Note:

Quick recap: After Sauron uses her as a tool for some time, Lily takes back control of herself, flees Dol Guldur, and meets Radagast. They come upon Lothlórien, which is silent and unwelcoming. They then moved around Lothlórien, coming to rest near the entrance to Moria. Lily enters Moria while Radagast sleeps. It has been roughly a week since Lily awoke on Dol Guldur.

NOTE: I've pushed the fic back to the late 2700s (Third Age), about 200 years before the events of the Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. You don't need to reread previous chapters, as very little was edited. While this was already set fairly before LOTR, it's now set even further back. This will be slow going, update and pacing-wise. But I have a lot planned. I think this fic may just be the main fic I write going forward.

Thank you to Salient for reading over the chapter! And please leave a review if you're comfortable! I love them and they greatly motivate me to keep writing; tell me what you liked, your questions, what you'd like to see in the future, whatever. I'm such an attention whore.

Chapter Five

Dead Dwarves Tell No Tales

One of the first things Lily noted was just how vast and useless the halls of Khazad-dûm seemed. What was the point of all the giant pillars and empty space? A place to gather and socialize? She tried to picture it, the thousands of dwarves standing low but proud against the pillars they built, perhaps trading with each other, bartering and laughing filling the space that was now silence unbroken.

Past the first hall was a dim passageway leading directly to a long bridge half a mile long. And beyond it was an even bigger hall, so wide and tall it would give Hermione vertigo. Light came in through some circular holes in the ceiling, likely long shafts with reflective glass placed strategically to redirect beams of sunlight; she could for a moment see in her mind its old splendor, with banners up and fires lit over joyous dwarves in the always-busy market. Yet she couldn't put into proper thought the wonder and dread of the place. The vast nothingness was so hollow it almost invited exploration.

The long bridge was bare, with no railings or safety net beneath she could see. In the distance off to the sides, only barely illuminated, pillars and arches stood bent and crumbling against the shadows. There was little left of the might and grandeur of the Dwarves. She thought she saw an orc scurry out of sight here or there whenever her gaze fell upon them. And there was that funny little feeling again, like nostalgia over something she couldn't remember, a hint of Lilith's memory, of striking fear into the hearts of orcs. Indeed she felt no fear of orcs herself, for though she wielded only an ill-made staff, the unfaltering dominance Lilith had over them seemed sure to her.

Even now, she thought the orcs her gaze fell upon seemed frightful at having been seen, their realizations too sharp and startled. If they assumed her Lilith, she'd let it be. Cast no magic, Radagast's words repeated in her head. It may awaken ancient things...

Lily was sorely tempted to cast some light, though, if only to test her staff. But Radagast had done right by her so far, so she withheld. What were orcs to her? In Dol Guldur, every now and then, she'd manage to kill one or two with wandless magic; and back then she had been chained and nearing subjugation by Sauron — who himself seemed to view the killings of his servants as inconsequential. She understood now, though: Lilith was a far greater asset than millions of orcs.

Still, she kept quiet and close to the bridge as she explored whatever areas were already lit. The largest hall held only skeletons and worn weapons, none of which she felt were any good. Though she could probably repair them, she was hoping to find something already strong; magic could repair most weapons, but the better it was on its own, the more magic it could hold without falling apart.

It was something Flitwick had taught them early on: qualities can hold a kind of magical attraction, making enchanting the object easier — and sturdiness was certainly one of those. A skilled-enough witch or wizard with a wand could of course enchant a blade, broken or whole, equally well. Lily was skilled enough, but she had no focus; maybe some finely-made dwarven axe could be enchanted, either wandlessly or with her staff — which was more or less an oversized wand with no core.

But in the end she found none. She had only spent a few minutes looking, but something about the place unnerved her too much to stay any longer.

She didn't know what it was that slew so many Dwarves, but her imagination loved to betray her. Ideas floated into her mind, of an enormous spider hiding in the shadows of the ceiling, or some other abomination with too many long limbs climbing up from the abyss that lay below the thin bridge.

