A/N: The second chapter I'm posting today, please make sure to read the previous one first. Enjoy!
Day 142
In his dream in the wee hours of the one hundred forty-second day, Fíli is lying on the hard, dry soil of a barren landscape. A fierce wind whips around his face, tearing at his hair, his clothes. He tries to raise himself off the ground, but his limbs won't obey him and all he can do is turn his head in a futile attempt to gather his bearings.
Nothing, as far as the eye can see.
But then, in the distance, a shape begins to move towards him, its contours blurred by the grains of sand and dust swirling through the air. Fíli strains his eyes, but the shape becomes no clearer. Dread claws at his insides – he is utterly defenseless and even if he were able to move, there would be nowhere to hide in this vast nothingness of a landscape.
A sound reaches his ears then, and for a moment he thinks that someone is calling his name, someone familiar. Before he can identify the voice, however, it is drowned out by the howling of the wind. The noise becomes louder and louder, echoing through his skull, making it impossible to form a coherent thought. Fíli presses his hands over his ears in an attempt to block it out, but it's to no avail.
For a few terrible seconds, he thinks he hears a woman's frantic scream over the sound of the storm raging around him. Out of seemingly nowhere, a sharp pain explodes in his temple and he opens his eyes to find himself lying face down on the floor beside his bed, his breath coming in ragged gasps and the howling of the wind still echoing in his ears. He struggles to sit up, the sheets that have become tangled around his legs during his odd nightmare making this action more difficult than it should be.
As he fights to regain his composure by forcing himself to breathe more slowly, he realizes with no small amount of horror that the sound he still hears is more than just an echo from his dream. It is quite real, and he knows without a doubt where it originates from.
It's the horn of Dale, sending out a call of distress.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, buggering shit.
He's already hopping around on one foot, trying to yank his boot onto the other, when his door bangs open to admit Dwalin . Fíli stops fiddling with his footwear as he gapes at Dwalin who, unlike himself, is in full armor already.
Biting back the irrelevant question whether Dwalin sleeps like that, Fíli resumes the process of getting dressed and dons a Mithril mail coat over his nightshirt, ignoring the unpleasant way in which the sweat-drenched fabric of the shirt clings to his skin.
"What's happening?" he barks at Dwalin. This isn't the time for politeness.
"Our sentinels have yet to return, so we cannot be certain. Goblin attack would be my guess."
Yes, what else could it be? There is no strife between the people of Dale and their neighbors, and the unexpectedness of the assault smells strongly of a random goblin raid.
Fíli yanks his coat over the Mithril shirt, not bothering with the bulkier parts of his armor. For one thing, there is no time to waste; also he wants to be able to move freely in what he expects will mostly be close combat situations.
"Bard has left the city yesterday afternoon," he remarks while he straps his blades to his upper body.
"I am aware. Rather unfortunate timing, if you ask me." Dwalin's words are calm and formal, but the glower with which he accompanies them ought to send any enemy running.
Unfortunate indeed, Fíli thinks to himself. For a few brief moments, panic wells up in his chest as the image of Sigrid and her siblings, defenseless and unsuspecting, rises to the forefront of his mind. He shrugs it off, reminding himself that this is not the first time Bain, Tilda and Sigrid encounter this type of situation. They will know what to do in order to keep themselves saves until he and his men can come to their aid. This, at last, is something he knows how to do – if he can keep it together long enough to get himself to Dale, that is.
Again, he chooses Kíli's sword on his way to the door, sheathing it with a silent prayer that it will bring him luck. Dwalin falls into step beside him, neither of them looking back as they leave his rooms.
"How many men can we have up and ready on such short notice?" he asks Dwalin as they jog down the corridor side by side.
"Not as many as I would like," Dwalin grunts. "And we cannot send them all to Dale. What if that is precisely what the brutes are waiting for before launching an attack on the mountain?"
He's right, of course, and Fíli finds himself struggling with his priorities. "We owe it to Bard to send as many as we possibly can," he finally says. "Tell Glorin to stay behind with his usual troupe. They must barricade the gates once we have left and if they spot any sort of hostile movement, they are to light the signal fires immediately. We'll turn back if that happens."
Dwalin gives one sharp nod and disappears down the next stairwell to their left, leaving Fíli to hurry down toward the entrance hall by himself. To his relief people have already begun gathering at one end of the long hall, more individuals continuing to trickle into the vast space from the various tunnels and stairwells connected to it. Some of them look scared and more than a little confused by this nightly rapport, but a reassuringly large amount is already heavily armed, ready to go into battle. This will save them valuable time.
