the dirty glass.
The streets were empty. Could she venture out to look for help? She turned the idea over in her mind when she noticed something glinting in the dirt.
Thorin's sword.
Hemery cursed. How could she have left it there? Granted, she had been fairly occupied with taking shelter at the time. But she could go get it now; she could protect them with a sword. Now they had nothing.
As silently as possible, Hemery exited the stable. The cold air assaulted her cruelly, as if the world itself had become dangerous and unhospitable during this night. Swiftly, she ran across the yard, picking up the sword. It was heavy, but with two hands, she had no problem wielding it. She could tell it was elf made and therefore lighter than any other kind of blade of equal size.
Without examining it further, she turned, scanning her surroundings. Where had everyone gone? Were the men and dwarves defeated? Were the orcs raiding the temple at that very moment, butchering children and old folks in droves? Hemery's heart clenched.
Like wraiths, more orcs crawled out of the darkness toward her. Fear trickled down her spine like ice water. Absently, she reflected that Dwalin should have taught her stealth techniques as well as defence training.
She could not return to the stables and lead them straight to Thorin. She had to draw them off, perhaps manage to slip away to hide somewhere, or come across some of her allies. But she could not leave Thorin alone. Surely, someone must have survived. Or had they not? The thought threatened to drown her. Her breaths grew shallow as the orcs crept nearer, in no hurry to kill her. Perhaps they liked a bit of sport between slaughtering children.
Anger clutched her chest in an icy fist. She raised Thorin's sword slowly, preparing herself to swing it, getting as sense of the blade as a tool to be used. Trust yourself. Rely on your training. Keep moving. She was not going to make it easy for them.
"How much do you value your life?" she hissed through her teeth, as much to herself as to the orcs.
They came at her one and one. Her sword had a longer reach, and the orcs employed little strategy when it came to blocking. Hemery used their forceful, head-on, berserker fighting style against them, channeling their own strength and speed as momentum for her strikes. But they were too many; she could never catch her breath. Too late, she realised that was their main strategy.
Her arms and legs burned from exertion when she at last failed to dodge a blow. She countered with the sword to avoid the orc's sharp blade, but the orc was too strong, and she was thrown off her feet.
Her lungs dispelled air at the hard impact. Temporarily paralysed, she fully expected something sharp to hit her any moment.
But nothing did. The orc was distracted, backing away suddenly. Then a strong, hoarse voice cried out in attack, the kind of sound that makes your blows stronger and your opponent weaker. Hem recognised that voice.
Rolling over, Hemery watched as Vannur cut down the orc with their own technique––explosive power aimed forward. Surprised, the remaining orcs were hesitant to advance, circling the females like foxes waiting for a chance to bite at a deer's hindquarters. They would not wait forever.
Vannur pulled Hemery to her feet with one hand.
"You faced worse odds in the assembly today, Miss Skinner. Don't tell me you've given up already?"
Hemery could not help but bark a short laugh. Leave it to dwarves to find the humour in dire circumstances.
"I'd rather wrestle orcs than bureaucrats any day," Hem replied, keeping up the charade while struggling to take control of her breathing.
"That's the spirit." Hem could hear the grim smile in Vannur's voice, though they stood back to back, daring the orcs to come closer.
Hemery registered movement on the roof above them. An orc was about to come down right ontop of them, but before he could jump at them, he was shot by an arrow, falling face first into the mud.
Hemery whipped her head around to see a squadron of dwarves on horseback approaching. The archer was at the front.
A lump formed in Hemery's throat.
It was Kíli. And Dwalin rode next to him.