I am so sorry...
26
FATE UNKNOWN
They are twin shadows of grief, silhouetted against the dim, distant glow of the inferno that has engulfed Laketown. Kneeling in the chilled grass, they are of a height – the elder curled around the aching hole in his heart and the younger curled around the elder, trying desperately to hold him back from the edge of despair. They have supported one another their entire lives, stronger together than apart, but this loss is one that the younger cannot truly share. He can mourn beloved companions, but it is not the same. He has no words that can ease the pain, no power that will change the past, and so he simply holds on. He is the only one that has dared approach, the one that will never stand aside. Love is all that he can offer, along with desperate prayers to the Valar, and so he gives both with all of his heart.
"Mahal, Creator, and Kaminzabdûna, Giver of Grains – guide us and help us to endure.
"Usahu, Lord of Waters – protect them from the firestorm.
"Kidzulzanât, Valiant Warrior, and Asranulmadtûna, Dancing Heart – let not his joy turn to ashes.
"Udmas, Lord of the Dead, and Bebanuknar, Ever-Weaving – take them not to your halls, but continue to weave them into the Great Tapestry.
"Sulladad, Father of All – bring them home, that they may play their part in Your great design.
"Manakhkhashûna, Lady of Sorrow – if they must be lost, grant us your counsel in turning sorrow to strength, grief to wisdom."
* X *
In the dim hours before dawn, Tauriel stood guard for the dejected and weary survivors of Laketown, watching over them as they found what sleep they could before sunrise. Close by, huddled together by their father's boat beneath the few blankets that they had kept for themselves, her three charges wandered in dreams. Even in sleep, a small frown often flickered across Sigrid's face, while Bain moved restlessly and reached out often to reassure himself that his sisters were close. There had been no sign of the dragon slayers after Smaug's fall, no word of the children's missing father or the Dwarf siblings. It had taken the combined efforts of Tauriel and Sigrid to convince Bain to suspend his search until morning, and there had been a fire in the young Woman's eyes that told the Elf that the boy would not be alone. Still, they had settled in next to little Tilda, whose tear-blotched face had finally relaxed into an innocent, exhausted sleep. Watching them, so very young, made Tauriel's heart ache with worry for her missing friends.
She did not know when she had started to regard the two young Dwarves as friends. She barely knew them, after all. She had been their jailer, their pursuer, and finally a comrade-in-arms, but she did not truly know them. Not as she knew Legolas, or Suilrien, both of whom had been dear companions over several centuries. She thought, perhaps, that it had something to do with what she had told the prince on the bank of the Forest River – the way their very mortality seemed to make them burn brighter even as darkness crept through the world. Rather than closing themselves away, like her own people, they had set out to push the shadows back. They had risked everything, and she very much feared that the price had been their lives.
"Who brought down the dragon?"
She did not turn at the quiet question – she had sensed the prince's arrival long before he spoke – but waited for him to move to her side before she nodded briefly to the sleeping children of Men.
"Their father, and the two young Dwarves. These children are the descendents of Girion, King of Dale, and their family had protected the last of his black arrows through the intervening years. The Dwarves asked me to get the young ones to safety while they found the Man and helped him get to the wind lance on the highest tower in Esgaroth." She paused, her gaze now on the smoldering ruin of the town. "I saw them there, watched as they confronted and slew the beast. He took the tower in his death throes and there has been no sign of any of them since."
She felt rather than saw the answering nod, but then the crunch of a footstep had her moving to confront whatever new threat approached. Legolas, too, turned, nocking an arrow as she drew her knives. A weary Man staggered toward them, wrapped in a blanket and cradling his left arm close to his side as he limped along the lake shore. He was damp and shivering, posing little threat to the two armed Elves, but Tauriel stepped in front of the children and challenged him in a low voice.
"Who are you? What do you seek?"
He halted, tucking the blanket into place and holding out his hands in a gesture of peace. His dark eyes were anxious as he answered quietly.
"I am Bard of Laketown, and I seek my children, Lady Elf. I was told they escaped the fires in the company of a Captain of the Mirkwood guard. Are you she?"
Before she could answer, a small, sleepy voice spoke up.
"Da?"
"Tilda!"