At the edge of the crowd Fíli spots Thad and Flad. Their faces turn up toward him as soon as he begins to head down the stairs and he quickly strides over to them before his presence becomes noted by everyone else. He has not dared to hope for a chance to speak to them in private, and yet here they are, waiting for him as if they sensed his need.
"We know what you are going to ask us," Thad says as soon as he is close enough to hear his subdued voice. "And we'll do it gladly."
Fíli nods grimly, putting one hand on each of the brothers' shoulders. "I hope I shall have a chance to repay you for your loyalty." And then, leaning in closer so that no one else will hear what he says next, "Try not to engage before the rest of us gets there. I don't want you to put yourselves in any more danger than strictly necessary. Just... try to make sure she's safe." His eyes stray to their wild manes that stand out even in the dim torchlight. "And for Mahal's sake, put on helmets or something. You are about as inconspicuous as a pair of Oliphaunts at a hobbit family gathering."
The brothers share a grin. "As Your Majesty commands," Flad says.
A short bow and then the two of them disappear amongst the throng of people still streaming into the entrance hall. Over the heads of his remaining brethren Fili sees them slip out of the gates into the outer darkness and prays that they will not pay with their lives for their unflinching loyalty to him. He would not be able to forgive himself in that case - but then again, neither could he live with himself if he did not do everything in his power to ensure Sigrid's well-being.
Dwalin arrives then, finding and holding Fíli's gaze. He nods. Everyone's ready. Over Dwalin's shoulder, Fíli can see Glorin and his men take up their places as guardians of Erebor, their faces as stern as their postures are proud. This lot will defend the mountain until their last drop of blood – although, of course, Fíli hopes that it won't come to that tonight.
He steps back onto the staircase he just descended, climbing up a couple of steps so that he can address the crowd from above.
"Those of you who aren't fighters – fear not," he calls out. All eyes turn towards him, an eerie silence descending over the hall. He ignores the loud echo of his own voice and continues. "The gates built by our forefathers will not fail you and our most trusted soldiers stand ready to protect you should the need arise." He shares a quick nod with Glorin before turning towards the larger group of armed Dwarves. "Those of you who are prepared to fight, follow me as swiftly as you can. Make no compromises. We have only just driven the forces of evil from these lands and we are not going to let a band of brutes ruin our hard-earned peace."
A murmur of assent passes through the crowd and there's a clatter of weapons as each fighter prepares to go into battle. Pride at the thought that none of his men pause to question his resolution to intervene on behalf of the people of Dale fills Fíli's heart. It hasn't all been for nothing – times and views have changed, and he can claim at least a tiny bit of responsibility for that.
He descends the stairs again and moves through the crowd towards the gates, people stepping aside to allow him to pass. "It may be Dale which we defend tonight, but it might as well be Erebor," he calls. "Our cities are forever joined, and we will stand by each other unconditionally. So follow me as I say: For Erebor!"
"For Erebor!"
The words echo through the hall and then everyone is moving, the presence of his men at his back carrying Fíli towards the gates like a tidal wave. Dwalin falls into step beside him, and from the corner of his eye he can see the former members of Thorin's company each taking charge of their own unit. What they lack in numbers they certainly make up for with their fierce determination – Fíli can only hope that this will be enough.
Through the gates they march and the night swallows them hungrily. The sky is overcast, no moon and no stars lighting their path tonight. The only bright spots in the darkness originate from Dale. Some of the flames blazing through the night Fíli recognizes as the city's signal fires. There are others, however, that can only be of malicious origin and he clenches his jaw with the effort of not letting his mind conjure images of Bard's house on fire.
Outside, several ponies are saddled and ready. Fíli swings himself onto Arran's back without hesitation, swiftly looking over his shoulder at the small army he is about to lead into battle. Some of them are on horseback as well, but most of them will undertake the journey on foot. It's a good thing that Dwarves are fast runners for if there is one thing they cannot afford, then it is to lose valuable time.
The cold night air bites at his cheeks as he gallops across the plain connecting Erebor and Dale and soon the city looms up into the sky before him. He tries to block out all distractions, refusing to acknowledge the screams that pierce the silence of the night.
Outside the city walls there is no movement. Fíli suspects that the guard has withdrawn into the city to defend its inhabitants. Either way, the quiet can only work to their advantage. If the people of Dale do not know they're coming, then neither do their enemies and they'll have the element of surprise on their side.
Another scream, a woman's, coming from just inside the city walls. Fíli tastes blood as he bites down on the inside of his cheek, the need to rush through the gates sending his heart racing. Keep calm. Lead your men and vanquish this threat as you have done with so many others.
