Thanks ever so much to chapter 51's reviewers, twilightmemoirs and Sparky She-Demon. And many thanks also to my silent readers.
In this chapter, we deviate ever-so-slightly from the norm and someone else gets the run of the chapter...and no, it's not that witch Dorna. Though unfortunately she does make an appearance. Consolation is the cameo by another canon character. I think you will likey!
Sigrid had fallen ill three days ago, and everyone in the manor was suffering the first signs of cabin fever. Tempers had already flared with so little to do besides pace the halls or the courtyard.
Bain slammed the cover of the book he'd been trying to read shut. It was pointless—he couldn't concentrate on the story.
Looking around his bedroom, his eyes fell on the sword that Dáin had given him. He'd not had many opportunities to use it, which he knew he should be grateful for, but found he was not. His father was going to be a king in the near future—which meant that one day, the title would pass to him. What kind of king would he make if he had never proven to his people he could defend them as well as his father?
He needed practice, at the very least. Bain decided he would coax Téomas out of Sigrid's room for a sparring session in the courtyard. Rising from the bed, he grabbed his sword belt and strapped it to his waist, then headed for Sigrid's bedchamber—where his sister's suitor was, as he'd suspected, sitting by her bedside. Tilda was perched in a chair on the other side of the bed, listening to the Rohirrim boy reading from a book of poetry. Sigrid looked to be sleeping, no doubt soothed by the steady thrum of his voice.
"Téomas, give that book over to Tilda," Bain said as he stepped into the room. "Come out to the courtyard and spar with me."
Téomas looked briefly over his shoulder. "I don't think so, Bain."
He stepped up to the other boy and put a hand on his shoulder. "Mate, you've been cooped up in this house for three days, and spent all of your time in here. If Sigrid were awake, I've no doubt she'd tell you to go out and get some fresh air."
"Bain's right, Téomas," Tilda agreed, holding her hand out for the book. "Go burn off some of that nervous energy—at least the two of you have an option other than running in circles."
He relented with a nod following a long look at Sigrid's flushed, sleeping face. Handing the book across the bed, Téomas rose and followed Bain out of the room.
"Go get your sword. I'm going to see if my da wants to join us," Bain told him, and they went their separate directions.
As his friend had spent every moment not sleeping or eating in Sigrid's room, his father had spent all of his time holed up in his study, sending ravens back and forth between Erebor and Esgaroth, and around the city as well. Bain knew, though his father hadn't wanted to tell him, that five people had died in Esgaroth since the flush broke out, and he knew that one had died in Dale just yesterday. None of the dwarves had passed away, but several more had fallen ill since his father had imposed quarantine on the house.
Da needs to get out just as much as the rest of us, the boy thought as he knocked on the study door.
"Come…in."
A frown marred Bain's brow at the sound of his father's voice—he did not sound well. When he turned the knob and pushed the door open, he saw that his father was seated at his desk with his head resting in his hands.
His frown deepened. "Da? Are you all right?"
When the older man sat back, Bain knew instantly that his father was not all right at all.
He had caught the flush.
He rushed over to his father's side as he attempted to stand, the heat of his skin already worrying him. "I'm fine, son. Really," he said weakly as Bain lifted his father's arm and placed it across his shoulders, his own arm securely around his waist.
"I just…need to rest," his father said.
"And you will—you're going to get plenty over the next several days."
Bain helped his father stumble weakly through the manor to his bedchamber. After settling him in bed, he hurried to Sigrid's room to tell Tilda. His chest tightened to see her eyes fill with tears, but pride rose quickly behind it as she gave but one sniffle and raised her chin.
"I'm going to look in on him. Find Dorna and have her bring me a pitcher of water there," she said, before setting the book of poetry on her chair and heading out.
He found Dorna in the kitchen chopping vegetables. She dropped the knife and began to cry when he informed her that his father had taken ill.
"I know we asked you to keep away from Sigrid's room to avoid getting sick yourself, but Tilda can't care for them both. Not on her own," Bain said. "I hate to ask it of you, but—"
"Oh, think nothing of it, Master Bain! Of course I will help her by looking after your father," she said, looking demurely toward the floor. "I… I'm quite fond of Bard. I'll do whatever I can for him."
"Good. Fill a pitcher with cool water and get some clean cloths, and take them to Tilda in Da's room. He's got quite the fever."
"Of course!" Dorna cried softly, then hurried to do as he asked.
With his father's care seen to, he headed for the courtyard. Téomas looked to him as he stopped in the doorway. "Will your da not join us?"
"My father's got the flush, Téomas," Bain said. "Our sparring session will have to wait—I need you to come inside and look after everyone while I go for help."
He turned immediately to head back inside. Téomas was on his heels, saying, "Where are you going to go? The city is under quarantine—the guards may not even let you through the gate."