This thought haunted her as she crossed the bridge back to the first hall, and she sped up a little. And then a little more once she reached the hall, racing up the stairs like one does leaving their basement after turning off the light, lest the demon catch up.

The air outside was wondrous. She had only been in Khazad-dûm for a short period, yet it was like drinking water after waking in the middle of the night. The sun had risen high enough that she could see its edges beyond the mountain stone. It would be right above the trees of Lothlórien when she came down the stairs to the Mirrormere again.

She stepped away from the great gates, onto the first step down, and then —

She ducked, hearing a grunt and a swish, and the axe that had nearly beheaded her sliced only through strands of her hair. Then she was forced to leap back as the attacker leapt from his spot on a statue, his axe held high over his head. It slammed into the ground before her, the blade coming so close she felt the wind of it. As he pulled it back to get ready for another swing, Lily leapt back again, dodging the other axe from another attacker and striking them with her staff — a spell on her mind.

The second attacker was flung down the stairs with a yell and her arms were wheeled backward by the spell, the staff trembling in her fingers as it wielded magic beyond it. She used the momentum, turning just in time to bring her staff up to catch the axe the first attacker brought down upon her. Her staff held, strengthened by the magic she had seeped into it, and he withdrew and swung again, this time at her hip. Lily side-stepped it and sliced her staff through the air, a Banishing Charm sending the maniac into the statue he had jumped from with a hard thud.

She too was forced backward by the spell, feet and knees skidding to the stairs.

"Enough!" she said, and she sent a Disarming Charm at him — what must have been a dwarf, bearded and short and old — but her own staff was flung out of her hands too, the damned thing. She and the dwarf glanced once at each other before they each leapt toward their own weapons.

Hers was closer and she was able to send a Stunner at him before he could raise his axe again. It hit him in the head, flinging it back against the stone again with another thud, but he had not been Stunned! Either dwarves could withstand such magic better than humans or her staff, now growing hot in her hands, had only managed a feeble spell.

Furious, Lily glanced back at the other who made his way up the stairs as swiftly as he could.

"Thrór!" he cried upon seeing her.

So Thrór was his name, the older one who had nearly decapitated her, who now struggled to get up and face her again. Lily swiped the back of her hand at the younger dwarf, and he was flung down once again.

"I said enough! Just stop and listen," she said, fearful her staff would shatter if she put too much magic through it. "I am not your enemy —"

"Lies!" thundered Thrór as he stood at last. "Do you not recall coming to me and my people before, oh Queen? I will never forget your foul face or the evil in the air where you walk! Never!" And he launched himself at her again.

And again she Disarmed him, and again her staff was also thrown from her hands — but this time she wandlessly Summoned it and then sent Thrór's axe hurtling off the side and into the rocks below. Thrór snarled at her with so much rage in his old face that it shook her. He looked ready to beat her to death with his fists.

"Why would I lie?" she said before he could run at her. "If I've come to you before as Lilith, why lie now? Why not kill you here and be done with it?"

"I will never understand the trickery or inner workings of such evil! My people starve west of the Misty Mountains. Your winter has broken them!" he roared, and pulling out a small dagger he again leapt at her, blind in his frenzy.

Lily hit him hard on the head with her staff, sending him down on the ground, and then she spun and lifted with her magic the other dwarf who approached from the stairs a second time, attempting to throw him up and next to Thrór wandlessly, but her control was poor and she nearly tossed him off the side; his axe fell below, but she caught him with her staff, her grip on it tight to stop it from floating out of her hands, and flung him next to Thrór.

"Steady his madness, you," she said, pointing her staff at the younger of the two, still old and grey-bearded but who seemed less insane, "or I will throw the both of you from the top of Zirakzigil!"