He looks at Dwalin, a silent communication passing between them. The older Dwarf nods and falls back to round up their people, shepherding them into the shadows cast by the city walls.
Fíli slides off Arran's back and sends the pony off into the night with a whisper into his ear and a light clap against his flanks. There is nothing for Arran to assist him with here and he would much rather have him return to Erebor safely than risk his life here.
While he waits until everyone is in line, Fíli sends a silent prayer to whoever might be listening. Today was supposed to be the day where he spoke to Sigrid about Balin's idea of sending him to Ered Luin and while he has been anticipating this conversation with quite some trepidation, he would much rather be forced to break her heart than to watch her come to harm at the hands of those beasts. His hope rests on Thad and Flad and their capacity for quick thinking and unconventional solutions. Other than himself, there is no one whom he trusts more when it comes to keeping Sigrid safe. Still, he has to tamp down his impulse to do what his brother would have done and throw himself into the midst of things without so much as a second thought.
Some of his struggle must have shown on his face, for as Dwalin returns to his side, he gives him an odd look and raises an eyebrow in an unspoken question. Fíli shakes his head, once, and tightens his hold onto his sword. He cannot afford to show any weakness, not now.
A final glance over his shoulder and then he and his men are moving, inching closer to the gates which stand, worryingly enough, wide open. They creep inside, fanning out as soon as they are within the city's borders. Dwalin and Fíli both stay close to the gates, directing those who follow down alleys and up stairwells, letting the city absorb their forces like water trickling into thirsty, dried up soil.
The narrow alleys at the edge of the city appear mostly deserted. From what Fíli knows of the layout of Dale, this is not altogether surprising. The buildings closest to the town wall were damaged most severely in the battle and while much has already been done in terms of reconstruction, they are currently mostly used for storage and the keeping of livestock. A horde of goblins intent on both looting and throat-cutting would not find much there by ways of amusement. No – the heart of the action seems to be taking place in the depths of the city, and so this is where they are all headed, still keeping to the shadows to attract as little attention as possible.
There is a group of five, maybe six goblins trying to force their way into a house in one of the streets further inside the city. The house's inhabitants appear to have had the good sense to barricade themselves inside their home at the first sign of danger and the goblins are now having a hard time to breach the solid walls and boarded windows. Still, experience tells Fíli that they won't give up before they've got what they came for – even the sturdiest of doors can only hold for so long.
He glances at Dwalin and the group of Dwarves following behind, nodding sharply. It's time to strike.
They move swiftly and with deadly precision. Before the goblins know what hit them, three of them are already on the ground, clutching their slit throats while the convulsions of imminent death wrack their bony bodies. One of the remaining two tries to make a run for it but finds itself pursued and brought down by Dwalin and two other Dwarves, originally Dáin's men. Meanwhile, Fíli turns his attention on the last of the goblins, who snarls at him, baring its foul teeth.
"I've bloody had enough of you lot for a lifetime," Fíli mutters. A quick strike with his – Kíli's – blade and the goblin is divested of its ugly head. "There. That's better."
They regroup quickly and continue further into the city where the sounds of fighting are now much louder than the screams. It appears that the other units of Dwarves have begun to arrive in the thick of things and have thrown themselves into battle. Fíli quickens his steps, eager to join his men and end this siege. The number of hostiles they come across grows the further they move into the city, but as with those first few, Fíli and his men finish them off quickly.
Even though he has never been there, Fíli knows that Bard's house is in one of the wider streets adjacent to the marketplace in the center of the city. If he can just make it there, assure himself that the house has not been breached and then focus all of his attention on winning this fight... He will have to try. And so he keeps pushing himself forward, scarcely pausing to breathe.
Things go well for a while until they don't anymore. There's a loud crash followed by an uproar and Fíli turns around just in time to see Thad and Flad come hurtling towards him. Under different circumstances their frantic gestures for him to get moving might have been amusing, but as things stand Fíli watches in a horrified stupor as a wave of dozens of goblins comes pouring down the alleyway behind the two brothers, the fiendish creatures' bloodshot eyes filled with murderous intent.
"Fíli! Get out the way, now!"
Just as Flad's words finally register with his momentarily frozen mind, a heavy weight smacks into Fíli's side and he finds himself pinned down by Dwalin's much bulkier body in the narrow space between two buildings. Dwalin is back on his feet in an instant and moves in front of his young king, his broad shoulders almost brushing against the stone walls to both their left and their right. As Fíli rises as well, his head still spinning a little from this unexpected maneuver, he looks over Dwalin's shoulder to see Thad and Flad occupying a similar passage on the opposite side of the street.
