Chapter 37

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

A/N: *evil cackle*

That night was one of the longest of Kíli's life. He felt feverish and weak, but he could barely sleep. He tried not to toss and turn too much for fear of keeping Fíli or Ryn awake; but he was hot, then cold, then hot, then cold, sweating and shivering all night long. Worse, when he did sleep fitfully, his dreams were disjointed and disturbing, and all he could remember of them when he awoke was cold, gray hands reaching for him, squeezing the life out of him, choking him…

He half-woke in the gray light of early morning when Ryn got up from her place nearby. She stretched and blinked, then looked over at him; seeming to determine he wouldn't be joining her to watch the sun come up, she looked around surreptitiously before kissing him on the cheek and walking outside. Her lips were warm, and Kíli touched his cheek before falling back into the dozed, half-conscious state he'd spent most of the night in.

But before he was ready, Fíli was shaking him gently, and everyone was packing up their things, preparing to leave. He followed, dazed, dressing automatically in whatever Ryn or Fíli handed him, new breeches new tunic mail armor boots…

Mahal, his leg hurt.

Breakfast was short and hurried, which suited him fine since he couldn't stomach a thing. Fíli squeezed his arm with a look of concern, but drew back when Kíli winced; even that small touch hurt. When they got up to go, Fíli looked about ready to say something, but shut his mouth when Ryn shook her head. Kíli was grateful; he was far too tired to fight with either of them today. Remaining upright took every ounce of concentration he possessed.

The short walk to the dock was a blur to Kíli. There was only one thing that kept him moving:

Erebor is so close. Fíli and I are going to enter right after Uncle, the home of our forefathers; our quest will end in a couple of days. Then I'll take a break and heal up.

He could see the boat now.

I wonder if the dragon really is dead. That would make things a whole lot easier.

Fíli hopped in, just in front of him.

They say there are piles and piles of gold, but I don't much care about that. I really can't wait to see Uncle's face as King Under the—

"Not you."

Kíli stared at his Uncle, confused.

"We must travel at speed; you will slow us down."

Kíli blinked, not believing what he was hearing. A stone weight had settled in his stomach.

No, Uncle, please…I was afraid of this…don't leave me…

He tried for a smile. "What are you talking about? I'm coming with you."

"No," Thorin replied. Kíli's smile slipped.

"I am going to be there when that door is opened," he insisted. "When we look upon the halls of our fathers, Thorin—"

"—Kíli." There was pity in his uncle's eyes, and Kíli hated seeing it. Thorin put his hand on his shoulder, and Kíli forgot to even flinch, for the pain in his heart at the realization he'd be left behind was worse than the pain jolting through every nerve in his body. "Stay here; rest." He gave Kíli one of his rare smiles; the one reserved only for his sister-sons. "Join us when you're healed."

But it's Erebor, Uncle, please don't do this…

But he found himself mute; he could not say anything, the disbelief at his failure was far too great. He was not to accomplish the one thing he and Fíli had dreamed of since they were children. He was not to be there when his Uncle stepped into their beloved home; he was not to fight the dragon (if it lived) beside Fíli, protecting him with his heart and his body.

Thorin turned away with a sad sigh, and Kíli found himself backing up slowly. Someone put an arm round his shoulder and guided him to sit on a nearby crate, still stunned. He vaguely heard Fíli arguing with Thorin and tried to tell him it wasn't worth it—he didn't want strife between them, and part of him understood Thorin was right, he was more a liability now than an asset—but all he could choke out was, "Fíli…"

He didn't want any of this to be happening.

He fussed weakly at Ryn, who was kneeling next to him and murmuring something. He couldn't really tell what she was saying, but he didn't want her…he didn't want anything but to be well and strong and standing beside his brother, who was…

Stepping out of the boat?

"Fíli, don't be a fool!" he heard Thorin hiss. "You belong with the Company."

Fíli glared. "I belong with my brother."

No Fee, no, you should go, someone has to protect Uncle and this was your quest as much as mine, you have to go for both of us now…

But he couldn't say any of it. He had run out of energy, the last of it draining away with the death of his childhood dream. Fíli was standing beside him, hand on his back, and Kíli saw Ryn speaking briefly with Thorin earnestly, quietly. He said something back, then nodded his head, and she took something from Oin.

Is she staying too?