"And she says she is not our enemy, Nár!" said Thrór with a harsh laugh. "To throw us from Durin's Tower is a new cruelty. Kill us and be done with it, then, as you said. Or I will throw myself on my axe and rid you the chance of delight."

Lily shook her head in exhaustion. "I don't have time for this." She looked back at Lothlórien, where Radagast may be waiting or coming now. "Do what you wish, Thrór, but I am —"

But she was cut off as Thrór and his friend Nár got up and charged at her, seemingly hoping to throw her down the stairs. Just as they reached her she slammed her staff onto the ground, her impatience fueling a mighty spell that blasted the dwarves backward and into the air, shattering her staff utterly and throwing her over the edge of the stairs.

A moment of weightlessness crashed upon her, and then she was bouncing down the stairs, pain filling every limb and rib until she fell hard into the grass below. She let out a groan, long and low, and lay there for a while, only looking up to make sure the dwarves weren't backflipping down the stairs or something in another mad attempt to chop her head off.

"That probably hurt me more than them," she muttered as she slowly got up to her knees. Her whole body ached and she fought not to wheeze. What a stupid move. Wandless magic seemed safer to perform than with such a lackluster staff. And her own hands didn't try to kill her whenever she performed a spell either; though they had tried to kill Radagast.

The dwarves still made no appearance. There was no sound from above even, and Lily felt an exasperating impulse to go check on them, to make sure she didn't kill them or put them at death's door. Though they'd probably try to murder her again as soon as she reached the top, she began the climb upward anyway, clutching her ribs and breathing heavily.

Tumbling down the stairs like that should have broken ribs, or at the very least have done more damage than she felt right now. Yet it was the same as when she had fallen off the top of Dol Guldur. There she might've landed on a Nazgûl with a Cushioning Charm, but that fall down the rest of the hill should have been terrible. Yet, though it rather hurt, she had gotten back up as she did just now, ready to fight.

Witches and wizards were already hardier than muggles, but to what degree she wasn't sure. In any case she really hoped the dwarves were too busy seeing stars to try and stick an axe in her forehead. As resilient as she seemed now, it may be a bit difficult to walk off.

At the top, she cautiously peaked over the last step. The dwarves were lying down, looking unconscious. And unable to leave them there, she brought them down near Mirrormere. Out of a bit of spite, though, with halfheartedly-cast Cushioning Charms she let them roll down the stairs as she had rather than try and levitate them down. If the whole situation wasn't so wretchedly messy, she might have found their tumbling bodies funny.

Down by the lake she dragged them and then went up to one of the trees around the Mirrormere and cast it down with magic, after a bit of a struggle. From it she took a large branch, straight and thick, and she sat down on a rock by the water to carve it down to the shape of a staff. The wood wasn't as special as a mallorn-branch, but it was also not taken from a tree part of a forest ruled by an extraordinarily powerful and reclusive elf-witch. So there was that.

Consent mattered in magic, and while the tree hadn't exactly thrown her this branch, she had sensed no ill-intent from it, or any of the trees of Dimrill Dale; there was only a weariness in them, like that of old men beat down by war and wishing only for peace. Lily wasn't even sure how she knew that. Her Earth had been open to being felt out, but the history of the world here seemed more easily accessible. She could feel it in the water, in the earth, and she could almost smell it in the air.

Magic in Middle-earth seemed more wild, almost deliberate in its unruliness. One of the mountains towering above her felt downright stiff, like McGonagall. It was as if magic here had more free will.

But magic back at home could do the same. Arthur had accidentally given some form of sentience to a car. Hogwarts had magical things that weren't ever enchanted by a witch or wizard. House-elves could spawn spontaneously wherever an abundance of magic in a wizarding home was.

So for a mountain to have some sort of sentience, as Caradhras may well have, then that implied something quite fascinating. What if Radagast was right, and gods really did walk this land before, casting great amounts of magic about until such things as mountains became enchanted in their own way; mountains, lakes, forests, and who knew what else. Or maybe her Earth had been like this too, but she had never learned how to feel it there, being too busy or too inexperienced.