There is scarcely time to exchange more than a bewildered glance with the brothers before the horde of goblins tramples past their hiding place. For a confused moment, Fíli tries to work out why they are not stopping to look for them - surely they must have seen them duck out of their way mere seconds ago. Then, his unspoken question is answered with a deep, rumbling sound that resonates in the pit of his stomach. A ridiculously large number of wooden barrels comes tumbling after the goblins, the rather steep incline of the cobbled street leading up to the city's center lending them a decidedly deadly momentum.
"By my beard, I hope those are empty," Dwalin laments in front of Fíli.
That hope is crushed rather quickly when one of the barrels crashes into a house's corner, red liquid bathing the walls and the street like blood. Fíli swallows at the gruesome image and looks away. It's just wine. This is not the time to begin looking for bad omens, not when they are already in the midst of all this.
Dwalin pokes his head out between the stone walls and beckons for Fíli to follow him. They are met by Thad and Flad in the middle of the road, all four of them turning to gaze after the curious stampede of goblins and barrels. There is no trace of the other Dwarves who came with them, but Fíli suspects they, too, were quick enough to hide and are now regrouping elsewhere.
He turns towards the brothers. "What on earth...?"
Thad shrugs. "Call it an odd combination of ill fortune and good luck. Either way, this should keep them busy for a bit."
"It's a shame about the wine, though," Flad adds.
While Dwalin grunts his agreement, Fíli exchanges a look with Thad. The blond Dwarf gives a minute shake of his head, his eyes grave. They did not make it to Bard's house then after all. Damn his luck.
Fíli whirls around to gaze up to where the goblins and barrels just descended from. Every inch of his being is on fire with the need to go up there himself and find Sigrid. But he cannot do that, can he? Abandoning his men in the middle of this mission is unthinkable, but so is being here and not doing anything while all kinds of terrible things might be happening atop that hill.
As helplessness threatens to overwhelm him, Fíli becomes aware of Dwalin's eyes resting steadily on him. "Go on then," the older Dwarf says once he can be sure to have his king's attention. "I've got things under control here."
"I—what—," Fíli stammers, completely taken aback.
"Go," Dwalin all but growls. "Before I change my mind."
Thad and Flad flank Dwalin on both sides, nodding a grim approval. They, too, will see to it that the battle is won and that as few of their own come to harm as possible.
Fíli looks from one to the other, not sure how to react. Then, realizing that his mouth is slightly agape, he snaps it shut. Clearly this is not the moment to deny that this is what he wants the most – Thad and Flad are privy to his secrets anyway and it would seem that Dwalin has seen through his act a long time ago.
So he swallows down all the explanations, the justifications, that sit half-formed on the tip of his tongue and adjusts his grip on his sword.
"Be careful," he says, not allowing himself to imagine a scenario in which either of those three most loyal Dwarves got hurt as a consequence of his actions.
Dwalin grunts. "Don't get yourself killed."
Fíli gives a sharp nod and turns, sprinting up the street that will take him straight to the market square. Up there, it seems, the worst of the attack is already over. Crates that were once filled with goods ready to be sold on tomorrow's market lie strewn across the square, their contents spilling out of them like the innards of fallen soldiers in a battlefield. Whatever the goblins were looking for, food must not have been it. Fruit and vegetables litter the ground, trampled and squashed into a sticky mush, the various colors that are just becoming visible in the pale light of early dawn painting the scene in a grotesquely cheerful manner.
Some of the market stalls are on fire, but the flames are already dying down and don't seem a threat to any living person. Through the clouds of smoke, Fíli discerns several bodies lying on the ground, both goblin and human. Thankfully, though, there are only few who fall onto the latter category, which reinforces Fíli's suspicion that most of Dale's inhabitants were able to lock themselves in their homes in time.
The drum of his own heartbeat is loud in his ears as he crosses the square, forcing himself to glance at each of the bodies, checking them for light brown hair and soft, feminine features. All of the fallen appear to be men and none of them familiar. For a moment, Fíli's knees quiver with his relief and one of his hands shoots up to cover his mouth in order to stifle a gasp, but he quickly composes himself. His work here is not done.
From the alleys leading away from the square down to the south gate the sounds of fighting are carried towards him on a gust of wind. His jaw set in determination, he makes his way over there, silently slipping into the street where Bard lives with his children.
The street is mostly shrouded in darkness still, the tall, closely built houses blocking out what little daylight would be available. The chaos which characterized the market square appears not to have spilled into this particular street – there are no fires, no broken goods to be found here. This is a relief, and Fíli's steps grow more confident as he approaches the bend in the alley behind which he will find Sigrid's home.