He could hardly muster the will to care. He let his head drop; feeling dizzy and sick, wishing whoever was playing that obnoxious, off-key music would just stop already.

The pain lanced through his thigh, reaching from his toes all the way to his ribs, and he shuddered against it.

The red-headed blowhard was on about great fortune and prosperous journeys, and Kíli ignored his words and the awful music, instead watching the boat pull away, watching his Uncle standing tall and proud at the front, leading his men to Erebor.

I should be with him.

As much as he hated that Fíli had stayed, though, he couldn't deny he was comforted greatly by his brother's presence. Ryn, too, though he hoped she wouldn't try to use her Eiri skills on him again.

The pain wrenched his leg again, and he bit his lip to avoid crying out.

Rukhsul. Bloody damn—ow.

Oh, he wasn't feeling so well. Ryn was talking to him, her face twisted in a grimace of fear, but his ears were full of cotton and his vision was spotty.

What?

Her green eyes were so wide and pretty. Had he ever told her that before? It was the last thing he thought before blackness overtook him.

"Kíli? Kíli!" Fíli cried, and the fear in his voice was something Ryn recognized.

"Talos? Nadadith, please wake up…."

She shook herself. No time for this now. "Wait here, don't let him fall," she ordered Fíli and Bofur (who was rather hung over, but she could take care of his headache later), "Let me run and get the Master. Surely there are healers in this town."

She ran, as the Master was leaving his platform and heading back to the Town Hall. "Wait, please!"

He did not even slow. She ran faster.

Catching up, she grabbed his sleeve. "Wait! Please, help us!" The Master looked down at her coldly, and his simpering sidekick smacked her hard across the face, knocking her back a step.

"You dare touch him!?"

She blinked, then straightened. "I do, for the sake of my friend. Please, are there healers here? He needs help."

The Master scoffed, and the greasy man answered. "We have no healers here who will help you."

Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. "Why not?"

"Because," the Master replied imperiously. "Laketown has done its part for you and your Company. We'll not be doing any more, and especially not for some young whelp who can't even stand on his own two feet."

Gelek menu caragu rukhs ishkak ve ondor nul, menu shirumund …

She glared up at him. "I think you'll find, sir, that there is much more we could do for you; and you will rue the day you refused to assist one of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield." She wasn't about to reveal to this man that he had just refused aid to a Prince of Durin's Line—she wasn't stupid—in addition to one of the last descendants of the greatest Healers Middle Earth had ever seen; just let him figure that out on his own at some point.

Instead, she turned and stomped off, asking a couple people along the way if they would help. Everyone shrugged her off or begged forgiveness, as they were all far too busy or far too poor or far too useless to be of any assistance.

By the time she reached her friends, Kíli was conscious again, but so pale and so hot….

She fell into her Sight and nearly screamed in alarm. He was a tangle of dark grey, his energy hardly shimmering at all like the two dwarves on either side of him. The black had spread to nearly choke out his own aura completely, and it was absolutely terrifying.

What is happening? Why can I not fix this?!

"We need to get to Bard's now," she stated. "Get him up." Fíli and Bofur obeyed immediately, hoisting Kíli up between them, disregarding his moan of protest.

They nearly ran through the maze of docks and balconies back to Bard's. Ryn pounded on the door, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Bard answered, his gaze hardening at the sight of them. "No," he growled. "I am done with dwarves. Go away." And he started to pull the door closed. Ryn jumped in front of it.

"No, no, Please!" she begged. "No one will help us, and Kíli's very sick."

The bargeman regarded her for a moment, then looked to Kíli; he was awake, his eyes wide, but oh so pale and weak, supported by his kinsmen. Bard stood aside and let them in.

"Mahal bless you, lad," Bofur muttered as they stumbled inside.

"Please, is there a bed we can use?" Ryn asked, not willing to put off trying to treat Kíli's leg any longer. Bard motioned to a small one in the corner, and the men led him over to it. Ryn ran to the kitchen, calling to Sigrid, "please, my friend, I must beg your assistance with him."

Sigrid washed her hands in the basin of heated water. "What do you need me to do?

"Boil water, and I need clean rags." She dug in her pack, pulling out the scarlet globe mallow salve. "I also need a sharp knife soaked in alcohol and heated over the fire, please."

Sigrid looked at her, wide-eyed, but ran to comply.

