Thank you for your support, guys! I'm sorry that I missed a day (work Christmas Party, you know how it is) but in full tradition of advent calendars (at least in my family) if you miss one you get to open both doors the next day! So immediately following this one I will upload the next chapter for you! Forgive my lateness, and my typos!

Chapter Fifteen: Night Terrors

To be perfectly honest, Pippin thought that this whole thing had got quite out of hand. The family was separated, they were being chased by the most terrifying creatures he had never imagined, and now they were going to be attacked by orcs.

Yet even as the horn startled his heart into a race, Pippin swallowed and reached for his sword. He knew how to fight. He had sparred at least thrice a week since he was ten years old, and had passed his swordsmanship trials without too many attempts.

But as orc jeers filled the air, and the group around him jostled into formation, fear crept up Pippin's throat. He had never been in a true fight before, not one where his life was in danger. He had never had to wave his sword at anything bigger than a rogue badger – and on that occasion both parties had walked away unhurt.

"We're surrounded!" Nori yelled, "Imgam!"

Immediately, Pippin felt those around him shift into a circle, and he tugged on his pony's leads to join the ring. It took his eyes a moment to adjust, but then he saw them – orcs, dozens of them, charging, and he could not help but gasp. His heart was throwing itself against his ribs, and he could hardly breathe. Was this what battle felt like? If it was, he did not want it.

He had felt like this before.

Fíli was on the ground on his knees and they were making Estel cut his off and Pippin did not understand. The orc was holding him tightly, and it hurt, and he was so scared that he could not breathe, and Fíli was not standing up. He was not taking the nasty dwarf's sword and cutting apart all the baddies, he was just sitting there and staring straight ahead.

And looking scared.

And that scared Pippin more than anyth-

No – he was not there now. He was not a toddler anymore, he had a sword. He could hold his own.

Even so, he could not help but wish Fíli was there.

"Take arms," barked Aragorn, lighting a torch and leaping from his horse. There was a wild look in his eye, though his mouth was set in a hard line. "And for as long as you can, hold ranks."

With that, he charged. The sword in his other hand caught the light of the torch, and glowed red, and in the span of a heartbeat he had reached the first of the orcs. And removed its head.

Arrows flew from Merry, Nelly, and Soren, while Vinca and Ori threw razor-sharp bullets from their slingshots. Pippin fumbled in his saddlebag for anything that could pass as a long-range weapon, his hands falling on an empty beer tankard. For a moment, he was distracted by the object, wondering when on earth he had thought to put it in his pack, but then he seized it and threw it at the nearest orc.

It bounced off the orc's skull, and he stumbled back, but then gave a growl and charged ever faster towards Pippin.

"Oops…"

"Pippin!" Merry groaned, shooting through the orc's eye and felling him in an instant.

Deciding that he better stick to sword work, Pippin adjusted his grip on the hilt, but he would never get the chance to use it. Not on this night. For Aragorn was fighting like a man possessed, and Pippin could not tear his eyes away from their guide.

The ranger was circling them, blazing through the pack of wargs with fire and sword in equal measure. On his left, orcs and wargs were burning, and on his right they were crumpling to the ground. Nothing seemed to touch Aragorn – he ducked and spun and danced away from every blow that Pippin saw coming.

He could hear the clash of swords behind him, and the battle cries of Ehren, Nori and Sam, and the shriek of one of the ponies, but when he looked over his shoulder Vinca yelled at him.

"Eyes ahead, Pippin!"

He jumped, and glanced at her, but she was still flinging stone after stone, and not looking his way at all. Giving his head a little shake, he turned his attention back to the orcs, but none grew here enough for him to make any difference. He could smell the foul, iron stench of orc in the air, and smoke, and his fingers tightened around the reins. Beneath him, his pony was trembling – she wanted to bolt, and Pippin wanted to bolt with her.

With a shriek that made Pippin shudder, a fire-shrouded orc tore through its own pack, and they began to scatter. A handful tried to complete the charge, but Bofur and Bragi cut them down before they could get close. A wolf, Pippin could not tell which, tore from their ring and took down two retreating orcs with one leap, letting out a loud, triumphant howl.

The sound lingered, and then wavered to a halt, leaving silence in its wake.

Pippin could feel his breath coming so fast it caught in his throat, almost as though he was crying.

Crying and crying and crying, Pippin clung to Fíli's arm as the bad dwarves and bad orcs did nasty things. And made them do nasty things. Pippin never wanted to ever cut nasty letters into Fíli's back, but the bad ones made him.

"Don't worry about it," Fíli said to Gimli. "Worse things happen in the mines, you know-"

Then Fíli screamed, so loud and with so much pain that Pippin wailed, and held on tighter. His Fíli was hurting. And then there were two hands tugging at him, and though he held on for dear life, Pippin was ripped away.