He turns the corner and for a moment fear holds him in her icy clutches, squeezing his heart so tightly that black spots appear in his vision. The door to Bard's house does not merely stand wide open, no, it's lying there, in the middle of the street, the wood broken and splintered.
His feet are moving, heels pounding loudly against the stones, before Fíli has consciously made the decision to move. Let them hear him come – he'll gladly take on as many enemies as dare to throw themselves into his path if that will distract them from the inhabitants of that house. He does not pause in the doorway, swiftly making his way into the house instead.
Never having set foot in Bard's new home before, the layout of the house is unfamiliar to Fíli. In the scant bit of light filtering in through the windows it takes him a moment to get his bearings. Once he does, he realizes that the front door opens into a large room that serves as kitchen, dining room and communal space all at once. There is a stove to his right, the embers now cold, with large wooden work surfaces to both sides. The middle of the room is occupied by a long table, mismatched chairs tucked under its edges on either side. In the far corner, under the wooden staircase which leads to the second level, there's a pair of bookcases and a set of well-worn chairs facing one another over a threadbare rug and a low, rickety table. All in all, it is not so very different from what Fíli recalls of the house at Lake-town, except that it is much more spacious and that there is less wood and more stone. Oh, yes, and the ever-present stench of dead fish, that's a thing of the past as well, thankfully.
The room is empty and Fíli can detect no obvious signs of a struggle. Still, that does not ease the tight feeling in his chest. He is already hurrying towards the stairs when a scratching noise draws his attention to the back of the kitchen. He hesitates, but then decides to investigate, silently creeping towards the dark passage which leads away from the kitchen.
To his right, there is a chamber containing a narrow bed, a dresser and a rocking chair that is slightly too large for the small space. From Sigrid, Fíli knows that Bard has recently employed a woman to help with the cooking and other chores, now that Sigrid is spending more time on her studies with Óin (and other activities which the Bowman hopefully never finds out about). This must be said housekeeper's room, although there is no trace of her.
The scratching noise again, followed by a muffled sob. Sword in hand, Fíli creeps further down the narrow corridor. He can barely see anything back here but doesn't need his eyesight to alert him to a malign presence. A chill creeps up his spine and his pulse quickens, preparing his body for a fight.
There's a scrabbling sound coming towards him on the stone-tiled floor and he blindly thrusts his blade forward, trusting that whatever this is, it can only mean him harm. He staggers slightly when his sword impacts with the creature hurtling towards him, but regains his footing quickly. Raising his blade, he strikes again, swinging at the vague shape which his slowly adjusting eyes are beginning to discern in the darkness.
A stinging pain shoots up his arm as sharp teeth embed themselves in his wrist and he hisses, yanking back his arm with enough force to shake off his opponent. He raises his arm, again, and strikes, putting as much force into the blow as he can muster. This time, his sword finds its mark and there is a sickening thud as something heavy hits the floor. The hallway is plunged into silence, the sound of his own breathing unnaturally loud in Fíli's ears. More light is coming in from the kitchen now and he can make out the slumped body of a short, skinny goblin on the ground in front of him, its severed head lying beside it.
He frowns in distaste and steps around the body. There is another door at this end of the corridor and it's closed.
"Is anyone there?" he calls softly.
He hears a woman's gasp and is keenly aware of his blood pulsing through his veins more quickly than usual while he listens to the sound of something heavy being dragged away from the other side of the door. The door opens and then it's as if someone has punched him in the gut, for the eyes that meet his with trepidation are not, as he hoped, Sigrid's.
"Sigrid, where is she?" he asks the middle-aged, plump woman who must be Bard's housekeeper. He tries for a gentle tone, but his increasing anxiety makes the words come out much more harshly than he intended.
"Master B—B—Bard's daughters were asleep in their room upstairs when they c—c—came for us," the housekeeper stammers. "We—we heard something upstairs and Jorund went to see if the Misses were in need of assistance. I ha—haven't heard anything since except the snarls of—of that thing at the door."
Her lips tremble as she shudders and despite the panic eating away at his insides, Fíli lowers himself down on one knee and puts a hand on her shoulder. "You are safe now. Help is on its way. Can you lock yourself in again while I go upstairs? Someone will come fetch you as soon as it is safe to come out."
She does not look too happy about it, but, drawing a steadying breath, nods bravely. "If they didn't get through that door before, they shan't make it now."
Fíli mirror's her nod and starts to rise. The woman's hand on his forearm causes him to pause and he looks at her questioningly. "My Jorund is scarcely more than a boy," she implores. "If you can, please make sure that he does not get himself hurt with his bravery."