Tauriel sheathed her knives with a nod to her companion, stepping aside as the Man lurched forward. All of his attention was on the three youngsters stirring beneath the blankets, and he did not notice as Legolas lowered his bow and the two Eldar backed away to allow the family some privacy. Bard gathered the children into his arms, trying to hug all of them at once, as Bain pounded joyfully on his back and Tilda sobbed into her father's shoulder and Sigrid smiled through her own quiet tears. Walnut bounded at their feet, yapping excitedly, until Tauriel scooped the furry little creature into her own arms and soothed her with quiet words and gentle scratches. After a few minutes of the muffled reunion, she glanced up at the sound of her own name.
"Da, this is Tauriel." Sigrid stepped aside to wave the Elf forward, and Tauriel nodded graciously as she handed the little dog to Tilda. Bard surprised her by offering a low bow as his daughter continued. "She helped save us from the Orcs, then made sure that we got out of Laketown when the dragon came."
"I owe you a great debt, Lady Tauriel." The Man straightened abruptly as Sigrid's words sank in and he turned to stare at the girl. "Wait...Orcs?"
"Where are they?" Bain broke in before anyone could answer the clear question, the boy glancing behind his father as though expecting to find hitherto unnoticed companions. "Where are Trisk and Viska? Didn't they find you? I thought they must have brought you the black arrow."
The Elf maid saw the flinch at the young Dwarves' names, though he tried to conceal it, and her heart sank as Bard shook his head. His arm tightened around Tilda's shoulders as she stared at him, wide-eyed, and his face was full of grief.
"They brought me the arrow, aye, and we climbed the tower to the wind lance. Viska distracted the beast, and Trisk was able to blind it in one eye and give me the shot that I needed. But the fire was everywhere, and after the tower fell...I could not find them..."
Sigrid gasped, her hands flying up to cover her mouth, and Bain's already pale face was ghostly in the dim light of the fading fires. Tauriel closed her eyes for a bare moment, allowing the sorrow to well within her before suppressing it once more. The danger had not ended with with the death of the dragon, and Legolas had followed the retreating Orcs for a reason.
"This is Legolas Thranduilion," she offered, indicating her companion. "He speaks for my king. He helped kill the Orcs that made their way into Laketown, then pursued those that escaped. He has word of their movements."
Legolas shot her a quick glance, but did not argue, simply nodding gravely as the Man turned to him.
"I recognized their leader, a massive, pale Orc. It was Bolg, spawn of Azog the Defiler. They are from Gundabad, the great Orc fortress at the northern end of the Misty Mountains, and they fled in that direction. I fear that they may be seeking reinforcements. Azog has a great feud with the Dwarves of Durin's line, Oakenshield chief among them." He glanced at Tauriel, a question in his brilliant blue eyes. "I would ride north when the sun rises. We must know what passes at Gundabad."
She hesitated a moment, but nodded, turning to gaze once more out at the surface of the lake.
"When the sun rises."
* X *
Fíli could not speak, could not breathe. His unseeing eyes were fixed on the distant glow of the inferno that had swallowed his world. Viska's name was an endless litany of loss in his agonized mind, but his body was stone, silent and unmoving. A small part of him thought (hoped) that such was Mahal's punishment for his failure – a return to the element from which he was crafted. If so, he welcomed it.
"Fíli...nadad, isbir-e. Fíli, innikh dê. Kasamhili, nadad, isbir-e. Fíli, kasamhili...kasamhili.... Innikh dê."
The words came from an unfathomable distance, seeping into his conscious mind and bringing with them a painful awareness of the world. Kíli was at his side, both arms wrapped tightly around broad shoulders, face buried in golden hair as he pleaded for a reply and tears tracked down his face. As he had once before, Fíli followed the sound of his brother's voice and came back to himself slowly, gradually realizing that he was not stone. But oh, how he wished he was, for surely stone could not suffer as he did! Were he stone, he would not feel as though his heart had been wrenched from his chest. Were he stone, his very spirit would not be bleeding from the gaping wound where his soul was torn asunder. Alas, he was not stone, but flesh – warm, and alive, and in so much pain. He was on his knees, the uneven ground bruising through his trousers, hands clenched in front him so the knuckles were bloodless. His throat was on fire, and when he tried to speak, all that emerged was a hoarse whisper.