Pippin gasped, and shook his head quickly. He was not crying now, and he should not. As far as his family knew, he had no memory of the hell they had gone through in Mirkwood. No good would come from bringing that up now.

Now.

Now was so quiet.

It could not be over so quickly, could it?

Aragorn was standing, swaying slightly, like a single stalk of corn that survived a thunderstorm. He turned, the low burning torch still in his hand, and took a shaky step towards the group. He swayed again. It looked as though he was about to collapse.

Pippin's heart stumbled in its race. "Aragorn…"

A long whistle pierced the air, and Aragorn's horse responded immediately to his call, galloping to his master's side. Aragorn pulled himself up into the saddle, and rode slowly back to the group.

"Is anyone hurt?" he called, drawing nearer to them.

"None of us," Bofur replied in a heavy voice. "But we've lost a pony."

Pippin's heart sank as he looked over his shoulder, seeing the faint, pale outline of an animal on the ground. By the colour, he guessed that it was Bali, named by young Frerin for his Uncle Balin. He had been a baggage pony for them. Pippin looked back at Aragorn, blinking away tears. He grew very fond of their ponies. A pony was not a cart, or a mechanical vehicle. It was a living, feeling thing, that you could quickly love – a thing that would love you back, especially if you fed it enough apples. Sniffing, he slid his sword back into its sheath and patted his own pony's neck.

"Very well." Aragorn gave a heavy sigh, drawing back Pippin's attention. The hobbit could see no obvious injuries, but Aragorn seemed almost dazed. He was all but panting to regain his breath, and deathly pale in the moonlight. "We were lucky. Those orcs were trained for pillaging – not battling warriors. But I do not doubt there are more of them out there. Who would hire a group of fifty unskilled orcs to tackle a guarded group of twenty?"

"Pippin would," Nelly muttered under her breath, but as she did she rode over, and rubbed Pippin's shoulder.

"There is an outcrop not six miles from here," Aragorn continued. "There we may have more shelter. We will rest there for a while. Then, come morning, we will move on."

No one had the strength or will to argue. Pippin sighed as Aragorn extinguished his torch, and they rode again, into the dark.

They had not stopped riding in three days, and now they were slowing down. It seemed to Dís that Gandalf was running out of magic words to keep the wolves and horse going.

The sun was rising over the forest on the horizon, and Dís pressed a kiss onto her son's clammy forehead.

They had not stopped riding in three days, and Fíli had not yet woken.

Dís and Kíli took it in turns to have Fíli on the front of their wolves – the last thing they wanted to do would be to wear out a wolf by burdening it with two riders, or to fall asleep and drop the injured prince. Not that either of them were sleeping. Bilbo had dozed off a couple of times, but not for long. Never for long. Every time that he woke, he looked for her, for Fíli, and every time she looked back she saw his hope dwindle.

She gazed down at her son. Her baby, her little lion heart. He was so pale, so still, but he was breathing. Her hand was on his chest, beneath the cloak Bilbo had put over Fíli. She could feel her son's heartbeat, and that was the only thing that allowed Dís to keep riding.

Well, no. That was not strictly true. If losing Kíli had taught her anything, it was that she would endure. It would be pain worse than imagining, and her body and soul would break down, but she would continue to exist, lingering in an emptier world to help what family she had left.

If Fíli was gone, Dís knew that she would want to die herself. But she would not die. She would live for Kíli, for her husband, her brother, her family, her people – but she would spend every day wishing just a little to be dead.

Because this was not about her. Fíli, her bright, beautiful boy, did not deserve to die like this. He was not five years past a hundred, not five years past coming of age. He had achieved – and suffered – so much, and he deserved better. There was so much he could do, so much he could achieve.

So many laughs to be shared. So many hugs to give. So many hours to spend with his loved ones.

"We will stop soon," Gandalf called, snapping Dís from her thoughts. "As soon as we reach the woods."

She let out a long breath she did not know she had been holding and closed her eyes.

"Hang on, dushtêl," Dís murmured into her baby's ear. Her voice hurt from a lack of use, but it did not stop her. "Don't you leave your Amad now. I love you more than my life, my darling."

Fili's lolling head shifted slightly, moving upwards, and Dís stopped breathing. It could not be – the motion of the running wolf must have – Fíli's mouth opened a little, and his face turned further towards Dís' chest.

"Fíli," she whispered, before clearing her throat and speaking more loudly. "Fíli, dushtêl, can you hear me?" She thought that she heard a soft groan, and her heart quickened. "Fíli?"

Fíli's eyelids crinkled and flickered, and he let out a whine-like sound. It was quiet and weak, but it was audible.