"I will do what I can to assure his safety," he promises, briefly covering her hand with his own before straightening up. He forces himself to wait until she has closed the door once more, but then his feet carry him back into the kitchen and towards the stairs without another second to waste.
He strains his ears, but there is nothing out of the ordinary that he can detect. Still, that does not have to mean anything. Despite their general lack of intelligence, goblins can be sneaky bastards when the situation demands it and so he climbs the stairs with all his senses on high alert, ready to strike at any moment.
There's a body at the top of the stairs. For a shameful, selfish moment, relief floods Fíli when he recognizes the uniform of the city guard, the tell-tale brown helmet lying on the floor a couple of feet further down a dimly lit corridor. He steps around the body and leans down to peer at the soldier's face, his heart sinking when he finds a smooth, young face with large, empty eyes staring back at him. This must be Jorund and any help that Fíli might have given him comes too late.
A clatter from somewhere to his left has Fíli on his feet again in an instant and he cautiously moves down the corridor, peering into empty rooms. The first one he comes across is a small study, maps and scrolls of parchment littering every available surface. The second room contains a narrow bed and a workbench with some tools and half-finished carvings. Bain's room, Fíli surmises, and wonders where the boy might be, for the housekeeper only spoke of the two 'Misses'. Did Bard take him with him when he left for Mirkwood?
That sound from before again, this time accompanied by a loud thump. Fíli quits Bain's chamber and advances further down the corridor, keeping close to the wall. There are two more doors, one open and one closed. His back firmly pressed against the wall, he risks a quick glance into the open room. A wide four-poster bed takes up a good portion of the space. At its foot there is a massive wooden chest with a heavy iron lock. A goblin is bent over the chest, snarling furiously while trying to break the lock open. There are a number of items – several knives, a candleholder, a fire poker – scattered across floor at the goblin's feet, all of which, Fíli presumes, failed to accomplish this task.
Now, most of those things would have been an excellent choice for an offensive weapon, but for some reason which completely eludes Fíli, the brute picks up the candleholder once he steps into the room and lunges itself at him. Not wanting to have his skull cracked open with the goblin's eccentric weapon, Fíli reaches for one of the knives strapped to his back with the speed of lightning and hurls it at his opponent, the blade swishing through the air with the force of his throw. He hits his mark and the goblin drops to the ground with the knife firmly embedded between its eyes.
A deadly silence falls over the house. There is only one room left to investigate and the fear of what he might find in there turns Fíli's blood to ice. He backs out of what must be Bard's bedroom and silently crosses over to the remaining door, scarcely daring to breathe as he puts his palm against the wood and gives the door a push.
It's locked.
He steps back, his options flashing through his mind in a handful if seconds. He can call out, hope that Sigrid and Tilda are locked safely in that room and wait for them to open the door. However, that would mean risking to alert anyone - or anything – else in there with the girls to his presence. His other option is to break down the door, finish off any enemies who might have gotten it into their heads to hold the Bowman's daughters hostage, and finally end this.
Breaking down the door it is, then.
Fíli takes another step back, bracing himself against the wall at his back. Then he throws himself forward with as much momentum as he can manage in the narrow hallway, slamming his shoulder into the door.
Thankfully, that door is not the sturdiest thing and gives way on his first attempt. He staggers into the room. Before he can assess the situation inside, a shrill scream makes him want to clutch his ears and then he is blinded by something soft and heavy being thrown over his head.
"What the—"
He staggers, unseeing, and then the air rushes from his lungs in a loud oooph when something hard and solid smacks into his side. Managing to grab a fistful of the fabric covering his head and upper body, he gives a firm yank and frees himself, blinking repeatedly as he tries to determine what on earth is going on here.
Before he can make sense of any of it, his eyes fall onto Sigrid who is standing a couple of feet in front of him, her body rigid with tension. The look on her face is one of determination, though. In her hands she is holding a large frying pan, ready to strike.
The pan clatters to the floor at the same moment that her name pours from his lips in a relieved sigh.
"Sigrid."
And then he's moving, crossing the room in three long strides until he is close enough to her to reach up and cradle her face between his palms. Her hands clutch at his shoulders, fisting in the lapels of his coat, as he leans up and crushes his mouth to hers. He can feel her breath hitch in her throat, but before he can pull back and ask her what is wrong, a high-pitched squeal sounds from somewhere behind him.
Fíli drops his hands as if he has been burned and whirls around, pulling himself up to his full height in order to shield Sigrid as well as he can. And there, emerging from behind the door that is now hanging only from one hinge, is Tilda, also brandishing some type of kitchenware and her expression one of utter rapture.
