Day 189

„I've—had—more—than—enough—of—this."

Each of those words of his on the one hundred eighty-ninth day is emphasized by a strike with his blade, hitting goblins left, right, and center. For Mahal's sake – those abominable creatures are a pest that has befallen Fíli and his men far too often in the course of the past few weeks, slowing down their progress enough that Fíli is beginning to fear they will never make it into Eriador, much less to Ered Luin.

With the Elvenking still maintaining a stubborn silence, the original plan was to bypass Mirkwood entirely on their way to the Misty Mountains and travel around its northern border instead. That was where they first ran into trouble – the goblin encampment they quite literally stumbled upon one day was not large enough to pose any serious threat to Fíli and the extremely skilled fighters traveling with him, but after a brief squabble they saw themselves forced to retreat into the forest, not wanting to put themselves at any unnecessary risk so far from home. The goblins' snarled threats about reinforcements being on their way certainly made that decision easier.

Journeying through the forest wasn't quite as horrifying an experience as Fíli had remembered from his first attempt at doing so under Thorin's leadership, but still the detour had lost them several days. There was one particularly unfortunate encounter with a cave-troll that almost cost Fíli his right arm and only very quick thinking on the part of Thad and Flad prevented the worst from happening. Despite losing their way a couple times after that incident, they all made it out of the forest in one piece in the end, and the relief that everyone experienced at seeing the Misty Mountains loom up into the sky before them was palpable.

Sadly, it did not last long – when did it ever? – for today, when they finally reached the entrance to the High Pass at the crack of dawn, they found it blocked by huge slabs of stone that even the strongest among them could not move. It smelled of a trap, but what were they to do? They needed to cross those mountains, one way or the other. Trying for the lower pass instead, they were not altogether surprised when they were greeted by yet another band of goblins.

The creatures had evidently been lying in wait for any travelers trying to traverse the mountain range and were already half-mad with anticipation and bloodlust. That their victims were more than able to defend themselves seemed to come as a bit of a surprise to the goblins, and for a time it looked as if the Dwarves would succeed at beating them back, but then a new wave of foes came spilling down the mountainside and Fíli saw himself forced to order his men to retreat.

A few dozen goblins chased them down to the foot of the mountains, where a messy fight erupted between them and the thirty-six Dwarves in Fíli's company. The Dwarves quickly gained the upper hand, but still it took them an annoyingly long time to come anywhere close to finally beating them.

Now, with the glare of the morning sun nearly blinding him and causing rivulets of sweat to run down between his shoulder blades, Fíli turns once around his own axis, surveying the scene.

"It's done," Dwalin announces as he unceremoniously steps over several goblin carcasses. "Those that still live have run for the hills."

"Thank Mahal." Fíli takes a moment where he rests his hands on his knees, taking a few deep breaths. They barely rested the night before, rising hours before dawn to avoid climbing the mountain side in the scorching heat of the midday sun. "I thought it was never going to end," he now says, running a weary hand across his damp forehead.

Dwalin takes a grim look around, absently wiping the blade of his axe on an old rag. "I fear it might not be the end, yet. Not if we linger for much longer."

Fíli nods, following Dwalin's gaze to the mountain range. Who knows how many of their enemies lie in wait in the depths of those mountains, waiting to strike. "What do you propose?" he asks his friend and trusted advisor. Dwalin's knowledge of the area is far superior to his; if anyone can get them across those blasted mountains its him – and they will need to get across them, at some point.

A few moments pass where the older Dwarf appears to be taking stock of their options, his gaze first traveling along the mountain range to the North, then to the South. "We cannot hope to cross over here," he finally says. "There is another pass, less well-known, near the source of the River Gladden. I say we make for that one."

"How long will it take us to get there?"

"Three days, I believe." When Fíli's lips twist in dismay at the prospect of yet another delay, Dwalin adds, "This will have the advantage, at least, of us not having to go anywhere near Rivendell and that blasted Elrond."