"Kí?"
The younger prince gasped with relief and his grip tightened as he continued to speak quietly.
"I'm here, Fíli. I'm here, my brother. We will go to Laketown and find her, I promise. Do not give up hope. She could have fled."
"How could they? How much warning could they have had?"
Glóin's gruff voice was nearly unrecognizable, a deep grief threading through it rather than his habitual smug pessimism. Someone else hushed the burly merchant as Bilbo moved to Fíli's other side.
"We have to help them." The Hobbit's face was stricken and sorrowful as he turned anxious eyes to the princes. "We brought this on them – we must help!"
"The dragon is dead. Erebor is ours. It is time to find the Arkenstone."
Thorin's gruff voice cut through the murmurs of agreement, halting the Dwarves in their tracks. With his brother's aid, the elder prince got to his feet, turning to see that the king still stood in the threshold of the secret door, dismissing the distant fire with a contemptuous glance. Kíli stepped forward, a protest on his lips and disbelief in his dark eyes.
"The people of Laketown need our help!"
"And why should we care about a town of Men? We came to reclaim the Arkenstone, and now our path is clear to do so."
Fíli felt his jaw clench as he narrowed his eyes at his uncle, a simmering rage beginning to build deep in his heart at the older Dwarf's disdainful attitude. Before he could speak, however, Balin was stepping forward, his expression carefully neutral.
"We came to reclaim our homeland. The Arkenstone was only ever a means to that end, a necessary tool to unite the armies of the Seven against the dragon."
"Which is now dead, thanks to the Lakemen!"
Thorin raised a brow at Bilbo's angry interjection, a sneer twitching at the corner of his mouth.
"Perhaps, perhaps not. We do not truly know what happened to the beast. Perhaps the ancient creature's heart gave out. Perhaps he had gotten so slow and fat, sleeping long years on stolen gold – our gold – that his wings could no longer hold him aloft. All that we know is that he is dead, and Erebor is ours once more. The Arkenstone lies within, and I will see it restored to its rightful owner!"
"We promised them a new age of prosperity, not this – not fire and death while we stood by and did nothing."
Balin's voice was quiet, but he did not look away when Thorin fixed him with that dark glower.
"We did not bring this on them. Master Baggins is the one that woke the dragon, though it appears that he failed to complete the task that he was set, for he has not produced the Arkenstone. If you have a grievance regarding what has befallen Laketown, I suggest you look to our burglar for redress." Thorin paused, and Fíli was unsurprised to find that the steely gaze had fallen on him. "I would have my heirs by my side when I enter the Mountain as king."
Pain and anger flaring to life, the swordsman opened his mouth to argue, only to see Dwalin give a tiny shake of his head, dark eyes flicking over Fíli's shoulder. A moment later, Balin was muttering a warning from the corner of his mouth and urging the two princes forward gently.
"Go with him, laddie. We'll send someone to Laketown, just do not unsettle him any more than he already is."
Dís's elder son stared into his uncle's eyes, disturbed by the shadow that lurked there, and finally nodded. He stepped toward the door, gripping Kíli's arm tightly to warn his brother against arguing.
"We will be at your side, Thorin. Come, Kíli. Our place is by our king. I have already failed my One. I will not fail my people as well."
* X *
Bombur, son of Furbur, watched in silent sorrow as Fíli and Kíli approached their uncle, weighed down by the demanding darkness in Thorin's gaze. To see them so beaten, bowed by grief that they were not permitted to express, wrenched at his soul. It was more than the crumbling of the brothers' joyous spirits – it was the way that Fíli's perpetual swagger was gone, replaced by slumped shoulders and slightly dragging feet. It was the way that Kíli almost seemed to be supporting the elder prince, and the mussed golden braids hanging in the swordsman's face. The lad glanced back once, and the desolation in the blue eyes bore no resemblance to the spirit that he had shown over the past months, up to the moments before the dragon emerged from the Mountain.
It was a look that Bombur recognized. He had seen it in his mother's eyes after his father's death, in the eyes of the Lady Dís after the loss of her beloved Torvi. He had seen a hint of it in his own, once, when Eira had struggled so with the birth of their third child and he had feared that he might lose her. He had even glimpsed it in his wife's the day that he had left for the Shire, a brief flash of pain and loss that she had quickly hidden behind a supportive smile. It was a look that could not be mistaken, not by one who had seen it before, and it only confirmed what he had suspected since the day the Fíli had stood on the bank of the river and defended his decision to bring the lass and her brother out of the Mirkwood dungeons against the orders of his king.