"I knew it!" she exclaims. "I knew that there was a reason you kept going to the mountain other than books and plants and herbs." She drops the pot she is holding and folds her small hands over her chest instead. "Oh, this is delightful! Are you going to get married? Oh please, please, please do, I just love weddings! We could have it here or—or at Erebor, I suppose, if that is what everyone expects, and I could—"
"Tilda."
Sigrid steps around Fíli and he looks up in time to catch her worried gaze. She crouches down in front of her little sister, taking Tilda's hand from underneath her chin and wrapping her own fingers around them. "Tilda," she says again, "You must not tell anyone about this. Do you remember what I told you about secrets?"
Tilda nods. "That bad things might happen if someone has a secret and I tell others about it. That someone might get hurt."
"Good. See, Tilda, this is my secret. And Fíli's. And now it's yours, too. Will you keep it?"
Another nod from the girl, this one more solemn. "Yes, of course." Tilda looks back and forth between Sigrid and Fíli, a frown creasing her forehead. "So you won't get married?"
Fíli cannot see Sigrid's face, but he imagines a pained look crossing it at her little sister's words and he hates himself a little bit more. Still, Sigrid's voice is calm and kind when she answers. "Not right now, no. And if our secret gets out now, we probably never will."
"I don't understand," Tilda says, her frown deepening. She glances at Fíli over her sister's shoulder and he steps forward until he is able to place a tentative hand on Sigrid's shoulder.
"Not everyone thinks that your sister and I ought to be together," he explains. "And if they find out, some of them are going to be very upset. Including your father."
"But you haven't told him, have you? Then how can you know that he won't like it?"
"Well...," Fíli begins, unsure how to argue with that kind of logic.
Sigrid reaches up to cover his hand with hers and gives him a reassuring smile before turning back to her sister. "We will tell Da. In our own time. And you must promise not to interfere with that."
"Alright. I promise." Tilda's eyes stray to their clasped hands and Fíli can tell from her shining eyes that her fantasies of flowers, pretty dresses and a large wedding feast are going to keep her occupied for quite some time still.
Satisfied with her sister's promise, Sigrid rises, still lightly holding Fíli's hand in hers. Then she frowns, her eyes resting on his wrist. "You are injured."
He looks at his wrist like it doesn't even belong to his body, completely taken aback. Only when he sees the red blood stains on his leather cuff does the pain from the bite he sustained earlier begin to register with him once more. It's nothing he cannot handle, but still it will need to be taken care of soon. "I'd completely forgotten about that," he mutters, feeling rather tired now that everything appears to be over.
Sigrid steers him towards one of the two beds facing each other across the room. "Sit. Let me tend to it."
"No." He pulls his hand from her grasp, suppressing a wince. His eyes darting over to Tilda, he steps closer to Sigrid and lowers his voice. "There is a body out in the hallway. Your housekeeper's son, I believe."
"Jorund." Sigrid's face crumples with grief and an unbidden twinge of jealousy pulls at Fíli's heartstrings. "Alva will be devastated. She only just lost her husband."
Fíli touches her shoulder in a hesitant gesture of comfort, silently reprimanding himself for his own pettiness when clearly Sigrid is merely being kind and compassionate. "I can move the body. So that Tilda doesn't have to see. Alva has locked herself in the storage closet – it might be better if she hears the news from you."
Sigrid nods, her face pale and her mouth forming a thin line. "I will go and speak to her. Is it safe to go down yet?"
At that moment Fíli hears a voice call his name from somewhere inside the house. Thad or Flad, he concludes, their voices always a little hard to distinguish when you don't see them. He walks over to the door and looks out into the corridor just in time to see a shock of red hair appear at the top of the stairs.
"Thank Mahal," Flad says when his eyes land on him. He doesn't have to say anything else for Fíli to grasp the sort of relief which he experiences, for he feels exactly the same.
"Is the house secure?" he asks the redhead.
"Aye," Flad answers. "Dwalin and Thad are standing guard outside, but I don't think there is any more danger to be expected. Those we didn't get to will have fled by now."
"Good," Fíli says, but the word feels wrong on his tongue. They went into this ill prepared and at a clear disadvantage and it can only be attributed to sheer luck that things did not end very badly. And he doesn't even know yet how many of his and Bard's people were injured – or worse – in the process. His eyes fall onto Jorund's lifeless form and his fists clench of their own volition. "Help me move him, please. His mother is downstairs, and she should not see him like this."
Together they carry Jorund into Bard's study where they place him on his back and cover his body with one of the drapes hanging in front of the window. Before Fíli pulls the fabric over the boy's face, he reaches out to close his eyes, silently apologizing to him for not getting there in time to save him.
