A/N: It has come to my attention that I made a rather blatant mistake in the previous chapter, concerning Bard and his ancestry. I made him son of Girion, but that is impossible, seeing how Dale fell almost 200 years before the events narrated in this tale. Also, I have decided to make Bard younger in this story than he is in 'The Hobbit', for selfish (Elvish!) reasons. As such, I have gone back to remedy the slip and in this chapter, Bard himself sheds some light on his family.
25.
It was a merry gathering, for all intents and purposes. Dwarves and Elves and a Man standing for their hosts, all strewn around a long table where food and drink never ran out and neither did the tidings that the companions wanted to share.
And yet, tension thick enough to cut with a knife floated on undercurrents of unspoken thoughts and choked Fili's appetite as he nursed a mug of drink gone stale and observed the people around him.
Thorin had made a spectacle of himself, giving Fëanor a warm welcome that had left his nephew gobsmacked. Granted, even Fili felt a measure of relief to see that Fëanor and his sons had survived Gandalf's machinations and their adventure in Dol Guldur (he could not think of it in any other terms or dwell too much on the Necromancer without feeling his hair stand on end and dismissing the notion that they had been so close to Sauron's lair). But from there to hugging the Elf and sitting at his side, hanging on his every word when Fëanor spoke, was a long way. Perhaps Thorin meant not to confront the Elf and throw his lies back into that charming face. Perhaps his uncle had been enchanted enough to care not one whit that he had been lied to and manipulated.
But Fili could not simply brush it aside and pretend it did not matter. Perhaps it angered him more because he himself had been conned into befriending, trusting and caring for Celegorm. The Elf had only ever shown him the same, but the mere thought that it may have been manipulation on his part made Fili grind his teeth and chafe against the promise he had made to say nothing before his uncle spoke to the Elves.
Even if he had failed to keep himself in check, the opportunity to break his promise had not presented himself, as Celegorm had made himself scarce upon their arrival in Esgaroth and not even his brothers could locate him. Then, he surfaced days later to meet his kinsmen and sat at the table as though nothing were amiss, taking no note of Fili beyond greeting him absently.
And there the damned Elf was, drinking and smiling and hovering around the newly arrived man, sitting so close to him that Fili was surprised Bard could even breathe. While he could chalk that up to the same shamelessness that had manipulated the Mirkwood prince into betraying his father and freeing his prisoners, Fili guessed there was more to it and he had come to know those Elves well enough to see past their composed expressions. Celegorm glowed, as his father had so aptly put it, but the other six and even Fëanor himself exchanged furtive looks of unmistakable panic. On Celegorm's other side but happily ignored by his brother, Curufin had grown livid and Fili wondered what in Mahal's name was wrong with those people.
The more was said, the more remained unspoken. Fili felt it keenly and would have laughed at himself for the attack of paranoia that caused him to search for hidden meanings to everything he heard. But how could he not doubt, when Fëanor carefully omitted to mention the Necromancer's identity and seemed to treat the danger they had been in lightly? How to believe him when he shrugged off his own brush with Thranduil and his people like it had been a tea-party, when Fili remembered all too well the bruises Celegorm had so hospitably been treated to? Why did the Elves - so joyously reunited just moments before – look as though someone had punched them in the gut, while Celegorm beamed undisturbed and the man at his side tried very hard not to melt into him? What in bloody blazes was going on and how to break the insufferable silence on these matters, when everyone else seemed perfectly content to eat and drink and enjoy the royal treatment Esgaroth had offered?
Even that sat unwell with Fili, no matter how tempted he was to puff himself up and stroll through the city as a proud peacock. The besotted crowds certainly expected him to do so and to carry himself like a proud Heir of Durin, but in the distance, the Lonely Mountain loomed dark and forbidding, reminding Fili that he was not yet heir of anything. All he and his companions had been through might amount to naught in the face of what awaited under that defiant tooth of rock and while the blood of his forefathers called him to action, Fili was not quite so eager to hurl himself against the mountain and challenge the dragon to relinquish it.
And… what was that man Bard saying? That he too had cause to interest himself in their quest? Fili tried to shake himself free of his unhappy thoughts and pay the exchange between Bard and Thorin more attention.
"I have not been north since before winter fell upon us early last year," Bard was saying. "And years have passed since I have last looked upon the ruins of Dale. The lands are desolate and the journey perilous, My Lord," he told Thorin. "Packs of wolves roam from the north and sometimes steal as far south as Esgaroth if the winters are harsh and game is scarce. There may be no such danger while this season lasts, but as the year draws to a close…"
"Have you seen the dragon or any sign of it?" Thorin cut him off impatiently.
"No. Never," Bard shook his head. "I understand from my elders that the dragon has not shown itself for decades, although that does not mean it has lain dormant all this time. It may hunt in the north and steer clear of inhabited places. I cannot say. But from the ruins of Dale, the marks of its presence are visible. Not merely the devastation of Smaug's first attack but newer scars upon the mountain face and the lands nearby. I have seen tracks in the earth and traces of fresh burning. Sometimes the stream that flows out of the broken gates is blackened and fouled and when it reaches our lake, fish float dead upon the surface. Smaug is alive, if that is what you wish to ask me. I believe that he is alive deep inside the mountain and my people share that belief. They will not go anywhere near it."
Not unlike Fili himself, Thorin had probably entertained the foolish hope that Smaug was dead. He sighed and shook his head, turning to the Elf at his side when Fëanor gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Silent understanding passed between them and Fili wanted to scream, because since when did his uncle need to be reassured by an Elf?!
"So Smaug lives. Well, that was to be expected," Dwalin grumbled, interesting himself in whatever lay at the bottom of his tankard. "This changes nothing. We'll do what we came here to do all the same."