"It's Amad, Fíli," Dís stroked Fíli's hair with a shaking hand as his face pressed gently against her. "It's Amad, you're safe now. Safe now, baby." Inside her chest, her heart was so fast that she could not feel individual beats, and it felt like all of the air was leaking from her lungs, but hope was kindled, and –

Eyelids crunching up as though he were in pain, Fíli groaned. She could feel his chest falling more deeply and rising more strongly, and tears fell from her cheeks to her son's golden hair.

"Fíli, dushtêl, that's right, just hold on."

The trees were drawing nearer, and to her right, Kíli was slumped over on Luno. His face was hidden in the wolf's fur, but Dís knew that he was not asleep.

Kíli had not slept a wink since Fíli had been stabbed, and it was taking its toll on him. He looked more haggard than a vagabond, with bruise-like circles beneath his eyes. She would have thought he had finally succumbed, if it were not for the way that the hand nearest to her flicked through various Iglishmêk symbols. She sighed, wishing that her son would not try so hard to stay awake. But she could not blame him. She had hardly slept herself.

Finally, they rode beneath the cover of the trees, and almost the moment that they did, Gandalf called them to a halt. All four wolves collapsed straight to the floor, panting heavily with their tongues lolling out. Gandalf's horse was the only one to wait for its rider to dismount before slumping down itself.

Dís rose on shaking legs, shifting Fíli's weight in her arms. Holding him like a babe was hardly easy, but she refused to let Kíli take him from her, and made her way slowly to a nearby tree. She sat down before it, leaning her back against its bark and settling Fíli so that his head was in her lap, and his body nestled between her legs. He used to fall asleep in that position when he was a toddler, 'listening for the baby.' For Kíli.

The wounded prince took a deep breath, deeper than any she had seen in days. Hope sparked in Dís, and she held her own breath, desperate to see any sign of progress.

And then, Fíli screamed.

He began to thrash in her lap, tossing himself against her legs, but with rising panic Dís realised that these were not the right words, scream and thrash and toss. There was strength in a scream, in a thrash, but there was no strength in Fíli. His flailing felt like that of a babe, and his cries sounded so weak.

Before she could blink, Kíli was beside her, seizing his brother's hand. "Fee! Fíli!"

"Gandalf!" Dís yelled, needlessly – the wizard was already bustling over, a pale Bilbo at his heels.

His head lolling to the side, Fíli cried out again. His eyelids were opening, but showed only the whites of his eyes. What hope Dís had felt bled away, and the wizard knelt beside them, passing his hand over Fíli's face, and then his wound.

The wizard's face relaxed, and he began to speak quietly, words that Dís could not understand. Bilbo and Kíli, however, looked up, and seemed to be following his every word. Elvish, then, he was speaking in Elvish.

Slowly, Fíli stopped fighting. His body relaxed, his breathing slowed, and he slumped against his mother. All but lifeless, again.

"The wound is healing," Gandalf said. "But I have not the strength to chase another nightmare away, should it strike."

"Nightmare?" Bilbo whispered, his eyes puffy and red.

"If he's healing," Kíli croaked, "why won't he wake?"

Dís swallowed as she glanced at Gandalf. The wizard was on his knees, bent nearly double, breathing heavily and trembling. In the gathering light he looked pale, and his eyes were half-closed. There was still a frail look to him, as there had been since he arrived in Bag End, but it was more pronounced that it had been before Weathertop.

"Because," he sighed, "there is still a long way to go, yet. He is only barely stable, my… my dear Kíli."

"Are you alright?" Dís asked softly, meeting the wizard's eyes as she stroked Fíli's hair.

"I am spent, my lady," he said. It sounded as though every word was an effort. "We have travelled far, and your son is not in pain, for now. The athelas did its job. He will live. But the effort has drained me, and I must rest. We must rest."

Dís nodded, shaking a few tears from her chin in the process. "Thank you, Gandalf."

The wizard's smile was strong as he nodded, but Dís did not miss the pain that flashed across his eyes before he closed them.

"I'll take first watch," Bilbo said, his voice hollow. "I slept a little on the ride."

That was a lie, but Dís was too drained to argue, so she leant over and kissed the hobbit. "Thank you," she whispered, and he smiled wearily at her.

"Of course," he murmured.

Dís let her head fall back against the tree. It was not comfortable, but she would not have Fíli moved from her lap. Not for all the mithril in the world. Not for the sake of her own spine.

Her eyes were quick to close, but she could not help fighting sleep when it came for her. If she succumbed, if something happened to Fíli while she slept –

If he slipped away, and she was not there to catch him…

But she could not fight forever, and she tumbled into a fitful sleep.

That night, only Fíli had any form of peace.

I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Onto the next!