He straightens up and tears his gaze away from the shape of the covered body, the sight of which is making his chest feel tight.
"Get back down to Dwalin and Thad," he says to Flad, deciding to ignore the droning sound in his ears that appears to be getting louder and louder. "Find our men, tend to the wounded. I'll be along shortly."
Flad nods, but Fíli can see a flicker of concern in his friend's eyes as they linger on him for a moment. He must look a bit of a fright, but then again, it has been a long night that has left its mark on all of them.
"I'll be fine," he assures Flad. "Go. Please."
The redhead squares his jaw but follows his king's command and turns to leave. Seconds later Fíli hears the thumping of Flad's heavy boots on the stairs.
He meant to head back to Sigrid and Tilda right away, but finds himself sinking into the chair behind Bard's desk instead, his eyes drifting back to the body on the floor. That is what it always seems to amount to – good people losing their lives in senseless acts of violence. Sons. Mothers. Fathers. Brothers. No one is safe.
When a hand brushes his shoulder, he gives a start and blinks up at Sigrid. Sunrays touch her hair, creating a golden frame for her tired, pale face. How long has he been sitting here like this? Seconds? Minutes?
"I spoke to Alva," she says. Ah. Not just seconds, then. "Tilda is with her now, but I ought to get back down soon. I wanted to look at your wound before I do."
He gives a weary shake of his head and reaches up to squeeze her hand. "It's nothing. Please don't trouble yourself with it."
She kneels down next to the chair. His eyes fall onto a basin filled with water and some strips of clean cloth on the floor beside his feet. How out of it was he that he did not notice her bringing those in?
"Let me help, please," Sigrid says, her tone urgent. She doesn't have to explain herself, for Fíli knows exactly how she feels. Helpless in the face of tragedy, we all need to do something, anything, to feel that we at least tried to make a difference. He holds out his injured arm without further protest.
Sigrid sets to work, unfastening the straps on his arm cuff with nimble fingers. It hurts when the material comes away from his skin, but Fíli embraces the pain. It's better than this numbness that keeps beckoning to him whenever his thoughts begin to drift.
While she cleans his wound, Fíli allows himself the luxury of studying her face. The dark circles under her eyes make his heart clench with a fierce wave of protectiveness. She should not have to endure so much in such a short time.
"I have to return to my people soon," he says. "But I resent the thought of leaving you and Tilda here to fend for yourselves."
"We won't be alone for long," Sigrid says, not pausing in her work. She has finished cleaning his wound and is now applying a pungent, yellow paste to it. "Bain rode after our father as soon as we realized something was wrong. He's fast. He may already have caught up with him."
Fíli inclines his head. That's the mystery of the boy's whereabouts solved, then. "I shall dispatch some of my men to follow him. Just to be sure that he did not encounter any sort of trouble on his way."
This earns him a relieved smile. "Thank you. That is very considerate of you."
"It's the least I can do," he mutters, averting his gaze to study the wound on his forearm instead. With the blood gone, it does not look too bad. Two rows of uneven teeth marks, adorning his skin like two imperfect little sickle moons. It's going to be one of his more interesting scars.
"None of this is your fault," Sigrid says softly. "You did what you could. You came to our help. And I—I'm just so glad you're alright. When I heard the horn, I knew you'd come and I was just so afraid for you."
He meets her gaze and sees that her eyes have misted over and she is biting her lip in an effort not to cry. Some of the paralysis he's been experiencing these past few minutes lifts then and he scoots forward in his seat to enfold her in his arms.
Holding her as tightly as he can without putting too much pressure on his not yet dressed wound, he turns his head to press a kiss into her hair. "I'm here. I cannot stay, I wish I could, but for now I am here."
Her arms tighten around his waist in response and they just sit there for a while, bathed in the harsh glare of the morning sun. And as Fíli feels Sigrid's breath hitch with the occasional, suppressed sob while from downstairs the muffled sound of Alva's weeping drifts up to them, there are two things he knows for certain. One is that he would lay down his own life for the woman in his arms without even a split second of hesitation. The other is that he must undertake that journey to Ered Luin. His kingdom needs to be strengthened, fortified, so that no one will even dare to attack them or their allies. So that the sons, the daughters, the husbands and wives, mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters won't have to die such pointless deaths anymore.
That is his responsibility as king and he cannot hide from it. And maybe, he reasons, it does not even stand in conflict with what he feels for Sigrid. To protect everyone means protecting her, after all. And that's what counts. That's his mission. Even if it tears his heart in two.