Glancing around for his brother, he found Bofur already in muttered conversation with Balin as quick signs were exchanged with Bifur. Bombur smiled. Clearly, his brother and cousin were already making their own plans. A moment later, as the king and princes disappeared into the torch-lit glow of the secret passage, the miner shouldered his mattock and stepped to the large Dwarf's side.
"We're going-"
"To the lake." Bombur finished the sentence for him, reaching out to grip his brother's shoulder tightly. "Find them, nadad. Losing that lass will devastate our prince. Thorin will regret his actions, in time – make sure that they are here when he does. I'll keep an eye on the lads, and our burglar. And our king, for whatever good it might do."
Bofur nodded, returning the shoulder clasp and offering him a smile of gratitude that nearly reached his eyes. Then he turned away, heading for the secret track that would take him to the base of the Mountain. Behind the miner's back, Bombur exchanged several quick signs with their cousin, nodding his thanks at Bifur's response. The toymaker and the tinker were the only ones who knew of his loss, for Bofur and his One had never even had the chance to exchange courting beads. She had been a crafter, invested in her work, and it had taken him long months to gain her attention, only to lose her when the Crafting Halls were buried in a landslide only days after she first wove Mababnulzanâtu Sanzadkh into her hair. Bofur had grieved quietly, only sharing his loss with his family. It had taken nearly ten years for him to tell the lass's surviving family, only to learn that her brother not only known, but had kept one of her beads to give him when he was ready to acknowledge his loss. Bofur still wore it, worked into a braid that was hidden beneath his oversized hat.
Bifur and Bombur had never even considered standing aside when Thorin asked for their support in the quest for Erebor. They were not Exiles, but they were descended of Durin's Folk, those who had fled Khazâd-dûm so long ago, and they were loyal to the king who had taken them in when their own settlement was destroyed. For Bofur, however, it had been a bit more. He had the same allegiance to Durin's line, but he also felt a strong sense of responsibility for the two princes that should have been his nephews.
Yes, Bombur had recognized the look in Fíli's eyes as the young Dwarrow wrestled with the possible (probable) loss of his One. After all, he had seen it in Bofur's eyes eighty-seven years past, when his brother lost his own One – Gyda, daughter of Khervi and sister to Torvi.
* X *
He follows blindly, allowing his brother to guide him through the stone halls. His hand brushes marble and he snatches it back, unwilling to accept the comfort of the Mountain. He does not deserve it. He deserves to feel as he does now, full of guilt and shame. He has failed, and he has lost his One, and he will never be the same.
* X *
Dunstan, Guard of Esgaroth, paced the shore of the lake, staring out at the remains of his home. He was one of the few who had not joined the Master in his frantic looting of the treasury, choosing instead to aid those that he could before finally toppling into a boat with the last of his strength. Fíli and Kíli might have recognized him, for he was the kind-faced young man that had led them to the house they had used during their stay. For his part, he had found the Dwarves courteous, if a bit gruff, and had watched curiously as several of them had spent their days among the people of the town. Something told him that they, too, saw the subtle undercurrents, the building unrest, the small acts of rebellion against the Master. Acts that he glimpsed from the corner of his eye and quietly ignored, hoping that they would lead to definitive action to remove the petty, grasping despot from his seat of power.
Now, that would never happen. He did not know if the Master had even escaped the destruction, for he had seen no sign of him or any of the most loyal guards from the time the dragon descended on Laketown. Dunstan had not seen the dragon fall – he had been busy helping his neighbors into boats and shoving them out into the lake. When the tower had collapsed, he had been making for the last visible boat, anxious to escape while there was still time. Steps from safety, he had tripped over two short, still forms, and his breath had caught in his chest, fearing that he had found children that would not see another dawn. Then one of the forms had moved, and he had realized that they were not children at all, but Dwarves.