When she felt her staff was of proper length and shape, she split it open and carved runes into the insides with one of Thrór's daggers. But she could tell before she finished that the runes didn't seem to be doing anything.

If she had to guess, ancient runes that probably never existed here wouldn't have the same weight as they did in her world, where they were once an entire language used by many. Here in Middle-earth, likely only she knew them. Maybe the Elvish languages would be better.

Nonetheless, she carved them into the wood, soaked it all in the water of the lake which seemed to be magical. And within she placed a few hairs she plucked from Thrór's head, making sure to think all the while of her compassion for the dwarves, knowing they had come across Lilith, and knowing it may be important to put genuine care and love into something like a staff; Dumbledore always told her how such feelings in acts may empower great magic.

Lily had no idea if the runes, hairs, or the water would do anything. But she hoped: maybe the runes spelling out words of stabilization would stop the staff from reacting to her spells; maybe the hairs of a sturdy dwarf who withstood one of her Stunners would turn the staff sturdy itself. She had no idea what the water of the lake might do, if anything, but it couldn't hurt to soak her staff in magical water. Or maybe the staff would fall apart like wet paper after the first spell.

She sighed. There was more to crafting a wand, she was sure, and likewise with a staff that may work like a wand, but she would simply have to experiment through trial and error. Ollivander's words came to her again:

Oh yes, if you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, the wizard from the wand.

What affinity did any of this staff's ingredients have with her? She shook her head and glanced over at the dwarves. It might do to get some information from them before they awoke. And standing, she neared their unconscious bodies. When Thrór stirred, to make sure he wouldn't wake suddenly and stab her in the neck, Lily thwacked Thrór in the head, attempting to put a Stunner into the hit. She thought she saw a very brief and subtle red wisp as the wood connected with his forehead, but she wasn't sure if it was that or just the very hard hit that had put Thrór back under again.

Surely she hadn't the strength to do such a thing to a race described as so sturdy by Radagast — but again, Lily felt she was a little stronger lately, with more stamina, speed, resilience, and better sight and sensitivity too, as if the magic here strengthened her beyond what magic had done for the average witch or wizard back home. If gods really had shaped this world and battled across it, it would fit; if.

Lily knelt by Thrór. His beard and hair were all grey, and deep were the wrinkles in his face. The other dwarf was younger, greying yet his hair was still dark in spots; there were deep wrinkles on his face too, though they looked less fitting on him. She didn't need to look into their minds to know the expressions on those grim faces, furrowed likely always, but look into their minds she would.

Placing two fingers on Thrór's temple, she whispered, "Legilimens."

The world around her disappeared, the chirping birds and gentle wind and all color vanishing from her senses. Inside Thrór's mind was a haze of suffering, a great grief and weight upon his shoulders. Even though it was vague and clouded, it took her breath away. Simmering atop it was that fury she had seen first-hand, yet it was nothing next to the sorrow.

Pushing through the mist of woe, she delved deeper into his memories and misery. It was as Snape had said, the mind was not a book to peruse at will and examine at leisure; catching a specific memory was nearly impossible. They all drifted about, never telling her anything until she hooked on and took a closer look. Sometimes she'd near one and reach out to grasp it only for the memory to dart off, as if the shifting presence of her own mind was a queen piece maneuvering wildly around a chess board in a mad attempt to corner anything not swift enough to escape her reach.

Then at last she captured one which told her something of interest: Thrór came into view, manifesting out of wisps of vapour, hunched over as he fled from something roaring so loud the ground beneath his feet shook. Then there was fire, fire and sweat and the smell of scorched skin. A dragon had come to the mountain, whatever mountain it was, tall and lonely as it stood. And the dwarves — they burned.