"I'm going to the elves," Bain replied as he headed for the kitchen. There he grabbed a waterskin and began to fill it in the sink. "I know Da said he'd not heard back from Thranduil, but what choice do I have? I can't go to Esgaroth or Erebor, because people are sick there as well, and what medicine they've got has done them no good."
He turned sharply once the skin was full and secured it to his belt as he headed for the front of the house. Tilda came out from the hall to the bedrooms as the two boys stepped into the foyer.
"Bain, what do you think you're doing?" she asked, her hands fisted on her hips.
"Tilda, I'm going to the elves," he said as he reached for the door to go out. "I know I'm breaking the quarantine, but I don't have any choice. I will not lose my family to this nightmare, not after all we've been through together."
She ran to him then and threw her arms around his waist. "Good luck, brother," she whispered fiercely against his chest.
"Good luck, and may Béma grant swiftness to your steed, my friend," added Téomas.
Bain nodded, and after giving Tilda a quick squeeze, he opened the door and walked out.
The bright, late summer sunlight had him blinking to adjust. Once he could properly see, he hurried toward the stables, where he found Breha and Bréden tending to the horses.
"Master Bain! What are you doing here—is Téomas all right?" Breha asked.
"I thought the manor was under quarantine?" added Bréden.
"Téomas is fine," Bain said, then hurriedly explained as he saddled Huron about his father and his intention to ride to Mirkwood to seek aid from the elves.
"Oh, good luck to you, my Lord!" Breha cried as he climbed into the horse's saddle.
Bain gave a nod, then a kick to Huron's flank. The stallion surged forward and they galloped through the city, attracting startled gasps and stares as people jumped to get out of the way.
The closed gate drew him up short. Huron reared and neighed loudly, nearly throwing Bain from his seat. Thankfully, Magnus was one of the guards on duty—with the manor on lockdown the last few days, he knew his father had told him to find other work to occupy his time.
"Whoa, Master Bain!" Magnus said, stepping forward to grab the horse's bridle. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I must go to Mirkwood, to seek aid from King Thranduil," Bain said. "My da's got the bloody flush now—I've got to do something!"
Magnus paled. "The king has the flush?"
Bain nodded. "Yes. So does Sigrid, and nearly two dozen others—all of whom are at risk of dying because nothing we have is doing a damn bit of good. I implore you, Sir Magnus, let me pass."
He knew that Magnus respected his father a great deal—after all, he'd just called him "king" and he had yet to be crowned. Hopefully that regard would work in his favor.
Magnus nodded solemnly and turned to the other guard on the ground, ordering him to open the gate. The guard didn't hesitate, either because he, too, held his father in high regard or because of his respect for Magnus, who was his commanding officer. Either way, relief flooded Bain as one of the 20-foot-tall doors was opened for him.
Giving a nod to Magnus, he said, "Reclose the gate behind me and do not open it again until I return."
Magnus bowed his head. "Yes, my Lord."
Nodding again, Bain kicked Huron's flank once more and the stallion started forward. At that same moment, a shout from the guard tower alerted them of the sight of a single dwarf riding a pony toward the city; Bain took note of him as he started across the bridge. The dwarf paused his mount at the end and waited for him, and as the boy drew nearer, he saw that it was Dáin's son and heir, who shared a name with his father's late cousin.
"Thorin Stonehelm, why do you ride toward a city under quarantine?" Bain asked as he drew Huron to a stop once more.
"Why do you ride away from it?" Thorin countered.
"Because I must," Bain replied. "I've got to get some help for my people and the elves are my last hope, even though Thranduil did not respond—"
"The imp did not receive your father's letter."
Bain narrowed his eyes. "How do know that?"
"Your father leased his messenger ravens from Erebor. Our ravens are taught to always heed their master's call," Thorin told him. "When one was sighted headed toward the forest, my father called it back himself."
Anger flooded Bain's blood, and he would have drawn his sword had he any belief he could best the dwarf. Only the knowledge that he would die in combat against the more skilled warrior, thereby forsaking the lives of his father and sister, stayed his hand.
However, it did not stop him cursing at Erebor's prince. "How dare you?! What right did you have to interfere? People are dying—my sister and now my father among them—and you stopped the message—"
"My father has fallen ill as well," Thorin interrupted him again, his expression a mix of worry and guilt. "I swear to you, Lord Bain, that I advised him to send the letter on—to swallow his bloody pride and choke on it if he must—and accept what may be the only hope left to our people, should the elves be able to provide it."
He sighed heavily. "It is why I am come to Dale, to seek assistance in petitioning the elves for aid."
Bain fumed angrily. "If your father had not allowed his prejudice to cloud his judgment, we might already have received that aid, and our fathers might not be sick right now. Remember that if our pleas fall upon deaf ears."
Without waiting for a reply, he kicked his heels back to get Huron moving again and headed toward the great forest across the valley, Thorin's pony plodding along steadily behind him.