* X *
Fíli and Kíli had grown up on tales of the Lonely Mountain, the great realm of Erebor where their great-grandfather Thrór had reigned as King Under the Mountain. As small Dwarflings, they had thrilled to the descriptions of the walls of green marble, carved and polished til they gleamed; the great mines and forges whence came the jewels and gold of the great treasury; the treasury itself, a vast room filled with gems, coins, and works of gold unparalleled. Only short hours ago, they had been filled with triumphant anticipation as they watched the secret door open beneath their uncle's hand.
But now that he was here, now that the Mountain was won and he stood in the Great Treasury, Fíli could not summon even the memory of that long-ago excitement. The light of the torches reflected off of thousands of surfaces – gleaming gold, shining silver, glinting gems. The vast hoard was beyond what even the expansive imagination of a Dwarfling could have conjured, but it held no draw for the heir of Durin, by rights Crown Prince and next in line for the throne of Erebor. The journey was done, the quest accomplished, dragon slain, and home reclaimed, but Fíli, son of Dís, daughter of Thráin, son of Thrór, did not care. He felt no pride, no joy, no sense of accomplishment. All he felt was empty, an unfilled mold rather than a Dwarf hewn from stone, for he had already lost a greater treasure than what lay before him, one that could never be reclaimed or replaced.
He walked beside his uncle because Thorin demanded it, but he took no pleasure in the sight of his great-grandfather's excess. He kept pace with his brother because Kíli kept a warm hand on his arm, but he was numb to the steady stream of murmurs that poured into his ear, meant to comfort and calm, pitched too low to distract their uncle's attention from the vast hoard before him. Greedy joy suffused Thorin's face so that Fíli could not meet his gaze – there was too much there of the uncle he remembered, and yet not enough. It was like seeing a nightmarish, twisted version of the Dwarf who had helped raise and train him after his father's death.
Finally, Thorin stopped, and his nephews stopped with him, huddled together rather than flanking him as was their usual practice. He did not appear to notice. His eyes, usually the blue of a summer's evening, held a glint of darkness and ice crept into his deep voice.
"Behold the wealth of Thrór, King Under the Mountain! Look at last on the Kingdom of Erebor, your birthright and home! Is she not magnificent?"
It took a long moment of silence and a dangerous tilt to Thorin's head before the lads realized that his question had not been rhetorical.
Kíli answered for them both, his voice low and dull. "It is beautiful."
Thorin continued to stare at them and Kíli spoke again, sounding like he was trying to muster more enthusiasm. "It is amazing, Uncle. Overwhelming, even. Right, Fí?"
With great effort, Fíli met his brother's desperate gaze and summoned a halfhearted smile to his face. "Yes, nadadith. Truly wondrous. And safely yours now, Uncle. Erebor is reclaimed."
Thorin's brow darkened abruptly and Fíli wondered what he had said wrong. But his uncle turned to gaze pensively out over the glittering piles.
"Reclaimed, yes, but still I lack the Arkenstone. It must be here, somewhere. We will search until it is found, all of the Company. Only then will the throne be safely mine, and later yours, Nephew. Balin!"
"Aye, Thorin."
The elder Dwarf had been following along behind them and now he stepped to his cousin's side, Dwalin at his shoulder. Fíli caught both of his old teachers casting worried looks his way and he made an effort to straighten his stance just a little, enough to hopefully ease their concern.
"Set everyone to searching!" the king ordered shortly, not even glancing at his lifelong friends. "We must find the Arkenstone as soon as possible."
Dwalin frowned and Balin cleared his throat awkwardly. "Might it not be best to let everyone get a bit of sleep? It has been a long night, and a longer day before the sun set. Let them get a few hours of rest and start fresh in the morning."
Thorin looked displeased, but finally gave a dismissive nod. "A few hours, no more. I expect everyone back in the treasury at first light, save a sentry at the front gate. The Arkenstone is the most important thing now."
Balin nodded without comment and turned to usher the rest of the Company off to find a place to rest. Fíli and Kíli turned to join them.
"Even you, my nephews? You would sleep, rather than seek your birthright?"
Kíli's hand tightened on his arm and Fíli sighed, turning back. "By your leave, Uncle, yes. We would sleep. As Balin said, it has been a long night and day, and we have lost two dear friends in Laketown. A little sleep to clear our heads will make for a more thorough search come morning."