Lily dragged the memory closer, pulling at the memory until what came after was thrown forward almost, hurtling her into a torrent of struggles: Thrór walked under the shadow of the Withered Heath with a hundred or so dwarves behind him, crowned, for he was king. How many had perished in Smaug's fire? thought Thrór as he pushed on, past the Grey Mountains and through the Forest River, dragging himself south along the Anduin River with the weight of poverty heavy on his shoulders.

Along the way he came across many Men in their small and quiet villages, all guarded and suspicious, their foreign languages only ever giving one repeated word: Lilith. And he could see Men were moving up the Great River as he journeyed down its Vales; but Thrór was king, and not any longer King under the Mountain because it had taken a dragon to rip his home from him. No sorceress would falter his step, were she real.

The air became heavier on them as they passed the Narrows of the Forest, where the trees retreated further eastward from the river. Then the next day came and the forest branched out again, and now the trees and their darkness felt more terrible than before. He and his company turned west. They ignored the Golden Wood.

Further south a dwarf cut down a tree and then the tree cut him down. They ignored Fangorn Forest too after that.

As they came to the end of the Misty Mountains, coming around its corner, she came in the night. Black-haired and black-robed, among the trees she stood and watched, and they watched back. Then she spoke… of a fairer life… and her words were like molten gold with the sweet promises of mithril and warm homes with warmer meals.

But Thrór stood and said to her, "A silver tongue will not give me hope of gold. Begone and let us survive without the pity or scorn of Men."

"If that is your wish," said Lilith, but after a moment she raised a hand, outstretched fingers bending inward, and a small chest came forth from the darkness, flying and floating until it dropped before them. "But here is the key to a greater future for the Dwarves, of food and treasure and mighty mountains. It will open to you when you have given me your trust."

A thought came to Lily, something belonging neither to her or Thrór sweeping aside his memory. Inside the chest was an enchanted parchment and a self-inking quill. Thrór did not know this and likely never learned of it, but Lily knew: the parchment was for communication, for the forming of an alliance.

Thrór's response to this was to send an axe hurtling at Lilith's head, but the witch disappeared into the night and was never seen again by Thrór or his people.

Many long and weary years later, though, they would all face her winter. Lily pulled at the thread, demanding to know how they could know it was the Witch's Winter as they had named it… and the rest of the memories came spilling forth now that she had rooted herself: Thrór and his company spent two decades living in poverty and despondence in Dunland… and then this year a winter had struck them, coming down from the North harsh and swift, unnatural… with whispers in the wind… There in Thrór's rawest memories of suffering were the whispers in the winter winds, tormenting him at the quietest hours:

"See now the might of the Witch-Queen of Rhovanion," said the voice a night when the snow fell thick and high in their encampment. And another night it had said to him, "Give thy faith and be spared of this winter's cold. There is no other hope."

The others had heard it too. Snippets of conversation flitted past Lily's mind, of Thrór conversing with his company and those Men who wandered and lived in those parts. All had heard in the deepest nights her promises of salvation. Thrór had heard how the villages that had been beaten to submission by the winter found their homes strangely protected from the cold, and then there were those that had begun to worship the Witch-Queen as some deity; those villages were most protected, the particularly devoted experiencing nothing but a pleasant summer.

Lily pulled away, standing up and staring at Thrór's head. Twenty years. Twenty years had passed since Thrór first met Lilith. Then she paced and stretched, thoughts dashing wildly around in her head amidst the numb disbelief and panic. Had it truly been twenty years, or did the Dwarves count time differently here? Or perhaps a year here was considered less than an Earth year. But Radagast had said she looked not much older than sixteen. Was she still eighteen or was she nearing her forties now? What if Lilith had been around longer, though?

Taking a deep breath and crouching, she ran her fingers through her hair and closed her eyes tight. Were Hermione and Ron now middle-aged? Had any time passed at all back on Earth?