Fíli smiles at that, even though privately he cannot help but think that a little break from being on the road might do them all a world of good. They're all weary, filthy, and weather-beaten, and while their journey through Eriador ought to be much easier than what they have had to face so far, they could all have profited from a chance to gather their strength and calm their spirits, even if that would have meant relying on Elrond's hesitant hospitality and the Elves' rather questionable food preferences. But, alas, it shall not come to that, it seems.

"Get everyone together," Fíli thus says grimly, hating that he cannot allow his men to rest. "Those who have been injured or are too fatigued can take the ponies. The rest of us walk. The sooner we get to that pass, the better."

Dwalin nods sharply and sets about fulfilling his task. Fíli, too, turns his attention to the members of his company, making sure that those who have been hurt in their confrontation with the goblins are not in too much discomfort to continue their journey. Thankfully, the injuries sustained are relatively minor ones and nothing that ought to keep a Dwarf off his feet for very long. But still... Fíli cannot ignore the tight knot of uneasiness that has formed in his chest. It is almost as if fate does not wish for them to conduct their journey as planned, as if impediments are being thrown in their path to keep them on this side of the mountains.

Why that might be, he cannot fathom. With his luck, though, whatever it is that fate has planned for them, will be a very foul thing indeed.

It's been over a month already, he writes later that day when they have finally made camp. He's not sure whether he will ever show Sigrid the things he has written in the little leather-bound notebook he has been carrying with him ever since their departure from Erebor, but even if he doesn't, it still feels good to at least imagine talking to her.

At first it was comforting to see the Lonely Mountain in the distance whenever I turned around, he confesses to the little square of parchment, but now I find myself impatient to leave that view behind. The sooner we make it into Eriador, the sooner I will be back at your side, my love. The sooner I can begin to construct a life – our life – out of the rubble I left behind.

He chews on the tip of his pen, lifting a thoughtful gaze to the horizon. Erebor lies bathed in the light of the setting sun, towering majestically over the lands surrounding it. He wonders what Sigrid is doing right now and whether she misses him.

She likely does, he reasons, at least if she finds time to do so. With Óin having stayed behind to continue teaching her, her days ought to be rather busy indeed. But that's a good thing, he thinks, as he closes his notebook and stows it away in his coat, in a hidden pocket close to his heart. She has reminded him more than once that she is not an exotic bird to be kept in a golden cage and he knows that she would never be happy unless she is allowed to engage with both her hands and her mind in the toils of everyday life.

After his return, if things go as he hopes they will, he will have to find a way to have her formally recognized as a healer among his own people, too. The fact that she has studied under Óin's tutelage for quite some time now should make that much easier than it might have been otherwise.

Spinning those thoughts a little further in his head while warmth creeps into his chilled bones at the thought of an actual future with Sigrid at his side, Fíli settles down to get some rest. After the day they have all had, he is confident that sleep will come easily tonight. That turns out to be the case indeed, however his rest is not nearly as undisturbed as he hoped it would be.

His dreams that night are not, as they have been so often of late, of Sigrid, but of his brother. Seemingly disconnected images of Kíli flash through his mind, and whenever Fíli wakes up during the night, he has a hard time distinguishing dream from reality, memory from figment of his imagination. They add to his general sense of unease, those dreams, but then again, he surmises that he ought not be surprised that they have caught up with him after all.

Mirkwood, Beorn's house, Goblin Town, the Misty Mountains... The area they have traveled through those past days is brimming with recollections of his brother and their shared adventures. Yes, his current company consists of the most excellent Dwarves anyone could wish for, but it's not the same as having Kíli at his side. It never will be.

And yet, it will have to be enough, he tells himself as he rolls onto his other side once again, seeking to get comfortable. Dawn is just a few hours away and when it arrives, they will continue their journey to the pass Dwalin is leading them to. Perhaps some of his demons will at least do him the favor of remaining on this side of the mountains once he crosses them. Mahal knows that there are enough ghosts, enough memories waiting for him in Eriador – if he should ever reach it, that is.

...to be continued...

A/N: Yeah, yeah, I know, a bit of a transitional chapter. No one ever really loves those. But now we're all set up for Day 192, which is (surprise, surprise) quite possibly the most important chapter in this story.