"Wherever the stone is, it will still be there at dawn, unless you find it before then," Kíli added with a weary smile.
Fíli did not recognize the expression that flickered across Thorin's face then, but it looked very much like suspicion and distrust, and it started a low churning in his gut. He increased his pace slightly, anxious to get his brother out of the room. Something was very wrong – he could almost smell the sickness in the air, a miasma of greed that clung to his mother's brother like a noxious cloud. Any comment, especially one of Kíli's flippant remarks, might set off an avalanche of consequences that they were not prepared to face.
* X *
Her face was raw and pink with the memory of the heat of dragonfire, her eyes gritty and dry from smoke and exhaustion. Viska stood on the shore of the Long Lake in the first glimmers of dawn, gazing out over the smoldering wreckage of the town of Men, though she did not see it. Her eyes were fixed on the Lonely Mountain, a towering shape against the fading stars. Three days ago, she had watched her dearest friends depart for the Mountain, hoping to slip in and out again under the nose of a sleeping dragon. But now that dragon lay dead at the bottom of the lake, having taken Esgaroth and many of its inhabitants with him, and she did not know the fate of the Company. Thorin, Bilbo, Kíli, Fíli...the thought of any or all of them dead and lost tore at her heart and cast her into the horror only a few hours past...
The world smells of smoke, and fear, and burning leathers as the Dwarrowmaid claws her way back to consciousness. Her ears are filled with screams and the crackling roar of flames, but the closest sound is faint and chilling – a choking, hitching breath, and a soft gasp in a voice as familiar as her own. Panic surges through her as she realizes that she is trapped, pinned to the moisture-warped wood of the walkway, a heavy burden preventing her from sitting up. The weight on top of her moves, shifting slightly, and suddenly she is free, gasping and trying to fill her lungs with precious air, no matter the acrid bite in her throat. Her fingers are scrabbling against worn leather and warm metal buckles, gripping the edges of the coat that covers the still figure next to her, the fire's merciless glow painting the scene in hellish shades of red and gold. Here, then, is the burden that held her down, the shield that protected her from the dragon's final fiery exhalation, and the heat from the inferno is drying her tears even as they fall. She is keening, unable to draw breath for the cry that is building in her heart, her very soul, eyes searching the beloved face for any sign of hope. She is on her knees, trying to pull him to her, but her fingers on his back find crisped flesh, then dry muscle, and finally the smooth expanse of exposed bone, and a breathless scream slips from his lips. She snatches her hand away and reaches instead for the front of his coat, bringing her forehead against his as she smooths back the auburn hair and murmurs to him, begs, her voice hoarse and broken.
"Lu'...nê ignig! Kasamhili,Trisk, nê ignig!"
Udmas cannot have him. He cannot have her brother. He has already taken her father, the grandparents and mother that she never knew, possibly her One and the entire Company. He cannot take her brother, her strength!
There is a movement beside her and a large, strong hand clasps her shoulder as a tall Man kneels at her side. She spares him only the briefest of glances, for the look on his face is grim and she will not allow herself to accept what she can clearly see. It is the young Guardsman from their first night in Laketown and the truth is in his kind brown eyes, and in Triskel's pain-glazed hazel, but she closes her own and shakes her head furiously, shouting at the Man in Khuzdul when he tries to pull her to her feet. Trisk's hands are on hers and he tightens his grip for a moment, fixing his eyes on her face as his lips move soundlessly. She leans in once more, but cannot keep from protesting softly when he finally manages to speak. There is no strength in his voice, only love.
"Go, namadith. Find the others, if they live. If not, carry the letter to Ered Luin. Dís waits for her sons and brother. Do not let her spend her life waiting for word from those who will not return. Be her comfort, and she will be yours."
One hand grasps weakly at the front edge of his coat and she brushes it gently aside to reach into the inner pocket and retrieve Thorin's letter, safe in its treated waterproof pouch. She tucks it away before she takes his hand for the last time, lifting it in both of hers and pressing it to her lips. His eyes are already staring past her, to the Halls of Waiting, but he manages a slight smile and his fingers tighten on hers briefly.
"'Aimugalikh, ."