Then there was Lilith herself: what she thought she could actually achieve with such a strategy was beyond Lily. It was almost a joke, the way it seemed so cruel and mocking. What was the point? She had felt no malice from Lilith's memory, no real intent to insult or harm. Was it just a simple offer with no real care for the outcome? Did Lilith have any will of her own, at all?

It had been bizarre, too, to see herself like that, like someone had used Polyjuice to look like her and spread terror across the land. If the all-invasive force of Sauron hadn't been so violating, so deeply reaching, she might've seriously considered it a possibility.

Thrór woke then, somewhat suddenly and with a breath, as if from a nightmare. His eyes flicked to her without pause, his already-aging skin twisting around them.

"Would you drown me instead?" said Thrór, "in the lake where my forefather foresaw his kingdom?"

"I don't wish to hurt you at all," said Lily quietly, but Thrór gave a scoff as he rolled over to his side and glared at her.

"No," he said derisively, "but the cost for peace is to make peace with you, and that I will never pay."

"I —"

"You have already hurt me," said Thrór, lying back on the ground and looking over at Nár. "You have added misery upon misery. First the flames of Smaug, then the ice of Lilith; had we done something so terrible so as to deserve this?"

Lily thought she felt her heart shatter. Contempt and despair in the eyes of others was nothing but tragedy.

She walked over to them, startling Thrór into sitting up, and tapped Nár with the end of her staff. "Rennervate." Thrór reached for the staff, but Lily pulled it back and said to him, "I'm only waking him. When you two are ready, you can go. There's no point in trying to convince you of anything. If you refuse to believe I don't have some evil plot to reveal in time, then only time will prove you wrong. But I can only say I am so sorry for everything that's happened to you."

"Thrór?" said Nár as he came to his senses. "What has happened?"

"I can leave you food," said Lily, looking through her small satchel bag for the berries and leaves Radagast had said were edible. Did Dwarves even like such things?

"Food?" said Nár faintly.

"Bah!" said Thrór. "She will poison it most likely, or spell it to choke us. I have said it twice before: never will I pay the price for the goods of Lilith the —"

"I am not Lilith," said Lily, glancing up at him with a firm gaze. "Can't you go a sentence without telling me all the horrible things you think I'll do to you?"

"Lilith or not you are without respect," said Nár, eyes darkening, "for this is King Thrór, King under the Mountain."

She gave him about two seconds of a hard look, then said coolly, "Not king anymore."

Thrór and Nár hissed. Their eyes danced around too, probably looking for their weapons. Lily planted her new staff on the ground, leaned on it, and matched their glares.

"The two of you are clearly unable to overpower me," she said, "and especially would be if I truly was Lilith, given what I know of her."

They stayed stubbornly silent, still glaring at her as if their eyes could break her; but only Sauron could do that and she would not be impressed by any strength of any dwarf. They were less than Voldemort, and Voldemort was less than Sauron.

Then Nár said, "I do not feel her evil as I did atop the stairs, Thrór, but unfoul airs are not always clean."

"She is hiding it, then!" said Thrór.

"That is more than likely whatever's in that mountain," said Lily rather tartly. "There's something evil in there, probably orcs and maybe something else too —"

"There is, or was, with you in it?" said Thrór.

Lily shut her mouth and stared at him, an uncomfortable burning beginning in her.

"Fine," she snapped, glowering down at the old dwarf as he put a hand on where his axe should be, as if he could do anything to her. "Go, then! I have done nothing but attempt to show you kindness, and you've spit at my feet for it, and that's putting it kindly. If the dwarf-king wishes to throw himself into a pit of orcs, let him I say."

Thrór spat at her feet, apparently taking her words as inspiration, and said, "There is what I think of your kindness."

He brought himself up to his feet, grunting as Lily's anger flared and dwindled, again and again, indignation and pity swinging around each other in her heart and stomach.