He was answered with an unsurprising lack of enthusiasm as Bard's words had served to sober even the most inebriated of his companions.
"If I may," the man said. "I would be your guide when you set out for the mountain, if you will have me."
"No!" Celegorm started, brows drawn together as he shook his head at the man.
"You may not need a guide, not while you have these remarkable companions to aid you," Bard said carefully, his eyes darting to Fëanor briefly. "But I would join your quest if you allowed it, My Lord."
"Bard, no!" Celegorm slammed his hand on the table, leaning even closer to the man, but Bard's fingers dug into the Elf's forearm in an attempt to silence him.
Thorin's own face had clouded and Fili could guess what his uncle thought behind his forbidding frown. Yet more so-called help, more stragglers latching onto the company in search of treasure, most likely.
"Please, I know what my interest in your business might look like, but I have much cause to concern myself with Erebor," Bard insisted, focused on Thorin alone, while Celegorm struggled to free his arm and to silence him. "I am, as Tyelkormo has introduced me, the heir of Girion and the last one in a line of lords bereft of their home. I am not unlike yourself, My Lord Thorin. I too long for a home that I have only ever seen in ruins. My grandfather was a child when the dragon burned our city. He and mother alone escaped of all our family and they fled south with other devastated survivors. Here, in Esgaroth, they made a life for themselves, the hard living of simple workers, but they never forgot their legacy or our beautiful city laid to waste. My father grew up with tales of what we had lost and I too have been brought up to remember Dale. Not once did I dream that one day I would be able to do more than stroll through the ruins and rebuild the city with my mind's eye. But now… now, my Lords, you are here and you wish to take back your kingdom," Bard's voice rose as he poured more passion into his speech. "I ask you for nothing else but a chance to reclaim my home as well."
"No!" Celegorm exhaled in a shuddering sigh and surely, the bruises on his forearms would show for days.
"I will not be parted from you again!" Bard hissed at him, refusing to meet the Elf's eyes and at their side, Fili heard Curufin issuing a cry much like a wounded animal.
Celegorm wrenched himself free of Bard's gasp and turned to his brother, touching him gingerly and with great concern. Even from where he sat, Fili could tell that Curufin's eyes were open wounds in the Elf's pale face and for a moment, Celegorm stared at him, taken aback.
Whether the two could talk to each other without speaking a word or not, Celegorm seemed to finally understand what ailed his brother. Fili saw him closing his eyes and sighing, a blend of love and sadness passing over his features for a moment. He sat up and pulled Curufin after him, paying the questioning looks directed at them no mind. Without a word of explanation, the two walked to the front door (or rather, one dragged the other out) and left the house to a chorus of perplexed whispers at their backs.
"My sons… they are very protective of each other," Fëanor said, shrugging minutely and eying Bard as though he expected the man to understand.
"I know," Bard smiled and, to Fili's frustration, he seemed to need no other explanation.
But damnit, Fili did NOT understand and he would have shouted at someone… anyone who would tell him what was going on.
"Tyelkormo wishes to keep me as far away from harm as possible, I know that too. But it is not his decision to make," Bard told Fëanor and either he did not know who he was talking to or knew only too well, but the man did not flinch under the scrutiny of those brilliant eyes.
"I see your point," Thorin intervened, drawing Bard's attention back to him. "The friendship between my people and yours urges me to consider your request very seriously. If we take back Erebor and I am King Under the Mountain, I would have Dale rebuilt and you would lead your people back into the city. But these are serious matters that need more thinking over. We will be in Lake Town for a while yet. I would speak with you more as we prepare the expedition and if my companions agree, you may go with us."
Fili felt the gears in his head coming to a screeching halt and he gave his brother a wide-eyed look of complete disbelief. There was nothing to consider, it was a simple decision… either dismiss the man as a gold-digger (which he did not appear to be but then, Fili knew better than to take people at face-value anymore) or accept him as a guide if he claimed he knew the lands north of Esgaroth. But what proof did Bard have of being descended from the lords of Dale? And even if he could present such proof, surely Thorin did not mean to accept him into the company and make him privy to their secrets. In Mahal's name, was that even Thorin Oakenshield, sagely putting off a decision on the matter and claiming that he had to consult his companions before saying yes or no? One glance at his fellow Dwarves told Fili that he was not the only one either mentally or actually scratching his head in disbelief.
As the man gave his thanks and Thorin accepted them gracefully, Fili threw back his chair and left the table, unable to endure the madness of it all any longer. He could not tolerate the way his uncle seemed to condone constant outside interference in their business or the lying behind it. Not without hurling whatever fell into his hands and shouting his indignation with it all.
Kili called out his name and ran after him, babbling something and fussing over him when Fili paid him no mind. He was sorely tempted to draw his brother aside and tell him everything that bothered Fili to no end, but he knew his brother well enough to be certain that Kili could not keep his mouth shut for more than five minutes. And maybe he was overreacting. He had to admit to himself that he did not hate being kept in the dark about so many things so much as the reasons why the Elves and Thorin thought he should be kept in the dark.
As he stomped angrily toward the door and did not even bother to shush his brother, Fili came upon the returning Celegorm and Curufin. The two strode past the Dwarves without a word and while Celegorm tilted his head in a distracted salute, Curufin was completely oblivious. To Fili, it seemed that the younger brother's eyes were bloodshot and puffy, as though Curufin had been crying, but why on earth would he...?
Arm around his brother' shoulders, Celegorm steered Curufin back to the table and Fili all but ran out of the house, desperate for a breath of fresh air and to be away from so many things he did not understand. Kili finally quieted and fell in stride with him as they left the house and slipped into the narrow alley that took them to the quays. It would be good to look at the Lonely Mountain and remember what really mattered, away from all the politics, the lying and the intrigue.