"Miss Deorynn?" a small voice asked. Ryn turned to regard Tilda as Kíli cried out in pain from the corner. "What is wrong with your friend?"

She put a hand on the girl's hair. "He was hurt and we didn't clean it well enough, so now it's infected."

Tilda sucked in a breath of air. "Our neighbor had that last winter when a fishhook caught her arm. She died."

Deorynn shuddered.

"Is he going to die?"

Oh Tilda, I wish I knew…

"No," she murmured, opening the jar of salve. "No, he will not die."

"How do you know?

"Because I will not let him."

She washed her own hands, then walked over to Kíli. Sigrid had placed a small stack of bandages and clean rags nearby, along with some steaming water.

"Kíli," she said firmly. "Look at me." When he complied, though barely, she continued. "I'm going to unwrap this and treat it. It's going to hurt. I am sorry, but I must do this."

"No," he whimpered, and her heart broke. "No, please, Ryn, don't hurt me again…"

"I'm so sorry, love," she choked, and then cut the soiled bandages, exposing the wound to the air. She almost threw up at the sight of it; black and swollen, with streaks of infection tracking all the way down his leg and up into his hip.

Mahal, Kíli…

The knife had arrived and was cooling beside the bandages. Ryn would only use it if she had no other choice. She dipped a rag in the hot water, then pressed it against Kíli's leg.

He cried out softly, trying to jerk away, but she held his knee tightly. He was begging her to stop, tearing her apart with every tear that streamed down his face and every whimper of her name.

Once she was certain the wound was clean, she slathered on the scarlet globe mallow and wrapped the leg. Kíli was winded and moaning quietly when she was done, so she squeezed his sweaty hand and murmured, "That's it, that should help a bit. Does it hurt any less?"

He shook his head fitfully. "Hurts more, Ryn…"

"That's not surprising; the salve will take a little time to work. I'll check on it again in an hour, okay? If it's not better, we'll try something else." She put a hand on his cheek, and Kíli's eyes met hers, glazed over with pain. "I will make this better, Kíli, I promise."

He nodded vaguely.

Oh Mahal, don't let me be made a liar.

Tauriel breathed deeply as she ran. The orcs were near; she could smell their heavy musk tainting the fresh, cool morning air.

Fuion ulunn.

Legolas ran beside her, and she was more grateful for his presence than she told him. She actually had thought she was going to have to take on thirty orcs on her own; she could not ask Legolas to defy his father, not for her sake.

She liked to think that perhaps now he wasn't defying Thranduil for her sake, though, but for the sake of his own convictions, as she was.

The King was a fool if he honestly thought that what happened to the rest of Arda would not affect the Woodland Realm—and even if he were right and it would not? She still could not sit by and watch evil prevail when she remained hale and able to fight it.

She would not.

Even if it meant destroying her welcome in the only home she'd known for six hundred years, she would not be a mere bystander in this battle. She may not be a hero, but she had some skill, and she intended to use it.

Besides, that orch had said the young dwarf—Kíli, she remembered—had a Morgul poison running through his veins. Ryn had told her at one point that Eiri magic could not heal Morgul wounds; what the girl didn't know, that Galaron had told Tauriel before she left, was that any attempt to use Eiri magic on a Morgul wound would only make the poison work faster. Attempting to apply energy to speed healing, in Kíli's case, would only lend strength to the poison, working it through his body more quickly and causing him to be lost to the Shadow even sooner.

The image of Kíli's rune stone rose in her mind, and his words, "Mother gave it to me so that I would remember my promise…that I would return to her."

She picked up her pace a little.

After eight hours, and as many different treatments as she could think of, Ryn was completely at her wits end. The sun would be setting soon; she had tried salves, tinctures, digging the infection out with a sanitized knife (that particular attempt left Kíli barely conscious and Ryn weeping on the balcony), herbs that Bard had, every herb she had, and nothing had helped.

Kíli was fading. Every hour saw his fever mounting, his eyes glazing over and becoming more lifeless. Ryn had begun to suspect Morgul poison a few hours ago, and the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that was what ailed Kíli. It accounted for everything—namely, her inability to use magic to heal him, and his complete and utter lack of improvement despite the use of powerful herbs.

Mahal, if it's Morgul poison, I can think of only one chance for him.