"And I shall do as I please," he said. "I am King Thrór and I have come here from afar to see what I can find. Too long have my people lived in poverty and under the scorn of others, and no more will I live only in the morning shadows of mountains." He stood straight and cast a dark look at her. "If you will leave us, then do so and spare me of your warnings. I shall enter Khazad-dûm regardless."

Nár's brow furrowed and he looked away from her. "Thrór —"

"And long have I had enough of your soothsaying," said Thrór, throwing him a glare. "Have we braved the cruelty of Caradhras for naught?"

"It may be for naught if you are beset by a hundred goblins the moment you step into those halls," said Nár, picking himself up with a weary glance at her. "It is likely she spoke to such creatures within, and they may be lying in wait."

"I didn't speak to anyone inside," said Lily, running a tired hand over her face.

"I will not trust the word of Lilith the Black," said Thrór.

Lily closed her eyes and sighed, resting her forehead on her staff. Couldn't she get a break already?

"I am not —" she began, trying to fight off her frustration, but Thrór cut her off.

"I have seen you!" he bellowed, his voice so loud it echoed around them. "I have seen your face from mere feet away! I have seen and felt your cruelty, your evil. What is the purpose of your madness? Why do you lie so blatantly and without shame — do I not receive at the very least the dignity of knowing that, after all you have put my people through —" Thrór's voice cracked, and his eyes burned with such an intense hatred that Lily's own voice came out weak and desperate.

"I am not Lilith," she said, and something in her broken voice faltered the distrust in Nár and the contempt in Thrór. "Do you think I'm not horrified at what Lilith's done? Do you think there is not a part of me that wishes to spend the rest of my life making up for her evil, even though it isn't my fault? Do you think I don't know I look like her?"

"And why do you look like her?" said Nár.

"Will you claim it a coincidence?" said Thrór, sneering, though it was less pronounced than before.

"I…" said Lily. "I will not."

A silence hung in the air. She could not bring herself to admit she had been Lilith, that she had been too weak to resist, that she had given up and Middle-earth was put through hell because of it; and what evidence did she have of her truth anyway?

"Has the facade grown wearisome?" said Thrór, "or what? What is your explanation, then? Speak and give us no riddles. I want it plain. Too long have I puzzled over the unknowing power of Lilith, and if you are mother or sister or daughter to the witch, then clear the fog of this mystery for us."

In that moment a dozen different thoughts for each explanation raced through her head. She would not claim to be Lilith's daughter, certainly, nor did she feel she would come across as pleasant if they thought her the mother of Lilith. But a sister? Would it be such a terrible lie? She was not Lilith, and Lilith was not her; they were separate people, she was sure, simply stuck in one body.

So she said finally, "I was her sister."

The resentment simmering just behind Thrór's eyes flickered, though his doubt appeared to double.

"Sister?" said Nár, frowning. "You are the sister of the Witch-Queen?"

"Lilith and I were born of the same mother and father, yes," said Lily, which was true in a way.

"Forget about the blood," said Thrór loudly, but he looked almost cautiously expectant. "By what do you mean you were her sister?"

"I… I mean that she's dead."

Nár stayed grim and silent, some disbelief coloring his eyes, and Thrór narrowed his own.

"She is dead?" he repeated. "Or is she standing before me now?"

"She's dead," said Lily harshly. "I don't know what killed her, but I saw her end. And I can only apologize for not smothering her before she could do the things she's done."

Another moment of silence descended over them, so that they only stared at each other. Thrór seemed skeptical still, as if this was a cruel jest by Lilith; Nár seemed less so, but she couldn't tell if it was because he believed her or because he just didn't care. He seemed more concerned with whatever monkey business Thrór wanted to get into.

Lily sighed and said, "I wasn't lying when I said there's something inside that mountain. I could practically feel it on those steps, and inside it was worse." She shook her head. "And whatever's in there might be awake with all the magic you two made me do."