And then he is gone, and the Guardsman is prying her hands away and pulling her to her feet. The fire is closer now, and she can feel the heat scorching her face, her hands. She wants to stop the Man, to tell him that they must bring Trisk with them – he is a Dwarf, and should be returned to the stone, not left to burn in the pyre that once was Esgaroth – but there is no time. The flames are spreading and the damage done by Smaug's fall will soon ensure the collapse of what remains of the town. They must get to shore, find the survivors, and salvage what they can from this night of fire.
A gentle hand on her shoulder brought her back to herself, and the Dwarrowlass looked up into leaf-green eyes so like her own. There was such a depth of sympathy in them that she wondered how she could ever have thought the Elven Captain stoic and unfeeling. She managed a weak smile for Tauriel, glancing past her to where Bard was speaking with Dunstan and the other survivors about tending the wounded and gathering what they could from the remains of the town. The Elf maid's eyes flickered toward the Men, then over to the tall figure that stood apart, golden hair catching the first glow of the morning light.
"You are leaving?" It was more statement than question, and Viska could feel her heart sinking. Tauriel nodded apologetically.
"My prince has sent word to the king about the dragon, and about the Orcs, but we must ride North. The leader of the Orc pack bore the mark of Gundabad, their ancient fortress, and we must investigate."
The Dwarf lass grimaced, the mention of the northern fortress causing a flash of ingrained racial hatred to surge through her. Shaking her head, she gave the Elf a low bow, her hand pressed to her heart in sincere appreciation for all that Tauriel had done. "Valar protect you, Tauriel of the Woodland Realm. May we meet again."
The Elf maid glanced only briefly at the waiting prince, then met Viska's eyes seriously. "I would not leave you here alone, bereft of kith and kin," she stated. "I can seek permission to take you to the Iron Hills, if you like."
The Dwarf lass shook her head, her grief-darkened gaze fixed on the looming Mountain. "No, Erebor is my home, as it was my father's. We came to help reclaim and rebuild it."
"And if your people are dead? Or Oakenshield will not let you stay?"
"Then I will find another home," Viska replied grimly. "But I must try."
Tauriel smiled slightly. "Dwarves are indeed stubborn as stone," she commented. The lass shrugged.
"We are as we were created. We endure."
"At the least, I would offer you transport to the Mountain, so you need not walk alone. There may still be Orcs in the area."
Viska nodded. "That offer, I will accept, if your prince will permit it."
As always, Khuzdul is sourced from The Dwarrow Scholar (although I am aware of some errors that I am leaving alone for continuity's sake), and all butchering of grammar is mine.
Translations and Notes:
Fíli...nadad, isbir-e. Fíli, innikh dê. Kasamhili, nadad, isbir-e. Fíli, kasamhili...kasamhili...innikh dê. - Fíli...brother, answer me. Fíli, return to me. Please, brother, answer me. Fíli, please...please... Return to me. (Khuzdul)
nadad – brother (Khuzdul)
Mababnulzanâtu Sanzadkh – Maiden's Braids (Khuzdul, literally braids of the virgin)
nadadith – little/younger brother (Khuzdul)
Lu'...nê ignig! Kasamhili, Trisk, nê ignig! - No...don't go! Please, Trisk, don't go! (Khuzdul)
namadith – little/younger sister (Khuzdul)
'Aimugalikh, namadith. Birashagammi – Farewell, little sister. I am sorry. (Khuzdul)
Khuzdul names of the Valar invoked by Kíli (sourced from the work of the Dwarrow Scholar):
Mahal – Aulë, Lord of Crafting & Skill, creator of the Dwarves.
Kaminzabdûna (Giver of Grains) – Yavanna, protector of growing things.
Usahu (He Who Pours) – Ulmo, Lord of Waters
Kidzulzanât (He With the Golden Hair) – Tulkas, warrior & gamester, the Valiant
Asranulmadtûna (She With the Dancing Heart) – Vána, the Ever-Young
Udmas (He Who Judges) – Námo, also called Mandos, Keeper of the Houses of the Dead.
Bebanuknar (Lady of the Loom) – Vairë, Weaver of the Tapestry of Time.
Sulladad (Father of All) – Ilúvitar, also called Eru, creator of Arda.
Manakhkhashûna (She Who Continues to Show Sorrow) – Nienna, Lady of Sorrow, councilor of the Halls of Mandos.