Cirryn had told her in Rivendell that athelas—kingsfoil—was the only herb that stood a chance against some wounds, including those inflicted by Dark Magic, though it usually required use in conjunction with an elvish spell in order to work.

Ryn was just going to have to hope that wasn't true of Kíli's wound, as the closest elves were in Thranduil's Halls, and they were not an option.

She ran back inside, the darkness gathering over Laketown, praying desperately that the ubiquitous herb grew here too.

He was swirling in a storm of pain, its icy fingers stabbing through him constantly. Fire and ice warred for domination; the prize, his soul. He could feel the darkness spreading, seeking to extinguish his life, to make him its own…

Come to me, Kíli, son of Dis, Prince of Durin. I've never had one of your kind before; you will make a powerful servant…

No. No no no…it would not steal him from his brother, his Uncle, his dreams and aspirations…

From Ryn.

Save me, idúzhib, please help….

Tauriel saw the rickety outline of Laketown, black against the growing darkness. Stopping for a moment, she and Legolas listened hard, straining their already-sensitive elf ears to determine the location of their quarry.

The town was full of evening noises—lamps being lit, parents calling children home, working utensils being put away for the night—but there were also heavy footsteps…upon the roofs. Tauriel's eyes narrowed.

They were in the town.

The sight of Kíli writhing on the bed made Ryn want to break down entirely, but something forced her to keep going—something honed by years on the road, alone, learning to operate despite her own fear.

"Do you have any kingsfoil?" she asked Bard urgently.

He looked confused. "Yes of course, it's a weed. We feed it to the pigs."

Ryn was torn—she should stay with Kíli, but she needed the athelas…

"I'll go," Bofur said instantly. He looked at Kíli, and with his customary sense of humor, shook a finger in the lad's face. "You stay right there."

Helpless until he returned, Ryn squeezed Fíli's shoulder. He was trembling under her palm, and when he looked up at her, she could see the sheer panic he was holding back. She understood it, Mahal, she did; so she knelt beside him and wrapped him in a gentle hug, and he buried his face in her neck to hide the hot tears he couldn't hold back. She stroked between his shoulder blades, murmuring in soft Khuzdul in a vain attempt to comfort the Prince.

"Ryn," he practically whimpered. "What is happening to Kee?"

"I think it's a Morgul poison, Fíli….that's why I need the athelas. It's his only hope."

Fíli shuddered. "Is there anything I can do?"

She squeezed him gently. "Only what you're already doing. Stay with him, talk to him. He doesn't want to leave you, remind him that you're here." She patted his shoulder. "I'm going to go talk to Sigrid, will you stay?"

She had a feeling Mahal himself would have trouble dragging Fíli from his brother's side right now, but she was comforted to see him nod anyway, the stubborn set of his jaw reminding her just what strength lay in the Line of Durin.

She found Sigrid on the porch. "Looking for your da?"

The girl nodded.

"I thought Bain said—"

"—he did, but they won't hold Da for long. They can't, people like him too much."

Ryn shook her head. "What's that got to do with anything?"

Sigrid barked a short, bitter laugh. "The Master is a real cockroach, Deorynn, but even he has to answer to the people of this town. My father has established himself a man of the people, and if word got out he was wrongly imprisoned, there could be a riot. Or worse, the Master might not get elected again next term."

Ryn still looked mystified; in dwarven culture, leaders were appointed, not elected, and followed without question. But then, she was hardly in a state to discuss politics at the moment.

"Huh," was all she could manage.

Sigrid gave her a small smile. "You're worried about him."

She nodded. "Of course I am."

"You love him, don't you?"

Ryn's heart skipped a beat and she tried to deny it, but the blush on her cheeks and the way her words stuttered gave her away, and Sigrid's smile widened.

"Thought so." She put her arm around Ryn's shoulders. "He'll pull through."

Deorynn gave her a smile, or started to, but an orc suddenly appeared behind Sigrid, growling gleefully; and she grabbed the human girl and spun, not quite large enough to lift her off the ground, but strong enough to knock her flat so she could kick the creature square in the chest, down the stairs.

Sigrid screeched behind her. "Inside!" she commanded.

Orcs. Why? Because things just can't get any worse.

"Gelek menu caragu rukhs ishkak ve ondor nul, menu shirumund…"—You smell like orcs shat on your head, you beardless coward.

"Fuion ulunn"—Disgusting, hideous creatures.