Nár turned to Thrór with an almost-accusatory stare. Thrór glanced at him, annoyance quickly springing up again in his face, and he said, "She has likely cast her magic within anyway, awakening Durin's Bane no doubt deliberately."

"Then that is all the more reason to not enter," said Nár.

Lily had the suspicion he was more deeply frustrated with Thrór than he was letting on, not letting it all out due to Thrór being King among his people. It was one of the things she always disliked about kingships and lords and ladies and all that respect-your-betters nonsense.

"I will enter," said Thrór at length.

Nár let out a sharp sigh, nearly a scoff, and then to her surprise looked to her.

"If you are truly not Lilith, and against her even," he said, "then would you not stop a misguided king from surrendering his life to —?"

"Enough!" said Thrór, his eyes blazing once again, though now it was directed at Nár and not her. "I will hear no more of this." And he gave Lily one last look of distaste and doubt before he strode away toward the stairs leading up to Khazad-dûm.

"Thrór," said Nár, rushing after him. She took a few steps after them, wanting to protest so they didn't get themselves killed, but her words died in her throat as she watched them find their axes on the rocks and begin to climb the stairs. They seemed remarkably okay after their tumble down the steps. Perhaps they were a bit slow due to age and weariness, but Radagast had been right: dwarves were resilient and strong — almost like little Hagrids.

But as they disappeared from sight, an urge to run after them and stop them washed over her. They might have been sturdy, but would not two well-placed arrows from some shadow-cloaked orcs end them? Would they not end her too, were she caught unprepared? She looked down at her staff. Had she a wand, a million mundane arrows would be no bother to her… but she did not have a wand.

And then she was sprinting up the stairs as swiftly as she could, damning her big heart, and not knowing what to even think when it came to Radagast; would he come or would he stay and wait? He had treated her as her own person, a witch who could handle herself, yet he had still warned her to be wary.

"Hey!" she called, coming to the top. Before the great gates stood only Nár, who whipped around as she came up, his brow worried and his eyes careful. She held up a hand and said, "He's gone in already, hasn't he?"

"Aye," said Nár, "he has entered already. What of it and for what purpose have you followed us?"

Lily let out a breath of frustration.

"There's orcs in there," she said, pointing past him at Khazad-dûm, "and probably Durin's Bane or whatever it's called."

"Am I not aware already?" said Nár with an almost desperate air of bitterness. "I have begged and pleaded with him, but poverty and pride have wearied his mind in the way those things so often do. I cannot enter Khazad-dûm, not while the stones under my very feet remain frozen in their fear of whatever lies within. Had I a hundred dwarves, what good would it do? Did not orcs come to infest this land? Did not Durin's Bane slaughter thousands of dwarves?"

"I — I don't know. I'm not familiar with any of it."

The fire building in Nár diminished a little, and in his eyes there seemed to be the very distinct glint of someone who was cautiously considering having hope. It was a terribly sad thing.

"I haven't been in Middle-earth long," said Lily. "I have no idea what I'm doing, Nár — I just want to go home, but I won't let an innocent person die. I meant it before: I'm so, so sorry for everything, whether it's my fault or not." She swallowed hard, her throat feeling suddenly tight.

Nár's eyes seemed to shine for a brief moment, and he said, "You are unlike your sister indeed if you do not lie. Then I shall only ask this: Go! Protect my King, if Lilith is not your name nor her path yours."

Lily gave as gentle a smile as she could. "But we will all be safer if together. Come with me. Let us both go after him. I am like Lilith in appearance, and the orcs seemed to leave me be. I think they mistook me for her. I think we'll be left alone. You'll be more familiar with Khazad-dûm than me."

"I have never stepped foot in Khazad-dûm," said Nár. "But mountains and what lies within are what we dwarves are familiar with. I… I may step inside. Thrór is my King and my friend." His eyes drifted toward the black abyss past the gates. "And Durin's Bane..."

"I think," said Lily, walking past him and through the entrance, "that we'll just have to hope for the best there."